Speaking of high speeds...

In my last post, I wrote about the Bora reaching speeds of 93 miles (140 km) per hour. If you want to know what that feels like, all you have to do is venture out onto the Italian autostrada.

Here's a photo of our speedometer (I'm not driving, by the way) when we were out on the highway. We had our American car shipped over here, so the big numbers are miles per hour, and the little ones are kilometers per hour. And yes, we're going 85 miles per hour. And we're not speeding.

The speed limit on Italian highways is 130 kilometers per hour, and our measly 85 mph translates to about 136 km per hour. Believe me when I say we were one of the slow pokes traveling in the right-hand lane.

One of the things that never ceases to amaze me about Italian drivers is the tailgaters (99% of the Italian driving population). If you were to travel in the left lane going a mere 85 mph, the tailgating ritual would go something like this:

1. Glance in your rearview mirror and see a speck of a car at least a few kilometers away.
2. Wait 3 seconds.
3. Check your rearview mirror again. The speck is now full-sized, barreling toward you and closing in.
4. The driver flashes his lights at you.
5. You now have 1.359 seconds to get over into the right lane.
6. What? Other cars are in the right lane and you can't get over? Shame on you.
7. The driver now moves to within a centimeter of your rear bumper.
8. Gun the engine and race ahead of the other cars in the right lane.
9. Swerve into the right lane. Cutting off another car is completely acceptable.
10. Breathe easy as the tailgater bullets past you going at least 200 km per hour.
11. Pray that he gets a ticket, so you can honk your horn and laugh as he's pulled over by the polizia.

Number 11 on the list is actually a very American attitude...it's my attitude, in fact. I hate tailgaters. But Italians are nowhere near as offended by them as we are. If my (Italian) husband is driving and someone rides on his tail, he doesn't even make a break in our conversation. He just keeps talking and moves over. No one gives anyone the finger or shakes a fist. The tailgater even looks bored as he whizzes by. Now if you don't move over when you have space in the right lane...that's another story involving lots of gesticulating.

So if you find yourself navigating an Italian highway, stay to the right, keep both hands on the wheel, and remember to breathe. And a few Hail Mary's wouldn't hurt, either.

One thing to love about the Metric System...

After over 6 cumulative years here in Italy, I still can't get used to the Metric System. I know--it supposedly makes more sense than the U.S. system of measurement, blah, blah, blah. Base-10, and all that. But I'm just not a metric person.

There are a few conversions I've memorized, like I know to set my oven to 177 degrees Celcius to bake a cake. And 55 miles per hour is about 90 kilometers per hour (also equivalent to "standing still" on an Italian highway, but that's for another post).

And then there are the numbers I have a vague idea about...I know that 3 degrees means it's cold outside, 25 degrees is pleasant, and 38 degrees is blisteringly hot. But I still don't know exactly what those temperatures are without converting them...I should have studied those signs outside of U.S. banks more. You know, the ones that showed the time, the temperature in Faherenheit, and the temperature in Celcius.

Anyway, there is ONE good thing about the Metric System: Kilograms. Have you ever weighed yourself on a metric scale? Here's what my bathroom scale looks like with me on it:
I mean...63.3 kilograms, people! How can I feel bad about that extra winter weight when my scale says 63.3? I mean, it's not even up to the 3-digits, like it would be on a U.S. scale! I feel like I'm weighing myself on the moon, or in some low-gravity zone.

Granted, those of you reading this who were born, raised and weighed with the Metric System may have no idea what I'm talking about. But for those of you in the U.S., the last time we saw 63 on a scale was back in elementary school, right? The trick here is, of course, that you must NEVER convert your kilos to pounds. That ruins all the fun and self-love.

So if you're trying to lose some weight before bathing suit season starts, here's my advice: Go out and get yourself a metric bathroom scale. Weigh yourself. Now go eat another chocolate chip cookie.

Nah, make it two chocolate chip cookies.