The last (planned) significant event of our three-week September blitz of some nine cities in five European countries, was Museo Storico Alfa Romeo.
To be sure the museum would be open, I called from Luzern the day before we were due to arrive in Milan. Yes, it would be open from 2 pm until 4 pm. Our train from Luzern arrived in Milan at 11:55 am but not knowing exactly how long the trip to Arese would be, we checked our packs at the station then immediately sought transportation.
The nearest town to Arese, site of the museum, is Rho. By train this would require more figuring, and this, the umteenth day of juggling train schedules, we opted for a taxi.
I wrote our destination on a note pad and showed it to the taxi driver. I ask what the charge might be and he pointed to the meter. Fair enough. Our travel guide book said always use metered cabs. Off we went. And went we did. You've heard stories about Italian traffic and drivers. Believe them!
We got to the museum at about a quarter of two, paid the driver 50,000 Lira and walked into the security hut. "Parla inglese?" I asked. "NO," replied the very official acting uniformed guard. There was no welcoming smile on this man's face. Uh-oh. He seemed disturbed that we would have the nerve to bother him before the official time.
He asked for our documents. Documents? We had no documents. But alas, "Passaporta." With a very official scowl he scrutinized our passports, then Kate and me. He opened a log book to make some very official entries. We were issued visitor passes and told to wait. The guard's attitude, we concluded, was because he was scheduled to be relieved by another guard at 2 pm. If we were not so darned early the next security person would have been on duty.
While we were waiting, I held up my camera, pointed to the huge Alfa Romeo sign above the main factory building and asked, "Photograph?" I got a very quizzical look. He held up his hand indicating wait, picked up the phone, dialed, spoke, and hung up. "No," was the answer. Kate thought this was odd as this huge sign could be seen for miles around. Hey, I thought, it's their sign.
At two o'clock a group of about twelve more visitors crowded into the security hut. The more congenial but just as official relief guard jumped up from his chair to stop this invasion. He determined that one of the dozen or so people would suffice as responsible. This individual's documents were checked, entries made into the official log and visitor passes issued to everyone. They introduced themselves as Alfa owners from the Frankfurt club.
At a few minutes after 2 pm, another guard escorted all of us across the grounds, through a couple of corridors, pointed in the direction of the entrance to the displays.
"Parla inglese?" I asked.
"No." Not another word was spoken. No welcome extended.
The fourteen of us had the museum for two hours. The German women promptly sat on some stairs obviously bored, while the rest of us, cameras in hand, proceeded.
As it turned out in conversation between Kate and one of the women who spoke English, they have suffered through visits several times before.
How nice. Three floors of Alfas and things Alfa. Needless to say, some very significant pieces of Alfa history. The soul of the marque. The cars are displayed very nicely and you can get right up to everything. Signs advise against touching. We thoroughly enjoyed it all. Since I'm sort of an aviation nut too, I enjoyed the aero engine displays as well.
l949 Angelo dei Bimbi
We used up nearly the full two hours without even looking into the (guy stuff) mechanicals of the machines. On our way out and in the next building we were looking for a restroom. Our trek was thwarted by an authoritative call from a security guard, "uscita! uscita!" and a firm point to the exit. We ask for the toilet and he changed the direction of his point. After business I spotted an aircraft on display in an area off to the side. As I approached the doorway to the display, those same words rang out. As the commands were a bit more firm this time, I turned toward the exit.
Out in the guard hut after turning in our visitor's tags, Katherine and I looked at each other with the same thought. How do we get back to Milan? We communicated with the security guard enough to find that there is "boos" running to Milan. He pointed to a shelter and held up five fingers. Ah-hah! But wait. Bus number five? Bus in five minutes? Or, bus at five o'clock?
Fortunately, one of the Frankfurt group also spoke enough Italian to find that the bus was at five o'clock. Oh s! We still needed to find a hotel room and make seat reservations for the train to Rome the next morning. And it looked like rain.
The spokesperson for the Alfa Club apologized that they were all driving Spiders of one kind or another with luggage, etc. and even though willing, they would be unable to give us a lift into Milan. It was fairly obvious that the guard, after providing bus information, was not the least bit interested in our problem. If in fact he thought we had one.
Katherine reluctantly agreed to walk with me (about a quarter mile) to the main entrance of the grounds so that I, the great navigator Magellan, could assess directions, distances, and transportation.
I queried the guard at the main gate. He indicated the town of Rho to be a few kilometers to the left.
"Let's go" I said.
"Wait a minute, are you sure?" she asked.
"Well, I feel better if we are at least moving." "No way!" Well you know she gave in.
We started walking towards Rho in what was now a light drizzle. After fifty yards or so, she says, "Now wait a minute." I'm telling you, no faith. But just a few yards ahead was the gate to the factory service and parts distribution center. Saved again.
"Parla inglese?" I asked the group of four guards. They all rotated their heads; only about 10 degrees in each direction thank goodness. The international negative. I made an attempt to communicate to the three uniformed backs that were now facing us and the one guard now seated in the hut. The seated guard was younger and even though he didn't speak English, he could understand my rudimentary Anglo/Italian appeals. He graciously but very officially, called a taxi for us poor American fools, too stupid to get in out of the rain.
The wait was short and the drizzle subsided. It was fun however to watch service employees literally thrashing customer cars. Test drives I suppose.
The trip back to Milan was similar but a little more sane than the one to the museum. Back at the train station we were able to do what we needed; get a hotel, then freshen up and have dinner in relative calm.
Funny feeling about the museum experience though. Do they really care if anyone else cares. I wonder how Corvette owners will be received at the newly opened Vette museum.
The whole three-week trip starting and ending in Rome was hectic but fun and rewarding. Kate was less than excited with Rome and in particular the Italian definition of a `quiet' place to sleep. Quiet in Italy must mean anything in a range of 130 to 160 decibels. And the police sirens; do they just amuse themselves?
Earlier in the trip I was able to watch Stefano Modena on Italian TV make his debut in the German touring car series by winning both races in the Alfa 155 V6 at Avus (Berlin). This course is similar to the one JD describes at Alfa Sulle Montagne. Two long straights with a hairpin at one end and a left hand loop at the other. Positioning for the most part was decided in these two turns. Great show. Also watched some hot and furious Citroen AX racing, motorcycle closed course racing and some motorcycle autocrossing. Autocrossing? How can that be? Anyhow, that's great TV. The rest of Venice was nice too.
At Fiumicino Terminal during the melee of reticketing US-bound passengers, we were pleasantly surprised to hear Charlene Stanton's voice. She and Russ were returning home after a week in Rome.
At the beginning of the trip, while in Italy I picked up several car models and a few Italian car magazines. One magazine, Ruoteclassiche, features the 40th anniversary of the Giulietta. With only a back pack and a lot of traveling to go, I decided to mail them back to the States. Ask us about the Italian Postal Service. Now that's official! Oh me.
Arrivederci!