Mestre, Friday evening on my way up to Trieste was predictably a nightmare. Stuck in traffic for more than an hour, completely immobile, with the petrol running out and the air con off to save on fuel, the temperature was happily touching 40 + degrees and I was starting to get desperate.
I tried to call Vlasta, already on the beach in Sistiana at the BBQ, only to realise that my phone was running out of battery too.
I limped through the traffic to the service station, and managed to fill up. First problem solved.
Then into the Autogrill, heaving with folk (the radio said there were 14 million Italians on the road this first holiday weekend) and, having battled my way through the bus load of Croatians buying baguettes and limoncello, I managed to get a phone charger that plugged into the cigarette lighter in the car.
Back outside into the heat, and I was clawing at the hermetically sealed plastic packaging, but failing to make any kind of inroad.
There was only one thing for it. I searched the car park, which resembled a Brussels convention, packed with cars from every nation, for a Swiss car. Finding a large Merc that fit the bill, I approached the family and asked them if they had a Swiss Army Knife.
And believe it or not, they did! Between us we sliced open the packaging (a combination of the large blade, and the hidden scissors) and soon I was zipping along merrily, charging the phone and thankful that the stereotypes were accurate.
The only disappointment was that I didn't manage to find a use for the thing-that-removes-stones-from-horses-hooves!
Sunday, August 03, 2008
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