Once of the nicer things
about living in Busto Arsizio is that I can walk my dog at night without
glancing nervously over my shoulder every two minutes. Not that Busto is a completely safe
little city: there was that
satanic cult murder several years ago, and terrorist cells pop up here every so
often, but by and large Busto is absent the menacing air of parts of Rome, say,
or Naples.
(Just about anywhere in
Italy is safer than just about anywhere in America, statistically speaking. The US has three times the number
of murders and almost 10 times the number of rapes per capita as this country. I wouldn’t try to test my security
at Milan’s main train station at 2 am or in the streets of Palermo in the
middle of a gang war, but still, Italians are less violent as a whole and the
crime rate is categorically lower).
This is not to say that I am
careless when I walk my dog. Giada
(pronounced Ja-Da) is a beagle-sized mutt, not imposing; she adds little moral
authority to our nocturnal amblings.
Plus, she was a city stray for the first year of her life, and her
“fight versus flight” survival instinct is highly developed. If anything untoward were to happen,
she’d take off like a rocket, leaving me alone to face whatever consequences
might await.
So I am attentive when, and
where, we walk at night. By
“night”, I mean anytime after 10 pm in the winter and up to midnight or later
in the summer. The later we walk,
the more attentive I am. The huge
inviting parking lot of the suburban train station is off-limits at night, as
are the landscaped gardens around the city’s museum. Perfect for daytime runs, but both are too isolated from
street traffic at night. You
remember the tag line for Alien: “In space no one can hear you scream?” Well, the same is true in certain
earthbound public spaces after dark.
Last week Giada and I were
walking near the train station in the late afternoon. At 6 pm it is dark this time of year, but on a Saturday
afternoon there is pedestrian as well as vehicular traffic, so no cause for
concern. I thought. We walked by the race track
betting parlor, with the usual cluster of gambling hopefuls outside (mostly,
but not all men), smoking nervously after having made their bets. We walked past the bakery,
where the last of the day’s pizza called out to us with its oregano odors. We made our way along the grassy edges
of the parking area, because grass is Giada’s preferred underpinning for her
toilette.
As we were about to turn to
the tree-lined viale that leads
back to our building, I heard a noise behind us. It was a drunken voice, mumbling. There are a couple of cafes in this area (in Italy, a
café dispenses alcoholic beverages as well as coffee) so drunks can sometimes
appear, but it isn’t very common.
Alcoholism is not as much of a problem in Mediterranean cultures as it
is in Northern Europe, the UK, and the US. When I hear a drunk, my inclination
is to ignore him. So I did.
Giada ignored him too. She was mightily interested in the
grassy patches around the trees on this street and was eager to stop and sniff
each one. The drunken voice was
forming words now: “Signora. Ehh, signora. Oppure signorina?” Without turning, I knew that the drunk was coming
closer, and from his words I knew that his (presumably blurred) focus was on
me.
“C’mon, Giada,” I hissed
softly to my gal, tugging at her leash.
“This is no time to decide whether you want to pee.” Still without turning my head, I
darted my eyes left and right to see if there were any other walkers on the
street, or any cars turning our way from the station. Nothing! The
barbershop, nail parlor, and beauty supply store on the street had already
closed. Just my luck.
Tugging more insistently at
my dog, I increased my pace. Our apartment
building was within view, and I could hear music from the ice skating rink a
block away. And I could hear
the voice behind me, unsteady but more aggressive: “Oooo
signora. La signora col
cane. Sto parlando con lei. Hey, lady, you with the
dog. I am talking to you.
Giada and I sprinted across
the street just before a bus passed by.
I had my key in my hand and ready; we bolted into the apartment lobby so
fast we almost collided with a fellow who was getting ready to exit. “Oh scusi,” I panted. “Sorry. There was someone outside who . . . oh, never mind.”
Now I permitted myself to
look out through the glass doors of our apartment building. If the drunk had followed us across the
street, he might be waiting outside, noting where we lived, speculating on when
we might be out again. (In
that case, what would I DO? A dog
owner has to walk her dog, regardless.)
Fortunately there was no
drunken stranger in front of our building or across the street. When I checked from the windows of our
apartment (we live on the top floor, with visibility in all directions), there
was no one around.
Relief, mingled with a sense of uneasiness: in a few hours, I would have to take Giada for her
late-night walk.
And I did.
###
Based in Italy, Claudia Flisi writes about business and culture
for the
International Herald Tribune and many other publications, and for
corporate clients ranging from Apple (computers) to Zegna (clothing). She can
be reached through her website at www.flisi.net. Her thoughts about European women and beauty are found
here: http://frenchfacelift.blogspot.com/ and about horse riding here: www.worldreviewer.com/member/claudia-flisi/
Posted
Feb 06 2010, 02:56 AM
by
Claudia Flisi