No, this is not at all a story about any seafaring activities wherein I have been participating. In the beautiful English language the word “jib” has two meanings (there may be more, but I know only of two). In one sense the word refers to the triangular foresail of a sailboat such as a sloop, or larger craft; in the second it refers to that part of a lifting device (a crane) that is horizontal to the ground and that carries the cable that is used for lifting and carrying cumbersome objects to another nearby location, perhaps at a different level. It is this latter object that is reffered to in the title. Incidentally the word “crane” itself has two meanings; one being that referred to above, viz. the lifting device, while the other is the name of a long-legged, long-necked, sometimes migratory heron-like bird, some species of which are endangered, for example the Whooping cranes that breed in Canada and winter in southern Texas.

But I am getting diverted, so back to the theme. About a week ago, the tranquil life in via Remota was dramatically shattered by a gang of riggers who brought a long metallic object to the minute parking lot next to my house and proceeded to unfold it, piece-by-piece, until it looked like a crane, complete with a long jib that extended to the side-and sometimes over-my terrace, which is about 10 meters above the street. The jib was about another ten meters further up and was positioned so that the suspended bucket was able to lower itself onto the terrace of the house that is above me, about fifteen meters above the street. Since the day when the damn thing was positioned and unfolded, the bucket has been occupied in transporting chunks of concrete, broken from the house’s interior to the back of a pick-up truck and thence to some unknown junk destination; lately the bucket has lifted a concrete mixer, bags of cement and piles of gravel up to the upper house, where men have been mixing concrete and transporting it on wheelbarrows into the house, where presumably it has been employed in replacing the stuff that was jack-hammered out. I am eternally grateful that the operations of the crane are powered by electric motors, so that the motions are essentially silent, although at times the relays clunk and clatter loudly as the motion is changed. The whole operation is controlled by one man who carries a box-like object that turns out to have the appropriate buttons on it that can cause the crane to go about its business.

Here is a photo of the beast taken from my terrace (in the foreground) delivering material to the house above and behind mine.

Strange as it may seem this one-man control of operations at a distance, puts me in mind of those American boys sitting at their computer terminals in Tampa, Florida, “flying” their armored drones over the mountains of western Pakistan and, with the click of a button, unleashing missiles to deliver immediate death to persons below, who may be, or may not be, enemies of the United States. Whether they are enemies or not, the effect is the same, in that widows and fatherless children are instantly created. Do I recall correctly that the commander-in-chief of these boys in Tampa was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize a couple of years back?

Back in via Remota, I had occasion to visit a lady doctor yesterday. Here a lady doctor is titled “dottoressa” in order to distinguish her from her male counterpart, a “dottore”. In the US and the UK, places where I have lived, male and female medical school graduates are all called doctors. Here in Italy, a patient is left in no doubt about the gender of the physician who is going to treat them-maybe they like it that way, who knows? I should add that here there are also “professore” and “professoressa” in the universities. Anyway I was advised to go to see dottoressa Gianotti in order to get a prescription for the Italian equivalent of Vicodin, the drug that makes life bearable these days. Vicodin contains oxycodone, a controlled substance in the US and also, it appears, in Italy. Last year I was able to sweet-talk my friendly pharmacist into letting me have some Vicodin without a prescription, but yesterday no amount of sweet-talk or begging would get her to oblige, so off I trotted to get a prescription from dr.essa Gianotti . She occupies one office in a small building that houses four doctors in all and there is a communal waiting room with four ticket number dispensers on the wall, one for each of the partners. From the Gianotti machine I extracted ticket number 12, and I found a seat and proceeded to wait. The place was populated by about twenty others waiting to see Gianotti or Donarelli, the other doctor on duty-a male. Most of the others were of my vintage, mainly ladies, and there was incessant chatter among them, detailing their various illnesses and treatments. A lot of telephone calls were received and made, also. Another interesting feature was that everyone who came in after me, and presumably those before me, having extracted their number from the appropriate machine, asked the assembled multitude which number was the next to go in to see that physician; presumably they were interesting in how long of a wait were they in for. At one point during the hour and a half that I was in the waiting room, one lady insisted on seeing which person belonged to which number ahead of her. Maybe she was wanting to see whether she had time to go outside for a smoke?

Eventually it was my turn to see the dottoressa, and we very quickly established why I was there, and she had no problem writing out a prescription for me, inquiring where was Bowling Green (I had handed over my driving license for identification). She was excited to learn that I was an ex-chemistry professor, as chemistry had been her favorite subject at the University of Pisa, where she had studied.

And thus mission was accomplished and I returned to the pharmacy, clutching my prescription for Depalgos (the Vicodin equivalent). I remain puzzled why there is apparently no system of appointments as I am used to in the US, thereby avoiding the long period in the waiting room, under attack by germs of every color and creed. It took me back to  the 1940’s when I was a boy in Chesterfield where they had the same ritual-minus the ticket machines, of course!

We live and learn…