I learned about cinghiali (wild boars) a few years ago on a walk with my 68-year old neighbor Virgilio, one of the few men I've met in Italy that doesn't treat a woman like a woman. We were talking about the woods and he said that I still had to learn my way around and it would be a good idea to take a walk together someday. Apparently, in Italian "someday" means "two-hours-later-on-the-same-day" because that's when Virgilio showed up at my door in his shorts, hiking boots and knee socks. So I quickly changed into my hiking gear (a mini-skirt, tank top and running shoes sans knee socks) and off we went. Ten minutes from home the temperature dropped, the wind picked up and I learned that his walking stick conveniently turned into an umbrella which meant there was no turning back.
The main goal of our expedition was to learn how to get to the pizzeria through the woods instead of on the road. But after about a thousand, "If you go this way you end up in Asolo and if you go that way you'll find another little trail that will take you to top of the hill with the two cherry trees and there's the road Napoleon took with his carriage and that's the long path and there's the shortcut, but first we'll go to the big field where the hunters come out at night to shoot the wild pigs and then we'll come back and get you where you want to go," I was sure I was never going to remember how to get there (to the pizzeria in case you've forgotten).
So I just listened and plunged on with a certain astonishment that at that moment there was nothing feminine about me. My legs were bleeding from the brush and thorns we'd walked through on what didn't really seem like trails. I had to pay attention to keep from getting hit in the face by the branches that swung back at me after he'd simply pushed them out of his way and kept on walking. I was freezing in my wet tank top because he'd decided that it would be better to walk without the umbrella. (Which seems like something an Italian man might plan, but I can guarantee you, with Virgilio, it was unintentional.)
The reason my lack of femininity came as such a surprise was because I was used to meeting a man for an English lesson at the bottom of a hill and he insisted that he push my bike to the top. And once, while walking in a very light snowfall with my crutches after having the cast removed from my broken knee, a man with an umbrella came and asked if I wanted to share it to keep me dry. And every time I'm eating dinner with 80-year old Piero he notices that I don't have a napkin (because it's in my lap instead of on the table like all the rest) so he gets up and brings me another. Then I feel obligated to let him see that I'm using the new one when all I really want to do is show him the one in my lap so he doesn't think I'm an ill-mannered American pig.
But let's get back to the Italian pigs. When Virgilio stopped to take a breath I asked, "Can you remind me where the wild pigs live, please?" He said they didn't really live in any one place but travelled throughout the woods. At dusk they like to go to the open spaces and then it's easier for hunters to spot them. Unfortunately, I don't usually run at dusk or in the open spaces which makes it more difficult for unarmed runners to spot them. I asked if they were dangerous. He said that if I surprised a mother that had babies nearby, she would be aggressive. I wasn't exactly sure how I could ever run in the woods and come upon a cinghiale without it being a surprise so it seemed to me they would always be dangerous.
Three years have passed since that walk with Virgilio. The first several weeks after learning about the pigs my runs were far from relaxing. One day I saw a sign on a secondary trail that said, "Do not enter. Cinghiale crossing." I didn't enter, but I did panic. Then little by little I calmed down again. That's not to say that I run through the woods with no fear. I'm easily frightened by snakes sleeping on the path, pheasants hiding in the low brush along the edge, one-eyed dogs (see http://10leaves.blogspot.it/2013/10/face-your-fears-with-one-eye-closed-if.html), crying goats that I mistake for humans moaning for help, sheep and donkeys grazing freely with an unleashed dog nearby to reherd them, chickens (yes, sometimes they scare me), and lepri (wild hares) as big as small dogs and as fast as Carl Lewis.
And, as if that list weren't long enough to keep me alert, I can now officially add wild boars to it. Last week I was running on a trail in the woods and instead of surprising the mother, it was the three little pigs crossing the trail that surprised me. As far as I'm concerned, they're as scary as the big bad wolf. Fortunately, I didn't have to pass the point they'd crossed because I was at a fork in the trail and could head away from them. What I didn't know is that they had their own trail in the woods which once again crossed my running path. This time they weren't crossing, but the rustling in the woods was a sure sign that I'd surprised the mother. It didn't take much to run faster than a lepre.
The next day as I was entering the woods I saw an old man. I told him about the day before and asked if he thought it was safe to keep running there. He said he's been walking in those woods for 50 years with hopes of seeing a wild boar but never has. He said they usually avoid places that have signs of human life, so if they saw me, I'd scared them away. I never thought I'd be the one doing the scaring. How many other false perceptions do I have of myself? It's time to change the way I think. Instead of calling it the Wild Boar Run I'm going to call it the Run of the Big Bad Wolf.
