Tour

It makes its own-reality, a forever flowing-dream romance, eternal in the stars. Sounds like a Tony-Bennett song. I remember there was a period when it rained every night. Drive in at night with other campers-around in trailers, looking at me in silent-askance, parking my scooter and undressing under the plastic tarp, and crawling into my sleeping bag, the reverse in the morning. I ate-out.

I at some point decided to sell the scooter. Why-I no idea. It was not a sudden fly-away decision. To sell the scooter in Italy was against the law since when I bought it, a tax was waved with the stipulation that I could not resell it in Italy. How I met him - no inkling, perhaps a for sale sign at a hostel, but a Polish guy was interested. He wanted the scooter to drive to Poland for Christmas, the middle of winter which was in-fact, not that far-time distant. Now that was crazy. I had fled the winter. He was going to drive into the teeth of the freezing, apparently the cheapest way for him. He said it could be done, another waiver on the waiver that is. He had been in Italy for awhile and knew it could be done. He just had to find the right-agency, and the right-clerk. And so to this when-end we set-out to do. And he required me to accompany him with paper-work in-order ever the optimist, or was it "If I am going to suffer so are you. This is a two-way sale". So on each of his lunch-hours daily we would go to a different-agency of this Italian megalopolis, and get the name of someplace-else - more appropriate. "No-no, we can't do-this - not-here. Try the Only Heaven Can Help You Ministry. Here is the address." It may have taken him two-weeks, but he did do it.

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