If You Give an Italian a Horn

If you give an Italian a horn, he will want to use it.

He will want to hear its loud blaring sound echo through the congested streets and traffic filled areas.

He will like the sound so much it will remind him of how he likes to honk it impatiently at stop lights. He knows perfectly well the light will not change, but perhaps the car in front can inch just a little farther forward.

Honking the horn at a non-responsive stoplight will remind him how much fun it is to honk at pedestrians.

If he was to stop for pedestrians crossing the road he will honk at them, encouraging them to hurry up. The loud echo of his horn will resonate in the ears of all the pedestrians and all the other people not crossing. It will remind them that stepping off the sidewalk is a perilous feat.

The nervous pedestrians will remind him of the power of his horn. It will remind him of the pleasure he takes in blaring it at drivers who are too slow, or in the his way.

He likes the sounds so much, he will take a drive in the hills. He will drive excessively fast on the perilous, nearly one-way, winding, blind-curved roads. While in the hills, he will use the sweet sound of his horn to alert other drivers to his presence.

He rejoices in the thought of blaring his horn at every turn right before careening around it. He constantly expects his horn to overpower the horns of other drivers coming towards him. Their response will remind him to slow, but he will not forget to respond again, showing his desire to go first.

The horn is music to his ears and he will play it any chance he makes.

Thus, the congested city streets and narrow, winding country roads are filled with a beeping and honking symphony of Italian car horns.

Cell Phones

            I was sitting on the train back home to Bologna. The train car was small, old fashioned with bench seats, velvet crimson. It seemed as if the seats were meant to turn into beds, creating a sleeping car. I sat with two other passengers and my knees were tucked carefully into the spare space. Even so, our knees knocked when the train lurched around turns, or in and out of stations.

            After a weekend in Rome, I needed to chart out my next semester of classes. I needed to organize my week into a manageable schedule: work, class, study, fun. I sat there with my little notebook in hand, scribbling out the various classes into a haphazard weekly time chart. Generally, I prefer to do such things on paper with a pen or pencil. I tend to make mistakes, and usually the whole plan will change. A permanent copy just seems fruitless. Besides, I was sitting in a train with little space, a small notebook just seemed that much more convenient.

            I had just finished blocking in my hypothetical weekly plans into my roughly drawn chart when I glanced up and realized the irony of the situation.

            Here I was, a 20-year-old American, sitting in a train car with two middle-aged Italians. They both had their smart phones in their hands and were eagerly tapping away texts, checking information on line, checking emails, maybe even organizing their weekly calendars. The smart phones looked like they had every new gadget on the market. My train companions' fingers were agile at using the touch screens. They were clearly experts at this new technology. And here I was, the young kid from California—the center of all this technological advancement—and I was charting out my calendar with a pen and a little notebook.

            I refrained from snickering, but I most certainly smiled.