Friday, September 02, 2011

Ladri di Biciclette
Wonderfully safe as it is, Lucca has a small problem with bicycle thieves. First last spring, T's bike was taken and trashed, then my (F's) bike went missing three weeks ago, then T's nice replacement bike went last week (note to self: cheap locks don't work).

So then, bike-less, we start telling the story and accumulating cast off bikes. First I walk out to Lunata in 39 degree heat to get an abandoned bike from Stefano, thinking that I will ride it back to town, but it's clearly unrideable and I have to walk it home, shedding pieces as I go.


Then next comes a jewely pink model from Laura, the erborista. T makes me promise to spray paint it before riding it, but there is little chance of that because of two flat tires and absent brakes.


Then we get a seriously wonderful gift from Greta's family and inherit three working bikes--that's right, even one for K to ride to the gym! Though thanks to a Manhattan girlhood, this will be essentially starting from scratch. T ends up with Julian's fantastic mountain bike which had been stolen and refound a couple of weeks back. And I was going to end up with the "Frankenbike," but as we walked by the bike rental shop where I had bought my original much loved bike this afternoon, the owner runs out saying "Ho trovato la tua bici!"/I found your bike! It turns out the thief tried to sell it back to him and he called the Caribinieri/one of the several police forces.


So now we have six bikes, four of which work, and they are all locked up with what Greta's mom calls a "big ol' honkin' lock."


So the owner of the bike store got a fresh baked loaf of bread for his heroism, as did our neighbors whom we have finally decided to acknowledge the existence thereof. We said we decided to introduce ourselves a year after moving in (and many months after they have seen us running around in white pajamas killing fleas and often healing people without touching them--see earlier posts) because now we finally speak Italian.  It is just an excuse because we could have talked to them earlier but we thought it would be too weird because they are so in our face. As it is, the awkwardness of being up in their grills all the time and not ever saying anything, is worse.

It turns out the dad's name is not Mike Brady, as K has been calling him, but Giorgio and he is married to the Italian Carol Brady whose name we don't know. She may be a ballet instructor, or maybe their two elementary school aged girls, the youngest of which we know is called Emma, just take ballet lessons.  And the mystery woman who lives in the apartment next door to the couple is his sister who is married and has a dog. They also got bread, otherwise known as insurance that they don't call the cops on K's underground exercise classes. This will make running around the house naked only slightly less fun.

Arrivederci, Brooklyn!

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