Heather asks me if I’ve ever seen a Jeffrofumi pizza
anywhere in Umina. I say no. She then asks if I’ve
ever seen any Jeff flags flying proudly from any balconies.
Another no. Finally she stops torturing me and tells
me to shut up. We continue walking and I continue
to fantasise about the flags and pizzas. Go Jeffrofumi!
Go!
We soon arrive at the end of the main road, a little
hot and thirsty after the climb up the hill. Sitting
under the shade of a tree we take in life Tavullia
style. It’s 12:30pm on a Tuesday and all the shops
and businesses are closed for the customary Italian
three-hour lunch but we’re hungry and hoping to try
a Rossi pizza.
The town is eerily quiet, the only sound being that
of countless yellow #46 flags flapping in the wind,
interrupted by the odd car or tractor. Heather spots
a Valentino sticker on the bumper of a passing hatchback
and we start playing spot the Rossi sticker. It’s
not a hard game as every car we see has one. The entertainment
soon wears thin and Heather and I eventually doze
off in the afternoon breeze. It’s a sleepy old town
Tavullia, no doubt about that.
“Buongiorno, buongiorno, svegliarsi, svegliarsi.”
I wake from my afternoon siesta to the cheesy grin
of a young kid who’s prodding me and telling me to
wake up. I say hello to him in English and he jumps
on his BMX, pedals flat-out across the small park
and takes off up the street. Heather laughs, she says
that he’s cute like Rossi and probably his young cousin
or some relation. I just wander why the cheeky bugger
isn’t at school!
Now desperately thirsty and in need of a feed we
stroll back along the main street, thankfully downhill
this time. It’s only 1:45pm so we’re not expecting
too much, we’re told in broken English by a charming
old man that most places will re-open at 3:00pm. That’s
no problem, we figure, we’ve got all night to make
the 250km to Venizia and there are no speed limits
on the motorways.
We spot a life-sized cardboard cutout of Rossi in
the window of a pizza bar. The neon sign is partly
obscured by a Rossi flag but I can still read it.
‘Paride’s Pizza’, it says. Heather sets her tripod
up in the middle of the street while I watch for cars.
She spends about five minutes there, waiting for the
wind to blow the flags the way she wants them. No
cars come past, only a shaggy looking Boxer puppy
that gives me a quick sniff and tries to piss on my
leg. Heather eventually gets her desired shot and
we head over the road to check for life.
I cup my hands around my eyes to block the glare
and place my face against the glass. A big fella wearing
a Rossi shirt, cap and bright yellow sneakers gives
me a smile and walks toward the door. He pushes through
the beads hanging from the doorframe and says something
in Italian. I ask if he speaks English. He says yes
and invites Heather and I into his humble shop.
“You here because of Rossi?” He asks.
“Yep. Do you know him well?” I say, feeling pretty
dumb considering the place is literally covered wall
to wall in Rossi paraphernalia.
“Yes.” He proudly boasts. “Valentino is my good friend.
I have known him since he was a little boy.”
He sits us down and places a couple of cans of icy
cold Coke on the table. We knock them back in a flash
and he laughs.
“You must be thirsty. I’ll get another Coke each
for you.”
He introduces himself as Parides then joins us for
a moment.
“Where are you from?” He asks.
“Australia,” we tell him.
“Wow, you are the second Aussie’s to come here. The
first was Michael Doohan.”
Heather and I silently sip on our Coke’s for a moment
and try to contemplate the fact that Mick Doohan has
visited Tavullia.
“At 3:00pm the office over the street opens and I
will take you there. For now I’ll make you some Rossifumi
pizza.”
We look across the road, wondering what he means.
“Ah, you don’t know about the official fan club, eh?”
Parides calls from the kitchen. “That’s where we’ll
go.”
I pick up a newspaper to see Rossi on the front page.
Heather then calls me over to the back wall to look
at all the Rossi pics. “He’s so dreamy,” she sighs.
“Look at his big blue eyes.”
I remind her that my eyes are blue, too.
“Yes, they are,” she admits. “But you are a loser
and Rossi is a champion.”
Parides brings out two enormous pizzas. I clear all
the Rossi books and magazines away from in front of
me and he places the pizzas on the table.
“These are Rossifumi pizzas. The colours of the Italian
flag with Valantino’s favourite mayonnaise making
a number 46.”
I’m so hungry that I hook straight into my pizza
while Heather takes some photos of hers. We enjoy
a delicious lunch and quiz Parides about Rossi and
his family for an hour or so before we head across
to the fan club office. As we leave Parides points
out the Mayors office and tells us that Vale’s Mum
still works there as a secretary and that his Dad,
Graziano, lives up the other end of the main street.
They are friends, he says, but they have been separated
since Valentino was a boy.
We enter the front door of what appears to be no
more than a quaint Italian terrace. Parides introduces
us to Ms Buscaglia, the fan club secretary. She smiles
as Parides explains to her that we are from Australia
and then, in broken English, she offers Heather a
Valentino Rossi biography as a gift. Heather accepts
and we all have a laugh.
I notice some trophies in a cabinet alongside the
desk and take a look. There are trophies from every
class of GP racing locked in a cabinet with one of
those two-dollar luggage padlocks. I mention to Heather
that they’d last about five minutes among all the
thieves back home.
Parides is now in deep conversation with Ms Buscaglia.
We’re not sure what they’re saying but we know that
it involves us. A few minutes later Parides smiles
and walks us through a door at the back of the office.
He switches on the light and removes the sheet covering
the bikes.
“Today is your lucky day. Sit on them if you like.
Have some fun and take some photos.”
Heather smiles and looks at me. “Go on then, Jeffrofumi,
pretend while it lasts. After all, there are no GP
bikes waiting for you in Umina...”
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