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National Geographic : 1936 Sep
Contents
THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE Everything is superlative, rhapsodic- the roads, the scenery, the superiority of this race over any other motor race in any part of the world; the magnificence of the participating Italian cars, which have been improved with each passing year to attain perfection in spite of the "iniquitous sanc tions"; their intrepid drivers; the un bounded enthusiasm of the spectators, which has reached heights never before witnessed in the history of man, all in spite of the "iniquitous sanctions." Several cars were trying out a newly in vented gasoline substitute, something of paramount importance in these days of the "iniquitous sanctions." Yet, in the final account of the race, I saw no mention of the use of the new fuel. "HURRAH FOR MR. WAR" The Italian enthusiasm for racing leads enthusiasts to daub the names of their favorite competitors on walls, on houses, on anything daubable. Thus, from south to north, one finds smeared the words VIVA GUERRA-Hurrah for War. Pop eyed tourists view these words with silent distress, then return to their homes to re port that all Italy is bursting with the war spirit. Guerra, however, is a popular cyclist. The Italians were cheering for Mr. Guerra, not war! During the American Revolution the Baroness Riedesel, traveling with her hus band to defeat at Saratoga, reported that the Indians were shouting for war. What they were actually saying was "Waugh!" It sometimes pays to live in a country for a while before passing judgment on it. A few years ago we began a motor trip at Rapallo, the beautiful coast resort a few miles east of Genoa, whose hilly, wooded terrain is thickly dotted with large hotels, villas, and pensions. Padua was the first night's objective on our way to Venice. Distances on the map seem nothing; but wherever there are mountains the road be comes so circuitous that you soon feel like a person climbing an icy hill and slipping back a step for each two steps forward. The progress of the first few hours was negligible owing to a mountain detour in order to avoid a landslide on the regular route. When we finally got back to the main road at Chiavari, we hastened to cross the square to draw up at a cafe for a pick me-up of Fernet Branca. Fernet Branca is a roan-colored liquid, which tastes to the uninitiated like one part mahogany juice and one part quinine. At a second trial it seems to be almost ninety per cent quinine and ten per cent hair tonic. On the third and subsequent trials it tastes like what the doctor ordered. As we started to cross the square, several men waved us back. Since there seemed to be no reason for this officiousness, we decided to ignore it. Just as we were about to carry our point, a car dashed past like a shot from a gun. We had unwittingly chosen the route of the Mille Miglia for our first day's outing! When it was safe to approach the cafe, we were in no state to question the taste of the Fernet Branca, and its medicinal qualities were doubly needed. For some hours afterward we proceeded at a cau tious pace, looking backward more often than forward, always on the alert for an other racer; and the corners were negoti ated at the extreme right-hand edge of the road, with every finger crossed. As we entered Padua, it appeared that all the Paduans were taking the air in the Piazza and the neighboring streets. The car was surrounded by them and we made signs to a man to draw closer to tell us where our hotel might be. He looked amazed, but drew no nearer. Just in time we realized that our motion to "come here" is the Italian sign for "good-bye." How ever, you can get a long way with the sign language, barring a few exceptions. ZIGZAGGING OVER THE APENNINES The following day we crossed what seemed like all the Apennines in the coun try. As the road zigzagged before us, ever upward and upward, we knew that when we reached the top we would be ravished by the sight of the lush, verdant lowlands below. From such a height the dim dis tance would reveal Venice and possibly the snow-covered peaks of the far-off Dolo mites (page 358). Instead, we saw more and more moun tains, nothing but mountains, and it seemed more than probable that the road we were on was going the length of them instead of across where we wished to go. No car ever passed us in either direction, nor was there any sign of life until, at the top, the rocky peaks turned into a group of small stone residences, huddled one against another, with an isolated stone 386
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