ABSTRACT
SOMETIME IN THE AUTUMN OF 2001, a few months after the Italianparliamentary elections, I found myself on a highway, stuck in traffic, about halfway between Milan and Florence. The Italian friend traveling with me groaned as we ground to a halt behind what seemed to be a never-ending line of cars. After we had inched along, a few yards at a time, for a good two hours, he turned to me. “Now,” he said, “you know why we voted for Berlusconi.”
