Euroscepticism in a Wet Italy

I don’t admit to understanding a great deal about the inner mechanisms of the European Union, how policies are concocted, agreed upon and rolled out into practice. I do however realize that so many make little or no sense to me. I am aware of the pathological need for Europhiles to blur the lines between our “member states”, to dilute many of the countries' once charming differences and to create a homogenized environment, for our apparent collective benefit and pleasure.

Well, this does not describe how I became hopelessly lost in Northern Italy. After three glorious days of driving the 911 in France, I had crossed the border into Italy; an international boundary represented here by a long single-direction tunnel burrowed through a jagged Franco-Italian Western Alp, guarded indifferently by a smoking policeman (cigarette smoking, not a uniformed man on fire of course). I was used to the French autoroutes being represented by clear blue signage, as are our motorways back home. With this in mind, and with my modicum of EU appreciation, I planned to follow the blue toward Cuneo, past Turin, and around the outskirts of Milan. Finally, I would reach the beautiful town of Como - some 350 km to the northeast.

Perhaps no one in Brussels had consulted the Italian MEPs. Perhaps the Italians were watching soccer during that particular “let’s agree on blue for fast roads” meeting. Perhaps the Italians could care less. Perhaps I was about to have a major accident induced by a rising temper. For over three hours I followed these blue signs to Turin but every time I was forced to drive pitifully slowly through housing estates in down-at-heel, grotty suburban overspill, or trundle through industrial estates constructed at a time when corrugated iron was all the rage and ration books were still in circulation.

I could even see the Autostrada running parallel some 500 metres to my right, tantalizingly close, cars and lorries flashing by. I was then deviated by yet another sign, this time the fast traffic moving away to my left, closer now so I could almost see the eyes of the manic drivers racing to their destinations.

Of course, I soon realized that the motorways in Italy are represented by green signs, not blue as one might expect. It did not help either that my maps showed this motorway to be only partially constructed. My ire at losing half a day exploring a failed industrial plant and several Italian council estates in a flat, featureless part of northern Italy was further exacerbated. I finally trundled into the outskirts of Como in the failing early evening light though I should have been losing myself in the cobbled streets gazing up in awe at the dome of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta.

I collapsed onto my hotel bed at about 7pm. A journey of 370 kilometres from Sospel, along the gorge du Verdun, through the mediaeval towns of Tende, Bosio, Vievola and eventually skirting around the edges of Turin and Milan had taken almost 10 hours. I later sat outdoors, alone, under a translucent tarpaulin, fine rain pitter-patting above my head as I tried to savour a beer and lasagna supper, and gazed across the Piazza Duomo at the Cattedrale gaudily lit with the red, white and green of a local sponsor’s logo. I mused over my frustrating day and realized that even from the cockpit of a 911 Porsche, one could have an off day on the roads of a united Europe.

Tomorrow, however, the Italian Lakes beckoned me to explore their shores, and tomorrow is always another day...