Salon Wanderlust | A fiume runs through it

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

T A B L E_T A L K
New Year's Eve 1999: Do you have plans yet? Discuss where you'll be for the changing of the millennium in Table Talk's Wanderlust area

R E C E N T L Y
On the road with the Smokejumpers: Part Two
By The King Teen
Shotguns and dead bunnies, pizza and beer -- a San Francisco band explores America
(11/11/98)
Tokyo sex wars: Part Two
By Karl Taro Greenfeld
The arrival of 24 "classy ladies" to work in a fledgling nightspot convulses Japan's new demimonde
(11/10/98)
Tokyo sex wars
By Karl Taro Greenfeld
Drug demons and sex junkies in Japan's new demimonde
(11/09/98)
On the road with the Smokejumpers
By The King Teen
What happens when a punk-rockabilly band from San Francisco tours the country in a broken-down Big Orange Van?
(11/06/98)
This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news
(11/06/98)

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E M P O R I U M
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A... fiume R U N S . T H R O U G H . I T

wanderlust image

[ E X C E R P T ]
TRAVELERS' TALES: ITALY
EDITED BY ANNE CALCAGNO
TRAVELERS' TALES, INC.
437 PAGES

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
AN AMERICAN ON A FLY-FISHING PILGRIMAGE LEARNS THAT IN ITALY, IT'S WHO YOU KNOW THAT COUNTS.
BY THOM ELKJER | In his classic book "The Italians," Luigi Barzini observes that the basis of society in Italy is the family, not the law. This is because in Italy, there is either no law at all, or so many that it's impossible to sort out the tangled heap of overlapping jurisdictions. So you call your brother, or your uncle, and he arranges things for you. Americans, on the other hand, rely much more on their own initiative because there is usually a clear and stable structure for getting things done.
Barzini's analysis remained abstract for me until I began researching a novel set in Italy. The protagonist of the story goes fly fishing there, which meant that I, diligent author, would have to do the same. Before I left the states I talked to Graziano, a longtime friend of mine living in the town of Vicenza, near Venice. He told me not to worry, that all Italian rivers were public and there were no special laws to be concerned about. I started packing. I landed in Rome in late summer, when cleansing rain separates the heat of the day from the cool of the evening. I checked into my hotel, consulted the phone book, and looked for a sporting goods shop where I could get a fishing license. To my delight, I saw that there was a new fly fishing shop only ten minutes away. I looked at my watch and smiled. I might get to the river that very evening.
The shop owner spoke no English, but I had enough Italian to learn that the Fiume Velino, a good-sized river northeast of Rome, held fish year-round. But when I told the guy I wanted a fishing license, he looked confused. Perhaps you should go to the post office, he suggested. I explained more slowly that I wanted to fish not only in Lazio, but also in the north of Italy. He shrugged and suggested that I visit the Italian Department of Hunting and Fishing, somewhere on the via Nazionale. This made more sense, and I headed back to the hotel to look up the address. There I bumped into Giuseppe, the proprietor, while looking in the phone book.
"It is not in the interest of the government to help you," Giuseppe pointed out. "They do not even wish to help Italian people. Why will they want to help an American man to take their fish?"
"A friend of mine in Vicenza told me it was easy," I said.
"Is he close to you, your friend?"
"Like a brother," I said.
"Then go to your friend," Giuseppe said. "Not to the government."
I should have heard the echo of Barzini. But my entrepreneurial American ears were deaf to that kind of talk. "I can do this myself," I said, and dialed the number of the Department of Hunting and Fishing. After I explained what I wanted, I got a flurry of very fast Italian, the only words of which I understood were ufficio postale ... post office.
I decided I must be using the wrong word for "license," because everyone thought I was asking for stamps. While I irritably looked through my dictionary, Giuseppe picked up the phone, hit the redial button, and got through to the same woman I had. They chatted merrily for ten minutes, evidently discovering they had several friends in common. Finally Giuseppe hung up.
"Did you find out where I should go?" I asked.
"Post office," he said. "There's one around the corner."
It took half a day and two visits to a nearby post office, but I eventually got a scrap of paper that allowed me to fish for three days in the state of Lazio. It cost more than a year's license in California, but I didn't care. I had successfully worked the system, or so I thought.
N E X T+P A G E | Fishing in traffic


	T A B L E_T A L K New Year's Eve 1999: Do you have plans yet? Discuss where you'll be for the changing of the millennium in Table Talk's Wanderlust area R E C E N T L Y On the road with the Smokejumpers: Part Two By The King Teen Shotguns and dead bunnies, pizza and beer -- a San Francisco band explores America (11/11/98) Tokyo sex wars: Part Two By Karl Taro Greenfeld The arrival of 24 "classy ladies" to work in a fledgling nightspot convulses Japan's new demimonde (11/10/98) Tokyo sex wars By Karl Taro Greenfeld Drug demons and sex junkies in Japan's new demimonde (11/09/98) On the road with the Smokejumpers By The King Teen What happens when a punk-rockabilly band from San Francisco tours the country in a broken-down Big Orange Van? (11/06/98) This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news (11/06/98) Browse the Wanderlust Passages archives S A L O N E M P O R I U M FREE! 12-ounce bag of Salon Blend with a purchase of $30 or more. While supplies last.		A... fiume R U N S . T H R O U G H . I T [ E X C E R P T ] TRAVELERS' TALES: ITALY EDITED BY ANNE CALCAGNO TRAVELERS' TALES, INC. 437 PAGES - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - AN AMERICAN ON A FLY-FISHING PILGRIMAGE LEARNS THAT IN ITALY, IT'S WHO YOU KNOW THAT COUNTS. BY THOM ELKJER \| In his classic book "The Italians," Luigi Barzini observes that the basis of society in Italy is the family, not the law. This is because in Italy, there is either no law at all, or so many that it's impossible to sort out the tangled heap of overlapping jurisdictions. So you call your brother, or your uncle, and he arranges things for you. Americans, on the other hand, rely much more on their own initiative because there is usually a clear and stable structure for getting things done. Barzini's analysis remained abstract for me until I began researching a novel set in Italy. The protagonist of the story goes fly fishing there, which meant that I, diligent author, would have to do the same. Before I left the states I talked to Graziano, a longtime friend of mine living in the town of Vicenza, near Venice. He told me not to worry, that all Italian rivers were public and there were no special laws to be concerned about. I started packing. I landed in Rome in late summer, when cleansing rain separates the heat of the day from the cool of the evening. I checked into my hotel, consulted the phone book, and looked for a sporting goods shop where I could get a fishing license. To my delight, I saw that there was a new fly fishing shop only ten minutes away. I looked at my watch and smiled. I might get to the river that very evening. The shop owner spoke no English, but I had enough Italian to learn that the Fiume Velino, a good-sized river northeast of Rome, held fish year-round. But when I told the guy I wanted a fishing license, he looked confused. Perhaps you should go to the post office, he suggested. I explained more slowly that I wanted to fish not only in Lazio, but also in the north of Italy. He shrugged and suggested that I visit the Italian Department of Hunting and Fishing, somewhere on the via Nazionale. This made more sense, and I headed back to the hotel to look up the address. There I bumped into Giuseppe, the proprietor, while looking in the phone book. "It is not in the interest of the government to help you," Giuseppe pointed out. "They do not even wish to help Italian people. Why will they want to help an American man to take their fish?" "A friend of mine in Vicenza told me it was easy," I said. "Is he close to you, your friend?" "Like a brother," I said. "Then go to your friend," Giuseppe said. "Not to the government." I should have heard the echo of Barzini. But my entrepreneurial American ears were deaf to that kind of talk. "I can do this myself," I said, and dialed the number of the Department of Hunting and Fishing. After I explained what I wanted, I got a flurry of very fast Italian, the only words of which I understood were ufficio postale ... post office. I decided I must be using the wrong word for "license," because everyone thought I was asking for stamps. While I irritably looked through my dictionary, Giuseppe picked up the phone, hit the redial button, and got through to the same woman I had. They chatted merrily for ten minutes, evidently discovering they had several friends in common. Finally Giuseppe hung up. "Did you find out where I should go?" I asked. "Post office," he said. "There's one around the corner." It took half a day and two visits to a nearby post office, but I eventually got a scrap of paper that allowed me to fish for three days in the state of Lazio. It cost more than a year's license in California, but I didn't care. I had successfully worked the system, or so I thought. N E X T+P A G E \| Fishing in traffic