Column: Italian plays

It's time. We are going from summer to autumn and later even to winter. A routine that our cold little country meets every year punctually. Sometimes summer is a little too short or autumn a little too early, but all in all: four seasons with their own advantages and disadvantages. Summer is wonderful, including a sunstroke here and there. Autumn is pleasant but the occasional flu or other general malaise. Even in the land of la dolce vita.

Italy kept surprising me, every day. If it wasn't a new neighbor, it was a new medicine. Because in Italy I have seen a completely new form of appointment. Or appoint… Let's make it one culture difference to call. Where in the Netherlands it is easy to 'don't be like that' with a cold, in Italy that is something you would go to a doctor for.

Blonde curls on the bike

It took some getting used to in Italy in that respect. In the Netherlands, as a sober Frisian, it was only normal for me to spend the morning with my wet hair to get on a bike and go to school. In Italy this was not okay. It was out of the question that I dared to imagine it. In the morning my hair had to go through a hairdressing ritual before I could go cycling. Blow dry, dry with a towel, blow dry some more and if only one hair was still damp, my Mamita there is always a very nice hat or beanie on offer.

For the first month it was still there for me. I underwent my new mother's morning ritual with discipline. The fact that I was working on this for at least forty minutes longer was, of course, secondary. Eventually it became too much for me. From Mantua to Bologna is still quite a bit, especially in the morning, and I wanted to save all the precious minutes.

You understand: I fell back into my old pattern. With wet hair and sometimes even without breakfast (another grand and compelling drama) I went to the station by bike. The fact that I accidentally caught the flu a few weeks later was of course due to, you guessed it: my wet hair!

Mysterious virus

But it wasn't just that wet hair that got in the way of my health, a mysterious virus in my bile also killed me at the end of my Italian adventure. I got some kind of flu again and my Mamita en papíto were in my room again telling me what I had done wrong. Of course my wet hair, but also the fact that I often slept with my window open, didn't wear socks and didn't take six vitamin pills in the morning, explained why I was in bed at that time with a good forty degrees fever. Sick is sick.

give it a shot

Of course every person has their own pain threshold, but then Mamita came into my room and said she was going to give me an injection in my lower back herself, 'because that medicine just came from the supermarket', I rang the bell. A real doctor. It turned out to be a gallbladder infection. The doctor made his diagnosis based on my blond hair. Such things were common among blond girls. I thought it was a joke and we went home, including five different drugs. It wasn't a joke. A day later I found myself in an Italian hospital.

Play

At that moment my Italian had risen to higher spheres and luckily I was able to save myself. I knew how to ask for an extra pillow. Saved it to say that I wanted to eat mashed potatoes and could ask loud and clear what exactly was wrong with me. Fortunately, because there were few or no English-speaking doctors.

After spending a good week in the hospital, playing games with the doctors and even a wheelchair race, it was time for me to go back to my second home. My mother and my sister had come over from the Netherlands that week, so my play was over. It seemed like a play later on, because to this day it remains a mystery what actually happened.

Back home

A few days later it was Friday. The day my new family and I, like every week, went to the country house on Lake Garda. In the car I already noticed that I felt sick, but: after a good week of Italian hospital instead of an Italian villa and Italian hospital food instead of Italian pizza and pasta, I was pretty much done with that.

I pretended there was nothing. Mine MamitaOf course not stupid, but knew better. The forty degree fever was back and the decision was quickly made. Back. To the Netherlands. Within 24 hours I went from Bardolino to Mantua. From Mantua to Verona. And from Verona all the way back to Amsterdam, where, you wouldn't expect it, the doctor couldn't find a single virus in my blood.

The Italian disease? I don't know, but dear people: never ride a bike with wet hair!