Bored
Strolling down the street I noticed a crowd of umbrellas: ten or fifteen people huddling together around a little girl who was crying. The girl’s mother was bent over wiping her nose recounting whatever disaster had happened to the expectant audience. A policeman had stopped and was lending his authority by standing in the front row staring. I passed by trying not to appear interested, but I admit that apart from the home-made pasta I had eaten for lunch, witnessing this spectacle was the most exciting thing that had happened to me all day.
After a week I had walked all the streets, drunken in all the cafes, hiked around and generally worn out the novelty of being in a small Italian town in the mountains. Hard to believe. So I decided to travel to the nearest town, Valdagno to see if I could find a pool so that I might attempt some real exercise. After all the pizza, pasta and rich meat dishes I had gorged upon I had my doubts as to whether I would float, but I needed to find out anyhow.
Arriving in town I waltzed into the sports complex as if I had been there a thousand times before, flashed my new goggles and paid the €5.50 entrance fee. The pretty brunette pointed the way to the men’s changing rooms.
“Thanks, no problems,” I said and strolled in as if I’d just jumped out of my car onto the sandy stretch of Narabeen Beach in Sydney. I dumped my towel on the bench and looked around satisfied that I had made a sufficient impression of one who had spent his life in the ocean. I began to strip down.
As I was preparing my gear, a little boy pointed at me and whispered something to his father. The father was trying to pull a pair of bathers up the boy’s legs and was muttering to himself.
Yeah, I thought, look at my slick new goggles, I’m no stranger to toughing around in the ol’ h20. You know we practice butterfly in the womb back home? Not much around here in which to swim, eh ragazzo?
“Non porta le ciambatte, papa!” (”He’s not wearing sandals, dad”)
His dad continued to mutter, apparently unmoved by his son’s revelation.
Not wearing sandals? So what? I thought. We’re at a heated pool complex. Not some beach party or Brazilian slipperfest. I looked at them both, shrugged and returned to unpacking my bag.
My expeditions to the pool in Australia were summer extravaganzas. You turned up in boardshorts only; you didn’t need a towel because thanks to the forty degree heat you’d be dry before you reach the top of the ladder and if you did happen to wear shoes, someone would have stolen them already. So when I threw down my boots I didn’t expect to hear a gasp of horror.
“Guarda! Ha anche le scarpe, papa!” (”Look! He’s even got boots, dad”)
Had this kid seen footwear before? Were were in Italy. Even toothless olive farmers own 100 pairs of designer shoes.
I looked down at my feet, then at my boots and then back at the boy’s face. His awful cow eyes stared at me waiting for me to do or say something. I turned my back and continued rifling through my bag.
It took me a while to notice that everyone around me was pandering about in gear that was just short of a full body swim suit. Caps, sandals, goggles, bathing suits so modest in their coverage that they made my blue trunks look like a g-string. Some had towels wrapped around their necks. And, in the distance, glaring red letters blared the following edict:
VIETATO PORTARE LE SCARPE (”WEARING OF SHOES PROHIBITED”)
The pools in Australia were beginning to seem like the filthiest places on earth, filled with disease and worse: human hair and foot skin. I shrunk down into my unsanitary corner and tried to appear as sterile as possible as I packed away my boots. I put a towel over my head. Why I did this I don’t know, but it made me feel cleaner and less like a person who wasn’t the full pack of fettucine.
After the obligatory shower before entering the pool (where I’m from you go to the pool because you’re dirty) I jumped in and did 50 laps.
Of a 30 metre pool.