The following story is excerpted from my Italian Lessons dispatches, and published (in Italian) in the Moto Guzzi Mandello newsletter where I have a section called Carla King’s Corner. Here it is in English:
Marcello Moltini raced ahead of me on his Guzzi Centauro but I rode slowly to enjoy the sunlight bouncing between the blue water of Lake Como and the rocky mountains. Our destination was the lakefront road and a lakeside restaurant. Though were dining on fresh fish and pasta on an idyllic terrace overlooking the water, I was trying not be sad because this was my last day in Italy.
“In the winter,” said Marcello, twisting his pasta thoughtfully, “this region is even more beautiful because there is snow on the Alps.” I sighed, taking in the view. The Alps looked to be right there within grasp, but I knew it was just a trick of the atmosphere, the thin mountain air.
When we finished lunch Marcello called the waiter over to order an espresso. When I asked for a cappuccino Marcello and the waiter smiled at each other, as I knew they would. “I know, I know,” I said, laughing, “but I’m a tourist and I am allowed my cappuccino!” Italians order cappuccino only for breakfast but I have never developed a taste for the tiny cups of thick, inky espresso that they drink in one shot like a whisky, while I play with the milky froth in my cup.
My trip to Italy was so long ago, but I still remember that afternoon and how the feeling in the air reminded me of my beautiful San Francisco, which is so lovely in autumn. The sun shines and the sky is so crisp and clear that you want to escape from whatever you are doing and go riding, keep riding, until you are somewhere new, whether it’s just across the Golden Gate bridge or on a back road to Lake Tahoe or even all the way up to Portland, Oregon on the Pacific Highway, taking your chances on sunshine or fog. The fog makes the drive almost more beautiful, shrouding the coast in mystery.
I’m dreaming of Italy today because Francesca, the editor of the Moto Guzzi Mandello newsletter, emailed that it was 63 degrees in Italy and everyone had sadly put away their motorcycles. I look out my office window to my small view of the Pacific Ocean, sparkling today in the thin yellow light that is the autumn sun. It’s about 75 degrees and sunny today, with no wind, and a Sunday. All day I’ve heard motorcycles heading toward the coast to ride slowly and loudly south to Skyline Boulevard and along the winding road toward Silicon Valley where motorcycles of all shapes, sizes, and nationalities lean into the many curves with daring and verve, having fun and showing off.
They drive fast up on Skyline Boulevard. In 1995 I rode my Russian Ural sidecar motorcycle there and was met with amazed stares and even laughter, which was typical for my entire American Borders journey. The bike was big and slow, taking up the entire road with the big black sidecar. A WWII copy, it tops out at about 65 mph downhill, but I’ve never been a speed addict, and besides the smiles it gave each passerby made me many friends as I circumnavigating the United States.
In Italy many people were just as amazed and just as amused to see an American woman riding such a big Moto Guzzi. The EV California 1000 that Moto Guzzi lent me was loaded down with all the gear I thought I’d need for a journey from the chilly North (rain all the way from Milan to Genoa) to Florence and then a ferry to Sardinia, Sicily, and the southern tip of the country where it was so hot I could barely stand to wear my leather jacket.
All the saddlebags were stuffed full. One of them held computer gear, a digital camera, and all the plugs, transformers, adapters, electric cords, batteries, and chargers necessary. The duffle bag strapped to the back seat held a tent and sleeping bag and groceries for dinner, including a nice bottle of Italian wine to share with fellow campers.
Normally I had a big Italian lunch in a nice little village, always ordering the specialty. I was never, ever disappointed. From the simplest sandwich to the most elaborately constructed sauces, I devoured every meal, always fresh and served with pride.
One afternoon I stopped for a late lunch, parking the Guzzi right next to my table covered in a pristine white cloth and decorated with flowers and fine crystal. I ordered the specialty and waited, passing the time by studying my guidebook and writing in my journal. Suddenly, one after another car appeared, parking around the motorcycle and nearly blocking me in. Everyone was beautifully dressed and in a festive mood. In a moment I knew why; a bride and groom floated from a limousine, swept past me and into the restaurant to a special table.
Friends and relatives spilled from inside out to where I sat on the patio, welcoming me to the party in typical Italian generosity. The bride’s father complimented me on my choice of motorcycle and poured me a glass of champagne, then the food came, delicious chicken with fresh tomatoes and herbs from the restaurant’s garden.
When I rose to leave, a crowd of people poured out of the restaurant to watch. I self consciously put on my jacket, gloves, and helmet, and then started the engine, backing out carefully, because the fully loaded Guzzi barely squeezed through the cars. I put it in neutral and paused to glance back at the wedding party. All the women wore beautiful bright dresses, so colorful among the men in formal black and gray. I gave them a wave and they all waved back. Then I clicked into first gear and rode up the steep driveway and onto the road toward my next destination.
