Build a sand castle. Go to jail.
That's the rule on an Italian beach, and it is the fruit of a new anti-crime law.
A bunch of thugs ran amok in Italy, creating a crime wave, however that may be defined eastward of the Pillars of Hercules. The soccer momma mias got scared, and in Rome the polticians did as politicians do: "Something."
I know. Hardly anyone cares about Italy. so why write about it?
Sharp readers have already figured out that the subject here is more American than Neopolitan. They may even instinctively recall the definiton of Hell as the jurisdiction in which the French are the warriors, the Germans the lovers, and the Italians the political organizers.
Here's the credibility paragraph, from Reuters this morning:
"Emboldened by a nationwide crackdown on crime and a government decree giving them extra law-and-order powers, Italian mayors have issued a string of often bizarre by-laws to enhance 'public decorum'."
Okay, Reuters, call them "bizarre" laws if you want, but your own credibility would notch up a little if you selected your adjective from among the more accurate words. Evil, Totalitarian. Barbaric.
That's not going too far. Ask Rodrigo Piccoli. At a city park in Vicenza. the 33-year-old miscreant was nabbed red-handed after blatantly assuming a prone position. Bad enough in itself, but he then began openly and nefariously reading a book -- even though fully aware he might be seen by small children and large nuns.
His case had a somewhat happier ending than it might have.
Fined 50 euros, he appealed to radio (talk? is there a Rusio Limbaughni there?) whereupon the Vicenzan mayor dropped the ban. Reuters tantalizes us by leaving open the question as to whether said ban referred to public-park reclining as the discrete misdemeanor or whether it must be accompanied by wanton reading.
So, in Italy, a law is a law for just so long as a mayor thinks it should be. If, over a Campari and soda or three, he decides otherwise, it ceases to be a law.
Or that something else should be.
Only the cynical Yankee would remark on the similarity of that to the U.S. practice of occasionally writing legislation so stupid that it needs to be accompanied by a disclaimer that it will be enforced with discretion
There's more.
Italians being Italians, they couldn't refuse the chance to enstatuate something about sex. One might assume the close proximity of The Vatican is responsible for one of them, to wit:
If your honey is cuddled close in your car as you shag the drag in Luccia, you'd better be able persuade the local carabinari that your fondling hand really was on the gear-shift lever.
If you can't, be ready to cough up 750 euros. because the mayor's idea of fighting crime is to criminalize "public displays of affection" in automobiles. (I am refusing to translate euros to dollars anymore; too depressing.)
(Strictly as an aside, that particular law is a wonderment of non-necessity, regardless of the mayor's purity of motive. Having owned a European car or two in my callow and excitable youth, I hereby testify that the degree of affection possible in them hits its volumetric limits well in advance of ecstasy. The earth doesn't move. Often enough, neither does the car.)
Reuters doesn't make it clear why building sand castles has become a criminal act, but a reasonable suspicion is that large ones might serve to hide affection and, perhaps, even reading.
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And this is all really, as I said, about America, simply because I am an American, writing in America for Americans.
An American who observes the war on terror as it is understood by our leaders. That's why my local librarian has to fight to keep just between us what I happen to read.
An American who is immensely grateful to the TSA for keeping the skies friendly by busting Joe Foss for trying to fly with a keychain replica of his Medal of Honor.
An American convinced beyond any possibility of opinion change that just one more little swat at that pesky Fourth Amendment will bring lasting victory in our war on drugs.
Such obscenities happened, of course, because something scared enough daft voters to panic the politicians into "doing something."
I'd hate to think of Ron Paul as an expatriate, even though we've rejected his offer of leadership. But maybe the Italians need him more than we do, and I'd bet that the recumbent and literary Mr. Piccoli would volunteer for a new Ron Paul Revolution along the banks of the Po.
Ciao.
