So a couple of months ago, we popped into the Scuola Guida in town near the place where we park our car. The man behind the desk there said, "Oh, yes -- no problem. As soon as you have your Carta Identita, come back and we'll give you a valid Italian license. It takes five minutes."
So far, it has taken six visits over the course of two weeks and still no license. We have an appointment for the seventh visit next Monday. That is not counting the number of visits it took to get the Carta Identita, which was a whole saga in itself and eventually involved a small amount of actual forgery.
I will not go into all the details -- a complete rundown would swell this little blogpost into an epic of Joycean proportions and incomprehensibility -- but will only mention as a highlight that we were told to get an official verified and authenticated translation into Italian of the original Swiss license, even though the Swiss license is already in Italian.
This, however, at least provides some comic relief from the real heartbreak unfolding down at the pub, where L's illness continues to advance with cruel rapidity. He comes down for a little while sometimes in the late afternoons. He can no longer see, but has to be led to a table where he can sit and feel the sun on his face. He says "ciao, bella" very sweetly when I speak to him even though he doesn't know who it is, only that a female voice has greeted him. Daniele offers to cook for him -- "I will make you anything you want, anything at all. I'll make it for you right now." -- but L doesn't feel like eating anymore. After he and his father leave, the regulars at the table under the shade tree are very quiet. They sit with bowed heads.
