THE MALE CHAUVINIST - An Erotic Autobiography

Part Three - I - II - III

Part Three

I

At 10:32, my eardrums pounded by the violent guitar riffs of AC/DC's "Hard as a Rock," I enter the highway at the Modena Nord toll booth. An oppressive grey asphalt sky obscures the sun, and a mist hovers over the fields, the kind that drains your will to live. It's a typical late-autumn day in Emilia, the worst kind, the perfect day to end it all. Well, past Casalecchio and the Bologna airport, the Alfa Romeo enters some tunnels. When I emerge from the second tunnel, the leaden sky has disappeared—replaced by a golden blue sky, a joy for the eyes, one of those splendid days that make you want to thank the Almighty.

It's not the first time I've witnessed this phenomenon. The Po Valley is a pit, and just a few kilometers away, the climate changes completely. We really should drill through those damned mountains to let some air in, otherwise the fate of the Padanians is sealed. From Bologna, I take the direct route to Florence and leave Arezzo behind in a few hours. I'm about ten kilometers from Fabro, already thinking about stopping at a service station to stretch my limbs and grab a coffee, when I notice a great-looking girl driving a white Audi. To be sure, I slow down, move to the right lane, and let her overtake me. Yes, she's really pretty. As soon as the beautiful driver moves back to the middle lane, I overtake her from the left, slowing down as our cars align. She turns towards me, giving me an inquisitive look. I seize the moment. I smile, lift my right hand from the steering wheel, and bring it close to my mouth with a small twist of the wrist, fingertips together, as if I were sipping coffee. She likes the gesture, laughs heartily, then nods two or three times. At the first service station, four kilometers ahead, she signals and takes the exit lane, stopping her Audi in the parking lot in front of the building. And here we are, two perfect strangers chatting over coffee. I'm pleased with myself. It's undoubtedly one of the most improbable pickups I've ever pulled off.

The beautiful driver's name is Lavinia, a blonde Roman, returning from a trip to Bologna. Judging by her Louis Vuitton handbag and Max Mara coat, she's from well-to-do Rome, the classic type who doesn't usually give you much rope, though she does with me, especially after I tell her what I do for a living. Lavinia is a third-year philosophy student, and I'm on home turf with philosophy majors. When I list my favorite philosophers, asking if she knows René Guénon—she does, miracle!—I can see her melting. It must not be common these days to meet men interested in philosophy. Lavinia is wearing her coat, so I can't really see her well, can't see what she looks like under the coat, I mean, but her face is very pretty, with wavy hair and stunning eyes, somewhere between green and yellow (more yellow than green), similar to a cat's. I forgot to mention, she's single.

II

I arrive in Rome in the early afternoon, find parking right in front of the entrance to the Botanical Garden, on that side street off Via della Lungara near the Carabinieri barracks, just steps from my house. It's a prime spot, and finding it was a stroke of luck, especially since parking is free and with the police nearby, I'm as safe as can be, unlike on the Lungotevere where it's common to find your windows smashed or your car drenched in bird droppings. So, I don't think I'll be moving the Alfa Romeo anytime soon—it'll probably stay where it is until I leave.

Now, the neighborhood has been overtaken by students from John Cabot University and the American University on the Gianicolo, with students of all nationalities and ethnicities crowding the cafes and wandering around the area, drinking the worst junk, a godsend if I were younger, but now I'm a bit out of age, so all this bounty of female students doesn't really notice me—calm down, some do.

However, there's a fundamental difference compared to Reggio Emilia: here the girls are kind, sunny, and smiling. I guess they're happy, happy to be here, in the most beautiful city in the world, happy as I was when I moved to the capital at twenty-seven and stayed for a decade. I was young, riding the success of my first novels, and as far as girls—and women—were concerned, I was spoiled for choice. I wandered carefree and amazed through the alleys of Trastevere or the Parione district, blissfully lost among the ruins of the Palatine and the fountains of Villa Pamphili, feeling like I was in paradise. Now some of that magic has gone, I no longer lose my bearings, I know almost every alley in the center by heart, but I can't help feeling deeply happy when I tread the classic ground, as Goethe called it.