Yet so many similarities remain . People still laugh and smile the same way , and their priorities , though perhaps clothed differently , remain identical . Food . Heath . Housing . Education and perhaps in wealthier lands where religious preferences allow it , a beer , or a glass of wine in the evening .
In keeping company with their cousins in France , backroads Italy seemed to stand still in time . But they appeared to do so with a Mediterranean shoulder shrug as far as keeping up appearances was concerned . As the world rushed on past just a few kilometres away , on this road the dusty villages grew water starved weeds out of the gaps between foot-worn pavements . Cracked and twisted wooden window shutters hung onto their last curling strips of paint as they clung with rusty hinges to once proud walls . Those pale-coloured walls scarred by continent shaped chunks of missing stucco and plaster .
Speed limits , 50 and 70 kilometres per hour , abounded along the roads that were so straight the Romans must have designed them . The speed limits were fine , but we shared the route with lumbering belching trucks . With narrow roads and few overtaking spots that weren ’ t manned by speed cameras , the ride staring up dirty backsides became a bit of a drag . It was rather like riding Morse code but with far too many dots and not enough chances to dash . This was far from freedom of the open road , and I could feel my face griming up from the fumes . If my lungs could speak , they ’ d have been whinging .
The gods of travel had a breakdown to liven life up for us and it became an important part of the journey . It ’ s funny how problems can so often do that , isn ’ t it ? As a result of the breakdown , we met amazingly kind local people . People we might have nodded and smiled at as we ’ d
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