Smoke-free? You Must Be Choking

Sun Herald

Sunday May 14, 2006

Terry Smyth

Terry Smyth is witness to an Eternal City miracle - the eternal ciggie. The Trevi Fountain is just an oversized ashtray to the locals

FUMARE proibito? Non fumi? Nessun fumare? I have no idea which, if any, of the above means no smoking in Italian. I have no idea because I have never seen a no smoking sign in Italy.

There seems to be nowhere in Italy where you can't light up, which I discover immediately upon arrival in Rome.

The cab driver taking me and my family to our hotel demonstrates consummate skill in weaving through traffic at warp speed while at the same time searching his glove box, pockets, seat and floor for a packet of cigarettes. He lights up, the car fogs up and, after missing sending a Vespa into orbit by the thickness of a Tally-Ho paper, he helpfully explains the Roman road rules. "I am big, he is little," he says with a smile, a shrug and a cough.

Checking into our little hotel on the Via Nazzionale, we can't take our eyes off the desk clerk. The attraction is not his face but the gravity-defying length of ash on the end of the cigarette hanging out of his face.

Later, when he comes to our room to fix the toilet that won't stop flushing, the world-record ash is still there. Next morning at breakfast, and the morning after, it's still there. And on checking out it's still there, leaving us wondering: was he a chain smoker with a perfect sense of balance? Was it some sort of joke smoke? Or were we witness to an Eternal City miracle - the eternal ciggie? Sadly, we'll never know.

On the streets, pedestrians, police, peddlers and even panhandlers smoke. The Trevi Fountain might mean Kodak moments to tourists, but to the locals it's just an oversized ashtray.

In cars and on buses, passengers and drivers smoke. In the bars and bistros, the patrons and waiters smoke. The cooks smoke. Even the ham is smoked.

Outside the Colosseum the ticket booth staff are making haze while the sun shines, and the walking tourist traps dressed as centurions are puffing more smoke than filled the air back when Rome burned and Nero fiddled.

And at the Vatican - holy smoke.

My wife is a smoker. I mention that because it's the cause of a discovery and an epiphany. One afternoon, when her supply of cigarettes runs out, I set off through the streets of Rome to buy her a packet - a pleasant stroll on a simple errand, or so I suppose.

I soon discover that in a city where it seems everyone smokes, no one seems to sell cigarettes. In shops and kiosks of all descriptions I'm met with that friendly but dismissive response Italians have taken centuries to perfect.

And the epiphany? In desperation, I make smoking gestures at a street vendor, hoping he might point me in the right direction. Misinterpreting my request, he pulls a pack of smokes out of his pocket and offers me one.

And I think to myself: Ah, bugger it! When in Rome . . .