Vespa Quotes

If someone called me chubby, it would no longer be something that kept me up late at night. Being called fat is not like being called stupid or unfunny, which is the worst thing you could ever say to me. Do I envy Jennifer Hudson for being able to lose all that weight and look smokin’ hot? Of course, yes. Do I sometimes look at Gisele Bundchen and wonder how awesome life would be if I never had to wear Spanx? Duh, of course. That’s kind of the point of Gisele Bundchen. And maybe I will, once or twice, for a very short period of time. But on the list of things I want to do in my lifetime, that’s not near the top. I mean, it’s not near the bottom either. I’d say it’s right above “Learn to drive a vespa,” but several notches below “film a chase scene for a movie.

He didn't say a word about the fact that her Vespa was nowhere in sight. "You know what this means, right?" he asked. "You're at my mercy." He grinned and she sighed. One hundred thousand sperm and he'd been the fastest. -Chloe about Todd

She was older, no longer the wicked limber girl with the stalled Vespa, but no less beautiful to me for that: whatever elliptical beauty Cassie possesses has always lain not in the vulnerable planes of color and texture but deeper, in the polished contours of her bones.

La nostra vita è tutta fatta di simboli. Ogni cosa che facciamo è parte di un disegno dove abbiamo comunque voce in capitolo. I forti stabiliscono i propri percorsi e influenzano quelli degli altri, i deboli ce li hanno già segnati. I deboli e gli sfortunati. E gli stupidi. La Fabbrica della Vespa è parte del disegno perché è parte della vita e – a maggior ragione – della morte.

«La nostra vita è tutta fatta di simboli. Ogni cosa che facciamo è parte di un disegno dove abbiamo comunque voce in capitolo. I forti stabiliscono i propri percorsi e influenzano quelli degli altri, i deboli ce li hanno già segnati. I deboli e gli sfortunati. E gli stupidi. La Fabbrica della Vespa è parte del disegno perché è parte della vita e – a maggior ragione – della morte.»

Io sono l'otto di spada, io sono la vespa che punge, io sono la serpe scura. lo sono l'animale invulnerabile che attraversa il fuoco e non si brucia.

A sampler of England's hottest 'chefs' would include a mostly hairless young blond lad named Jamie Oliver, who is referred to as the Naked Chef. As best as I can comprehend, he's a really rich guy who pretends he scoots around on a Vespa, hangs out in some East End cold-water flat, and cooks green curry for his 'mates'. He's a TV chef, so few actually eat his food. I've never seen him naked. I believe the 'Naked' refers to his 'simple, straightforward, unadorned' food; though I gather that a great number of matronly housewives would like to believe otherwise. Every time I watch his show, I want to go back in time and bully him at school.

Happiness depends on sound sleep, orderly bowels and regular meals.

There is no such thing as being depressed. Just a choice in your state of mind for that moment....and that moment does eventually pass".

Mereka yang sekalipun belum pernah naik vespa adalah penyia-nyia hidup

The more you want, the more you own. The more you own, the more you live in fear of losing it.

You know how much I want a Vespa. I’m Vespa Desperate. It’s a medical syndrome, you know. I see Vespas and I want to chase them down the street like a rabid terrier.

I filled my mouth with spaghetti and thanked God for the Italians. Spaghetti, pizza, ice cream. If they weren't so busy making love and whizzing around on Vespas, they'd probably rule the world.

The first moment I saw you I felt it immediately. It was like I knew you from another life. I knew nobody else would ever make me feel the way you did, but it seemed impossible to even get close to you.

Motor scooters appeared on the scene—in France and especially Italy, where the first national motor-scooter rally, held in Rome on November 13th 1949, was followed by an explosive growth in the market for these convenient and reasonably priced symbols of urban freedom and mobility, popular with young people and duly celebrated—the Vespa model in particular—in every contemporary film from or about Italy.

(The paradox of Italian soccer). As everyone knows, Italian men are the most foppish representatives of their sex on the planet. They smear on substantial quantities of hair care products and expend considerable mental energies color-coordinating socks with belts. Because of their dandyism, the world has Vespa, Prada, and Renzo Piano. With such theological devotion to aesthetic pleasure, it is truly perplexing that their national style of soccer should be so devoid of this quality.

Ageing Woman I am invisible now, indistinguishable in a passing crowd - just another woman blending in. I remember, not long ago, in that whimsical way memory measures time, I ached with the desire to be desired. I was catcalled as soon I stepped out on the street, I was groped and pawed at sidewalk lights, pinched by Italian teenagers cruising on Vespas. My sex smelled then of camphor and oranges. It now smells musty books and cucumbers - And I love it. I am content in my ageing cloak of invisibility, I breathe a sigh of relief, free from the man-handling, unwelcome fondling, free from the incessant gaze of strangers, free from the foolishness of sex. There, I've said it. I'M FREE, FREE, FREE OF SEX. Free at last. I have faith in the wisdom of this old body which no longer craves what I can no longer have and I sleep like a baby, peacefully in my single bed.

For about five minutes, as I tried to get the Vespa to start, I fell in love with her. The oversized raincoat made her look about eight, as though she should have had matching Wellies with ladybugs on them, and inside the red hood were huge brown eyes and rain-spiked lashes and a face like a kitten’s. I wanted to dry her gently with a big fluffy towel, in front of a roaring fire. But then she said, “Here, let me—you have to know how to twist the thingy,” and I raised an eyebrow and said, “The thingy? Honestly, girls.” I immediately regretted it—I have never been talented at banter, and you never know, she could have been some earnest droning feminist extremist who would lecture me in the rain about Amelia Earhart. But Cassie gave me a deliberate, sideways look, and then clasped her hands with a wet spat and said in a breathy Marilyn voice, “Ohhh, I’ve always dreamed of a knight in shining armor coming along and rescuing little me! Only in my dreams he was good-looking.” What I saw transformed with a click like a shaken kaleidoscope. I stopped falling in love with her and started to like her immensely. I looked at her hoodie jacket and said, “Oh my God, they’re about to kill Kenny.” Then I loaded the Golf Cart into the back of my Land Rover and drove her home.

So, I was going to have to spend a few weeks in the psych ward. It’s standard procedure. I have been through it a couple of times. After a few weeks they would give me a certificate certifying me sane, and I would hang it on my wall with the others, apart from the one I keep in my wallet. I make a point of showing it to people when they call me crazy.

Welcome to the fretful nights, and the gnawing questions.

«fragilità d’un paese dove le due grandi parti sociali, gli imprenditori e i salariati dell’industria, non considerano lo Stato come cosa propria, ma come cosa estranea, dispensatore di servizi, di favori o di “stangate” … Gli imprenditori italiani non hanno mai considerato lo Stato come un’organizzazione sociale di cui essi fossero direttamente responsabili, sia pure assieme agli altri gruppi sociali che compongono la comunità».

While waiting for Carl Vespa to arrive, Grace started picking up the bedroom. Jack, she knew, was a great husband and father. He was smart, funny, loving, caring, and devoted. To counter that, God had blessed him with the organization skills of a citrus beverage. He was, in sum, a slob. Nagging him about it—and Grace had tried—did no good. So she stopped. If living happily was about compromise, this seemed to her like a pretty good one to make. Grace

Adam había sacado la conclusión que, de todas las industrias del país, la reparación de vespas era la que representaba una mayor sobredemanda respecto a la oferta. En teoría, a quien se dispusiese a satisfacer esa demanda le esperaba una fortuna; pero en el fondo de su corazón Adam dudaba de que las vespas fuesen reparables, en el sentido normal del término; eran las mariposas de la carretera, organismos frágiles que tardaban mucho en ser fabricados y muy poco en morir.

Decidi, chega de dor. Aos lábios da sua felicidade noturna eu deveria colar os da minha retaliação. Eu não era o tipo de mulher que se despedaçava com os golpes do abandono e da ausência, até enlouquecer, até morrer disso. Só havia perdido algumas lascas, de resto estava bem. Eu era íntegra, e íntegra continuaria a ser. A quem me faz mal, devolvo na mesma moeda. Sou o oito de espadas, sou a vespa que pica, sou a cobra escura. Sou o animal invulnerável que atravessa o fogo sem se queimar.

As far as Serge can tell, Sophie only takes breakfast, and doesn’t even seem to eat that: each time he visits her lab over the next few days he sees sandwiches piled up virtually untouched beside glasses of lemonade that, no more than sipped at, are growing viscid bubbles on their surface like Aphrophora spumaria. Above these, on the wall, the texts, charts and diagrams are growing, spreading. Serge reads, for example, a report on the branchiae of Cercopidida, which are, apparently, “extremely tenuous, appearing like clusters of filaments forming lamellate appendages,” and scrutinises the architecture of Vespa germanica nests: their subterranean shafts and alleyways, their space-filled envelopes and alveolae … Bizarrely, Sophie’s started interspersing among these texts and images the headlines she’s torn from each day’s newspapers. These clippings seem to be caught up in her strange associative web: they, too, have certain words and letters highlighted and joined to ones among the scientific notes that, Serge presumes, must correspond to them in some way or another. One of these reads “Serbia Unsatisfied by London Treaty”; another, “Riot at Paris Ballet.” Serge can see no logical connection between these events and Sophie’s studies; yet colours and lines connect them. Arching over all of these in giant letters, each one occupying a whole sheet of paper, crayon-shaded and conjoined by lines that run over the wall itself to other terms and letter-sequences among the sprawling mesh, is the word Hymenoptera. “Hymenoptera?” Serge reads. “What’s that? It sounds quite rude.” “Sting in the tail,” she answers somewhat cryptically. “The groups contain the common ancestor, but not all the descendants. Paraphyletic: it’s all connected.” She stares at her expanded chart for a long while, lost in its vectors and relays—then, registering his continued presence with a slight twitch of her head, tells him to leave once more.

Mes juk visi užaugom šaly, kur vabščie nieka gera nebuva, jau nekalbant, ka būtų kas originalaus. Pobeda nuo amerikonų. Volga nuknista nuo amerikonų. Žiags nuo italų. Apie maskaradą su Zapu vien pagalvojus silpna, be i tie lygtais irgi nuo tų pačių italų - i nuo kada italai geriausias mašinas dara? Senis Šaltis nuo Santa Klaua nuimts. Nu, pogodi, geriausias multiks, nuo Toma i Džeria. Čipolins čia virta Buratinu, o daktars Dolitlis - daktaru Aibolitu. O jūs bandien palygint motorolerius Vitka i Vespa ? Atskiriat? Aš tai ne. Nu tai va. Jaučiu, net Sibira lageriai nuo Hitlerio nuimti.

a

Wow,” I breathe as we walk along the road past the parked cars, and come to an arched gate set in a low wall, a drive slanting steeply downhill through the archway. A few Vespa scooters are leaning against the wall, by the gateposts, and at the bottom of the drive is a small house, all its windows blazing with light, music pouring out into the dark velvety night air. It’s like something out of a fairy tale. A modern fairy tale, where Hansel and Gretel don’t get put into a witch’s oven, but dance all night under the stars. And maybe there’ll be a prince to make the fairy take complete, I can’t help thinking, before I firmly forbid myself from speculating about whether Luca will be here.

So I smile as best I can, saunter over to the Vespa, take the helmet, and say casually as I put it on: “Grazie! I’ve never been on one of these before.” Luca promptly paralyzes me by leaning down, pulling the helmet strap tight, and fastening the buckle under my chin. His aftershave smells like seawater, cool aquamarine, fresh and light; his breath on my face is warm and touched lightly with wine. “Ecco,” he says softly. His fingertips touch my skin. “It must be tight.” He wheels away from me and swings one long leg over the seat, putting the key in the ignition. Over his shoulder he says: “You must hold on to my waist. And when I lean, you must lean with me. Okay?” He’s waiting for me to get on. I mustn’t hesitate, or I’ll look as if I’m scared; I hike my skirt up and climb onto the back. The little scooter’s revving up, rattling noisily and cheerfully, like the cat purring on the wall; Luca looks back and says, “Aspetta.” Quickly, he shrugs off his jacket and hands it to me. It’s leather, butter-soft, like fabric in my hands. “Put it on. It is not cold, but there is wind when we drive,” he says. I slip it on, my head spinning. The collar smells of him, as if he’s wrapped around me. And then, in turn, I wrap my arms around his narrow waist, I feel his warm skin beneath the light cotton of his shirt. He’s just lean muscle over bone, almost skinny, but as the scooter kicks into motion, I can instantly tell how strong he is, because he controls it with small, seemingly effortless flexes of his muscles. His shoulders bunch lightly, taking the strain of bouncing an old Vespa with two people on it over a road that suddenly feels much more rutted and potholed when you’re not traveling in a jeep with good suspension.

You know what ‘vespa’ means?” I shake my head, my mouth suddenly dry, because he’s taken a step toward me, and his legs are so long that one step means he’s already standing in front of me, close enough to touch. “It means ‘wasp,’” he says softly. “Because it makes a sound like a wasp. How do you say that?” “Buzzing,” I manage. “It buzzes.” “Buzzes,” Luca says, and his accent makes the word sound so funny that I can’t help laughing. “You laugh at me?” he asks, and though he’s put on a serious voice, as if he’s annoyed, somehow I know he isn’t. “Girls never laugh at me. You are the only one.” “Well, maybe they should,” I say without thinking. “No,” he says firmly. “Only you can laugh at me.

Andrea’s really good-looking,” I say to Kendra in a low voice when I hear the Vespa and the jeep start up. “Whatever.” She shrugs. “The weird thing? I love to, you know, hook a boy on the line, but when I do? I don’t care about ’em anymore. I’m funny that way.

My eyes are sort of greenish,” I say through a nervous laugh. “Am I that scary?” He looks at me and we both slow to a stop. A Vespa shoots past, swirling our hair in the wind. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, so I don’t either. I get the impression he’s trying to subliminally relay his answer to me. That I’m supposed to know what he’s thinking. I don’t. Suddenly he brushes my hair off my shoulder before continuing up the street. “I mostly grew up in New Mexico,” he says. “Arizona and Nevada too, with brief stints in Italy, Ireland, and a few countries in South America. Now we’re in Texas.” “Oh.” That sounds very, very, very far away from home. “My parents both work at Texas A&M. So that’s where Tate and Nina go, and where I’ll start in the fall.” “And you’re studying the same thing, following in their footsteps,” I say. “Do you want to be a professor too?” He shrugs. “Maybe one day. I’d like to travel more first though, work on dig sites in places like Greece or Central America. Ancient civilizations are buried everywhere. It’s, like, no matter where you walk, you never know what could be under your feet. I want a job that lets me see all the things I want to see before I get stuck behind a desk.” “I know what you mean. I can’t wait to see the world and document it, photojournalist style.” An image of the two of us traveling together pops into my mind: him digging up the world and me taking pictures of it. I squash those butterflies too.

I pull lightly on its soft silky ears, smooth down its thick fur, and distract myself so thoroughly that it’s only after quite a while that I sense eyes on me and look around to see that everyone has fallen silent and is staring at me. “Allora?” Luca says, a mocking edge to his voice. “Vieni con me, Violetta?” That can’t mean what I think it means. My heart catches in my throat. The cat, realizing that I’ve been distracted, jumps down from the wall, landing with an audible thud, and pads off through the gate to chase food for its dinner. Poor field mice, I think ruefully. Between the owl and the cat, they’ll have a miserable night of it. Then I look at Luca, and have the horrible suspicion that I’m a mouse and he’s the cat, playing with me, letting me run away and then reeling me back in. His eyebrows are raised, his mouth quirked in an amused smile of inquiry. “Sorry,” I say, not to him but to Kelly and Kendra. “I missed all of that.” “Luca’s going to take you back to the villa,” Kendra says briskly. “’Cause we can’t all get in the jeep.” I panic. Stone-cold panic, bringing out sweat on my palms. I can’t be alone with him. This isn’t fair. “Kelly’s coming with us too, right?” I say overloudly. “It’ll be nicer than sitting under Paige’s feet.” Luca nods his head sideways, and for a moment I don’t get why. Then I do, and I can’t breathe. He’s indicating the line of Vespas parked by the gatepost. He didn’t come in his car. He came on a Vespa. I’m going to ride back home on his scooter. This is not happening.

So tell me about yourself,” I say, mentally rolling my eyes for sounding like an interviewer. “Where’d you grow up? What’s your favorite color? Biggest fear? All the basics.” He laughs, kicking at a cluster of broken flower petals on the ground. “I’d hardly put my biggest fear in the basics category.” “You know what I mean. I feel like I don’t know that much about you, in the broad scheme of things.” “Well, in the broad scheme,” he begins, “I grew up all over the world, my favorite color changes every day, and I’m terrified of green eyes.” I raise my brows and imagine my eyes shooting him with green laser beams. “That’s--” I stop myself from saying weird. “Why?” “It’s just this feeling I have.” “My eyes are sort of greenish,” I say through a nervous laugh. “Am I that scary?” He looks at me and we both slow to a stop. A Vespa shoots past, swirling our hair in the wind. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, so I don’t either. I get the impression he’s trying to subliminally relay his answer to me. That I’m supposed to know what he’s thinking. I don’t.

I draw in a long breath, and then it catches in my throat as his hand closes over mine, still wrapped around his waist. “Siamo arrivati,” he says gently. I have to get off first, I realize. And I’m embarrassed that it takes me a while to unwind my arms. Luca starts to turn and I realize with horror that my skirt is practically up around my waist: this galvanizes me and I jump off so fast I nearly fall over, dragging down my skirt so he can’t see my thighs. I’m wobbling, shaken up by the ride, and I hear him huff a little laugh of amusement as he swings his leg over to sit on the seat facing me, unbuckling his helmet. “You like to ride on a Vespa?” I take my helmet off and hand it back to him. “Well, it’s bumpy,” I say. I can’t really see his face, it’s so dark out here. There are a couple of lights on the villa walls, one over the main door, but that’s higher up; the parking lot is around the side, barely illuminated. He stands up, towering over me, and puts the helmets down on the seat. “And loud,” he says. “You know what ‘vespa’ means?” I shake my head, my mouth suddenly dry, because he’s taken a step toward me, and his legs are so long that one step means he’s already standing in front of me, close enough to touch. “It means ‘wasp,’” he says softly. “Because it makes a sound like a wasp. How do you say that?” “Buzzing,” I manage. “It buzzes.” “Buzzes,” Luca says, and his accent makes the word sound so funny that I can’t help laughing. “You laugh at me?” he asks, and though he’s put on a serious voice, as if he’s annoyed, somehow I know he isn’t. “Girls never laugh at me. You are the only one.” “Well, maybe they should,” I say without thinking. “No,” he says firmly. “Only you can laugh at me.

«Zero, cosa ci hai messo in quel drum?». «Chiediti piuttosto cosa Scatto ti abbia messo nel bicchiere.» La risata sguaiata del Di Vespa senior si dissipò, perdendosi nella musica.

Come si è detto, a Napoli la camorra, per incarico di Liborio Romano, garantì il passaggio del potere a Garibaldi senza spargimenti di sangue e, in segno di riconoscenza, il governo nazionale la inglobò nelle forze di polizia. Un sentiero parallelo fu percorso dalla mafia in Sicilia: non un semplice gruppo criminale, ma un potentissimo virus sociale riprodottosi nei decenni. Basti dire che ancora nel 1963 il 92,7 per cento degli 8887 dipendenti della regione siciliana era stato assunto senza concorso e proveniva in gran parte da una provincia ad alta densità mafiosa.

When people talk about the Cairo of the past he can never truly believe the picture they paint. Cairo University was all miniskirts and Vespas and cycling down clean, wide streets in black-and-white movies.

perché solo quando ti siedi, ti fermi e osservi può nascere la creatività»,

Sab kuch milega

The fact that French toys literally prefigure the world of adult functions obviously cannot but prepare the child to accept them all, by constituting for him, even before he can think about it, the alibi of a Nature which has at all times created soldiers, postmen and Vespas. Toys here reveal the list of all the things the adult does not find unusual: war, bureaucracy, ugliness, Martians, etc. It is not so much, in fact, the imitation which is the sign of an abdication, as its literalness: French toys are like a Jivaro head, in which one recognizes, shrunken to the size of an apple, the wrinkles and hair of an adult. There exist, for instance, dolls which urinate; they have an oesophagus, one gives them a bottle, they wet their nappies; soon, no doubt, milk will turn to water in their stomachs. This is meant to prepare the little girl for the causality of house-keeping, to 'condition' her to her future role as mother. However, faced with this world of faithful and complicated objects, the child can only identify himself as owner, as user, never as creator; he does not invent the world, he uses it: there are, prepared for him, actions without adventure, without wonder, without joy. He is turned into a little stay-at-home householder who does not even have to invent the mainsprings of adult causality; they are supplied to him readymade: he has only to help himself, he is never allowed to discover anything from start to finish.

Ela é como um enxame de vespas furiosas.

What you have far outweighs what you don't. Focus on that and the rest takes care of itself.

I’m Vespa Desperate.  It’s a medical syndrome, you know.  I see Vespas and I want to chase them down the street like a rabid terrier.

Meu estandarte estava atrás de mim, e atrairia homens ambiciosos. Eles queriam minha caveira como uma taça para beber, meu nome como troféu. Olhavam-me enquanto eu os olhava, e viam não um homem coberto de lama, mas sim um senhor de guerra com um elmo que tinha um lobo na crista, braceletes de ouro, malha de elos apertados e um manto azul-escuro com bainha de fios dourados e uma espada famosa por toda a Britânia. Bafo de Serpente era famosa, mas mesmo assim eu voltei a embainhá-la, porque uma espada longa não ajuda no abraço da parede de escudos. Em vez disso peguei Ferrão de Vespa, curta e mortal. Beijei sua lâmina e em seguida gritei meu desafio ao vento de inverno. – Venham me matar! Venham me matar! E eles vieram.

Vespa stepped in without saying hello. He still looked natty, still wearing a blazer that seemed to have been tailored by the gods, but the rest of him looked strangely unruly. His hair was always unkempt—that was his look—but there is a fine line between unkempt and not touched at all. It had crossed that line. His eyes were red. The lines around his mouth were deeper, more pronounced.

What?” the Director snapped. “Am I telling stories out of school? Was it a secret that I preside over a large sweaty pile of people in a useless fake profession who somehow didn’t have the mental fortitude to play pretend in return for paychecks all day? While I, Chief Asswiper to the Thought-Leader Elite, have to pay for three evil children, two shitty houses, and one supposed woman who stopped fucking me five years before she threw me out, literally, onto the street, where I was hit by some fat neckbeard on a Vespa so now in addition to all of the above I have to pay for five stupidly costly medications prescribed just to stop me from shrieking like a stuck pig all fucking day. And your issue is what? That I am revealing to people who piss their pants if they see a TV remote that they are in fact so damaged that they piss their pants if they see a TV remote? Eat shit and die.

Despite this book, white people will still be able to enjoy Vespa scooters without comment and properly conjugate words without anyone being surprised.

Because he was leaving Liberia, Chris had tried selling his Italian made, Vespa motor-scooter. It had seen a lot of use and I know that he didn’t buy it new, but it ran and was transportation for him. ‘I’ll give you fifty for it.” I said. “The hell you will,” was his curt reply, “One hundred and fifty makes it yours.” “Don't make me laugh; it's not worth the fifty I'm offering.” I could see his face turn beet-red knowing that I had him over a barrel. “Tell you what Chris, let's cut it in half and depart friends.” I offered. I don’t think he could believe his good luck, as he was quick to accept. “Done,” he said “but you pay the taxes and license!” Of course I knew that these charges were mine but I pretended to groan anyway. With the deal done I was now the proud owner of the motor scooter. Right after the license was transferred, I rode it into a backyard body shop and had it cleaned up and painted bright red. No longer would I have to depend on a taxi or others for transportation. I was free to zip here and there at will. From now on it was the first thing off and the last thing onto the ship. I had Bo-Bo Ben, the ship’s carpenter, make a cradle to secure it and had brackets welded to the main deck behind the house, to lash it down. It still left enough elbow-room for the crew to fish off the stern.

The muezzin’s call to prayer punctuated the days, weddings and funerals followed the faith’s prescribed rituals, activities slowed down during fasting months, and pork might be hard to find on a restaurant’s menu. Otherwise, people lived their lives, with women riding Vespas in short skirts and high heels on their way to office jobs, boys and girls chasing kites, and long-haired youths dancing to the Beatles and the Jackson 5 at the local disco. Muslims were largely indistinguishable from the Christians, Hindus, or college-educated nonbelievers, like my stepfather, as they crammed onto Jakarta’s overcrowded buses, filled theater seats at the latest kung-fu movie, smoked outside roadside taverns, or strolled down the cacophonous streets. The overtly pious were scarce in those days, if not the object of derision then at least set apart, like Jehovah’s Witnesses handing out pamphlets in a Chicago neighborhood.

VESPA SIDECAR IDEAS, LATEST MODELS, AND PRICES With so many automotive ideas, concepts, and brand new models, the Vespa community now has grown, and with so many amazing novel ideas for the Vespa sidecar. Sidecar has been around since World War II and has becoming hobbies, idea, and concept for many automotive lovers. Getting to Sidecar for your Vespa might not be the easiest and cheapest way, but it sure is worth it if you love it. If you want to know more about the latest novel ideas for scooter sidecars, the latest models for Vespa, Vespa upgrade ideas, and local prices for monkey sidecars, then you have come to the right place. For now, find out more about the amazing Vespa and scooters sidecar ideas here. First of all, do you know about the sidecar? Well, the sidecar is an open seating cabin, attached to the motorcycle (preferably scooters or Vespa) side, making the motorcycle three-wheelers, and able to carry another passenger on the sidecar seats. Back then, during wartimes, a sidecar was introduced as extra cargo space for a motorcycle to carry ammunition, supplies, or man in the sidecar of a motorcycle. Nowadays, it becomes a stylish upgrade to the all-time classic motorcycle, Vespa, and scooters. How to Buy, And Install Vespa Sidecar in Your Country? Do you want to buy and install a sidecar for your Vespa? Well then, there are many ways, and means to get the sidecar. You can buy the official sidecar from dealers, from Vespa, or scooters or you can try your luck on customized, homemade sidecar from many auto dealers, and sidecar manufacturers. For example, if you want to get a sidecar for your Vespa scooter, you can buy it from the official dealers of Vespa. Vespa provides the customized, official sidecar that can be attached to the Vespa motorcycle. Depending on the types, and products of the Vespa, from the LX Vespa, S Vespa, 946 Vespa, to the special edition Vespa, the newer types will vary and be different from other older Vespa types. However, you can also try to order a sidecar for your Vespa scooters from homemade manufacturers. You can contact many homemade manufacturers near you. There are a lot of specifications, and different types of the sidecar, with armaments and accessories from armrest, lamp, and windshield. Homemade manufacturers of Sidecar would charge different prices, depending on the modified version of the Vespa sidecar you have. If you have questions regarding the homemade manufacturers of Sidecar, then you might need to reach out to the Vespa community in your city, lot of Vespa community loves to share ideas, and modified Vespa manufacturers. Frequently Asked Questions about The Modified Sidecar for Vespa Do you have any questions about the sidecar Vespa? Like how to get one for your Vespa, is it legal to get modified Vespa in your countries, is it safe to drive with a sidecar, etc. Here are the FAQs to help you figure out about the Sidecar Vespa. • Is it legal to get a sidecar for your Vespa? – In most countries, the sidecar is perfectly legal. In Europe, Asia, and America, most of the time government has already regulated the sidecar regulations, from maximum weight, where it should be attached, and many more. • Is it safe to drive with a sidecar? – Yes it is safe to drive with a sidecar. However, you need to mind where you attach your sidecar, on the left or right, and depending on your country, you need to adjust how you drive on the side of the road. • How to get a sidecar for your motorbike? – You can get a Vespa sidecar from official dealers for Vespa, and get many modifications, or you can also use homemade modifications for the Vespa.

I have no fantasies of forever. I cannot imagine us growing old together. We’re only here for the moment. This is my first and most delicate love. I drink in every painful minute.

I can’t leave the house because they’re filming that movie about us outside. Our teenage selves have walked past all day, going home from school in take after take after take, because you keep fudging your dialogue.

There’s a fog in my brain, where the thoughts and memories should be.

I think about all the things he did to me as a kid, and how he doesn’t even like me now. Believe me, I’ve thought about pushing him in front of a bus a few times, sure. But this is about more than us. I think we have to warn him… But it’s not because we love him and don’t want him to die.

One was a redhead and was hanging off Blake. She tried to kiss him at the restaurant where we were eating. Blake laughed and declined, telling her she was too drunk. She put her hand down his pants, and he had a situation to deal with.

Luca straddled the Vespa like it was a wild horse he had to tame.

Several more novel terms for the pharaonic state came into play during the times of the re-founded kingdom. ‘Sema Towy’, for example – ‘the joiner of the two lands’ – along with the phrase that is commonly translated in the Champollionesque tradition as ‘King of Upper and Lower Egypt’ – king of the valley and the delta – or, more literally, reflecting the images of its elegant hieroglyphs, as ‘king of the lands of the sedge and the bee’. This poetic visual opposition of a green reed – juncus maritimus – with a hard dry black and yellow insect – vespa orientalis – defines the two regions of the kingdom by opposing the rushy flatlands of the delta with the thin strip of the river’s black silty valley set within the yellow desert. And here, once more, the ancient scribes are describing the physical characteristics of the region of the lower Nile as dualities, just as the valley landscape of the homeland of the new kings was itself a landscape of dualities.

If Italian engineers have understood anything,” she told me once, “it’s the significance and construction of the horn. Because the horn is the voice and the heart and soul of any vehicle. The vehicle wants to cut a good figure, wants to sound good without being intrusive or making anyone look foolish. A German horn, by contrast, is always a declaration of war—it suggests that invading troops are already massing on the frontier, so to speak. An Italian horn sounds like a friendly clearing of the throat, a gentle ‘Permesso?’ or ‘Oh, signore, would you mind waiting? I’m afraid I have the right of way, grazie, molto gentile.’ With an Italian horn you can compliment a traffic cop on his beautiful eyes. You can even—don’t laugh!—make a proposal of marriage with an Italian horn. And the loveliest horn in the world is still the Vespa’s, which defies comparison.

Primarily, our action is to engage people and use the culture rather than to engage the culture and use the people. Christ lived in the culture. He did not isolate himself from sinners, regardless of how the religious leaders felt about it. He ate with a tax collector, touched a leper, forgave an adulterous woman, and spoke to a woman at a well. At the same time, Jesus did not allow the surrounding culture to change him. He used everyday objects to teach spiritual lessons, but on more than one occasion, he told sinners to sin no more. He was gracious and just—a combination that we should strive to achieve rather than settling for one swing of the pendulum or the other.

Later, when I walked Littleberry out to his Vespa, he asked if he could kiss me. 'Well, yeah,' I said, my heart thumping. Finally. 'I'm a really good kisser,' he added, as if I still needed him to talk me into it.

You’re right about something, Louis. You don’t understand how hard I’ve worked to get here, because you don’t care about anything. I’m done throwing my future away for someone who thinks this is just a game.” Louis swallows. For a moment, I’m certain that he’s about to yell at me just like I did at him. Instead, he just looks on bitterly, shakes his head, and walks away. A moment later he straddles his Vespa, snaps his helmet shut, and drives off without looking back. That night, to keep my mind busy, I decide to break in yet another new pair of pointe shoes. It feels good to bend the wooden shank relentlessly. I bang the toe box against the floor repeatedly, probably harder than I need to. After I burn the ends of the ribbon and sew on the elastic just the way I like, I put them in my dance

You’re right about something, Louis. You don’t understand how hard I’ve worked to get here, because you don’t care about anything. I’m done throwing my future away for someone who thinks this is just a game.” Louis swallows. For a moment, I’m certain that he’s about to yell at me just like I did at him. Instead, he just looks on bitterly, shakes his head, and walks away. A moment later he straddles his Vespa, snaps his helmet shut, and drives off without looking back. That night, to keep my mind busy, I decide to break in yet another new pair of pointe shoes. It feels good to bend the wooden shank relentlessly. I bang the toe box against the floor repeatedly, probably harder than I need to. After I burn the ends of the ribbon and sew on the elastic just the way I like, I put them in my dance bag, satisfied. Now I’m ready for my next rehearsals. There, at the bottom of my bag, are the pictures of Élise Mercier, my ancestor. I sit on my bed, and, as I stare at them, it dawns on me that Louis isn’t the only mistake I’ve made since I arrived in Paris. Something else knocked me off my path: I let this family legend get to me. I somehow believed that my future was out of my hands, that it had been decided for me centuries ago. But Mom was right: it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. Whether Élise Mercier was painted by Degas, or whether she was even an important ballet dancer in her time, my past does not define me. Only I can shape who I’m going to become, by doing exactly what I had been doing until now: working hard, keeping my focus solely on what I really want, and then working harder. I place the pictures at the bottom of the drawer in my nightstand and turn off the light. From now on, and until the moment I’m on a plane heading back home, I will think of nothing else but ballet.

I only did it because Mum insisted that we all get a degree, and History of Art seemed liked the easiest,” said Effra. “And you did a year in Italy.” “Meet any nice Italian rivers?” I asked. “No,” said Effra with a sly smile. “But down south on the coast every other beach and inlet has a spirit sitting on a Vespa with a body like Adonis and a voice like the way you’d expect Robert De Niro to speak Italian, if he weren’t from New York. The Church never gets all the way to the toe of the boot, Cristo si è fermato a Eboli and all that jazz.” It was notable that Effra’s accent was shifting up and down the class scale at more or less random intervals.

when said boyfriend wasn’t being a jerk about my driving skills. “It’s a Vespa. How hard can it be?” I planted my hands on my hips and leveled Christian with an insulted glare. “I’m not saying it’s hard. I’m saying there are a lot of pedestrians you can run over in the city.” His mouth twitched at my gasp. “I am not going to run over anyone. I have zero vehicular deaths on my watch, thank you very much.” “What about near deaths?” I didn’t dignify that with a response.

De vez en cuando el sueño se repite. Giulia ya no tiene nueve años. La Vespa de su padre no volverá, pero ahora sabe que el futuro está hecho de promesas”.