watching vespas jockey for position as they barrel down the Lungotevere, one realizes those fearless riders are indeed the cultural (if not genetic) inheritants of the whole Ben-Hur business of chariot racing.
equally striking are the sharp yells and shouts which pierce the din of scooter-noise: some of it is just two chatty riders on the same bike, of course, but i’ve also noticed solitary riders screaming monologues as they zoomed past.
now, drop me into that italian two-stroke Circus Maximus, and i’d no doubt wail like the best of ‘em — in fear — but never with the calculated, conversational intensity the romans accomplish: the riders i’ve seen shouting aloud instead remind me of ‘colorful’ old Berkeley, where large portions of the sidewalk citizenry are always engaged in hallucinatory conversations or debates featuring parties neither present nor real.
all of which i just discovered to be just half-true here: turns out it’s de riguer for motorino pilots to squeeze, wiggle, and jam their teensy cellphones beneath their helmets, until they’re barely visible, but right flush-up against the ear.
this, you see, lets them yap away on the cell tel. all the way to work (just like any other commuter), while it’s the ambient noise, of course, which necessitates those strange and dopplered yells that i, the odd pedestrian out, invariably hear on my morning stroll.
