driving in Italy Archives

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November 14, 2021 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

An accident

Friends of ours have a daughter who is a fairly new driver. She borrowed her parents’ car to drive a friend to the train station. A series of things made the drive to the station tense—they were running late, her friend had to make this particular train, and the car was almost out of gas. They arrived at the station with minutes to spare. The station had been newly renovated and she wasn’t sure where to go and pulled into the old passenger drop-off and said goodbye to her friend, tired and stressed. She got back into the car and as she tried to drive away there was a problem: a car was parked in the very small roundabout in front of the station with no driver in sight. A line of cars behind her was growing, as was her uncertainty about how to handle the situation.

She waited for a minute and no driver appeared, so she decided to edge past. She hit the inner side of the roundabout, hard enough to put dents in the car, bend the traffic sign, and lodge the car on the curb.

At this point the owner of the parked car reappears. He’s in his early 60s and with a younger woman. They head for their car to drive away. A person in the car behind gets out to shout that she needs to stop them and get their information. She calls her mother, who in the quick exchange assumes that her daughter had hit the other car, rather than the center post, also says that she should get the information of the driver in the other car. She approaches the two in the car she had needed to get around, who refuse to give her their information, as they had done nothing legally wrong.

She’s desperate. She’s wrecked her parents’ car, there’s a line of people shouting at her what to do, the people in the other car are refusing to give her the information she thinks she needs, so she physically stands in the way of the other driver’s door, blocking him from closing it.

Then things go really wrong. He grabs her to get her away from his door. She feels under attack and scratches his face. She calls her parents to tell them what has just happened. And that the police had been called and were arriving at the scene. Our friends say that they will be there as soon as possible.

When the parents arrived at the scene there were around ten police officers there and several police cars, lights flashing, and blocking the entrance to the station. They learned what had unfolded while they were driving and it was about as unexpected as possible.

They are met by a policeman who comes up with a big smile and says that he lives in their village and that his daughter had been in a local advertising video with their son several years ago when they were both kids. He had just had a long talk with their daughter that she needs to learn to approach life con calma. Their daughter is standing next to the woman, who turns out to the the daughter of the man who was scratched. Our friends’ daughter had been sobbing uncontrollably about what she had done and this woman had held her for five minutes while she cried. Their daughter had immediately recognized that she had gone too far in her anger and fear and kept going to the older man asking if there was anything she could do, each time crying harder as she saw the bleeding scratches. The man and his daughter were consoling her, saying that she could have been a member of their family, mistakes happen, and that we all react emotionally sometimes. The man’s daughter confesses that when she was the same age she actually hit an old man with her car, and that the scratches don’t really matter as her dad was already old and ugly. He agrees, and laughs. Our friend’s daughter learns that the man had double parked in order to come into the station and help his daughter with a heavy suitcase. Our friends tell us that this results in a fresh round of crying.

The officer who had had a long talk with her tells her that she needs to learn to expect that everyone is good and to always look for that. Another officer is preparing a police report and takes their daughter’s statement. Although she doesn’t say anything about the other factors that contributed to the situation the officer puts in the report that the girl was upset because she’d wrecked her parents’ car; the crowd, and her mother’s erroneous advice, had added to her reaction; and that she was a young driver and this was her first accident. The officer doesn’t mention the scratches, only that she defended herself with her hands. The officer remarked that she’s never seen such identical statements as of the girl and the older man. Three different officers apologized to the family and the girl that they need to issue a ticket for entering into the wrong place in the newly rerouted station layout, as well as for damaging the sign.

All begin to disperse and the man, and his daughter, come up to the parents and their daughter. There are warm wishes, forgiveness, humor, and graciousness.

Our friends’ daughter told her parents that this was one of the biggest lessons she’s ever had—that things like a double-parked car might not be a selfish thing but a father helping his daughter with a heavy bag; that is it possible to find the common humanity even after crossing into a dark abyss of rage; and that people can accept mistakes and move on; and, mostly, that people are almost always good. Also that sometimes you need to give yourself a time out before responding. Not bad lessons for a Friday night.

June 19, 2019 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

A line of Indians

(Part of a series on driving in Italy.)

When you are with a group of Italians who suggest all following one another to a restaurant, at a location about an hour away, in seven separate cars, and they aren’t sure exactly the name or location of the destination so can’t provide it for your GPS, but aren’t worried as you will all follow each other in a fila Indiana, just say no. Make up any excuse. Trust me.

This just happened to Donella and I leaving a horse show about two hours south of us. A big celebratory dinner was in order for the group, and we were off. Donella informed all of them that she’d just gotten her license and that she didn’t want to go too fast, and all agreed.

Here’s what happened. They were all perfectly well-intentioned to be easy to follow and not to lose the rest of us in line. (Of particular importance to me, as the last car.) But then then divided freeway opened up in front of the first car after the small rural roads. And the lead car saw the second car following him closely and did what any Italian’s instinct is to do. Speed up. This whole thing magnified kilometer after kilometer for our 70-kilometer jaunt. Although this was not a particularly great road—certainly no autostrada—we were all following each other at speeds up to 160 kilometers per hour (99 miles per hour) on a road where the maximum speed is 110. I was white knuckling the whole thing as our little train of cars passes car after car. We even passed an Audi. (If you remember from a previous post Audis are usually always the rude car behind you trying desperately to pass.)

Donella was in front of me, driving our old car which starts shaking madly at more than 130. (The other cars in our group included a Porsche and a Mercedes.) I didn’t want to call her to tell her to forget the whole thing because I didn’t want to take my attention off the road for a second, nor hers. I’m terrified, angry, and amused, and don’t have the language or cultural chops to take this on. I wonder what a real parent (not someone who merely pretends to be one) would do in this odd situation. The obvious thought to overtake her and then slow down—a lot—did not occur to me. I reflected that I probably wouldn’t be having this problem with a group of Americans taking a bunch of kids to dinner after an athletic event.

We reached a section of road work where we all merged into one slow lane and after that things got better. Turns out Donella had called the lead car when we were all going slowly and told them off.

When we arrived at the restaurant Donella and I were shaking. I sat next to the lead car driver, who I don’t know well, and felt struck dumb to address what I was feeling. When I calmed down a bit I asked him what happened, and he said that he saw the second car following him closely and thought that they wanted him to go faster, which he did. I guess there was some part of the concept that the car was supposed to be following that was momentarily lost. For 70 kilometers.

So, just say no.

May 12, 2019 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

Passing as Italian

(Part 3 of a series on driving in Italy. Photo is out our back window one day when we found ourselves in the middle of the famed Miglia Mille rally on our way to lunch. Full disclosure, both cars did pass us.)

One of the most important things to master to drive well in Italy is the art of passing. The first thing to know is that Italians drive when they drive. There is no drifting along in your lane, thinking of what really should have been said in that meeting, or what to make for dinner. (This generality does not apply if the driver is in an older white or green Fiat Panda. That self-identified group has their own distinct norms and behaviors—the subject of a future Itch.)

The norms of passing are most evident on the autostrada. Rule number one is that you never drive drifting along in the left lane—which is used only for passing. You wait your turn in the right lane behind the car or truck you want to pass, looking in your side mirror while cars blast past, then pull out, pass, and quickly reenter the right lane before another car comes up on your rear madly flashing its lights for you to get out of the way. And know that if you are not regularly being trailed by an irate driver in an Audi flashing lights then you are going far too fast.

Passing on local roads is not an occasional thing but something you do constantly, which I guess has to do with the wider variety of vehicles on the road than what I was used to in America. We contend with the full range of under-powered scooters, three-wheeled vehicles called apes (pronounced “au pey” which in Italian means “bee” — not to be confused with the Vespa, or “wasp”). Then there are the tractors, trucks, and previously mentioned white or green Fiat Pandas. All require passing.

The rules for passing are well-documented and necessary to master in driving school, but nearly nonexistent in practice. It’s up to everyone’s definition of common sense—like parking. Friends who were staying with us were marveling at having been passed on a striped-off section of road leading up to a tunnel. I knew exactly where they meant, having become Italian-enough by now to pretty frequently use this particular patch of road—just wide and long enough—to pass somebody before reaching the tunnel.

In general all of this passing works out well, with a great deal of common sense and politeness, as least in our area of Italy. But one time I was passed I got so angry that I actually followed the offending van to have a word with the driver. I had been waiting in the left turn lane at a light, the light changed and I started to move forward, when suddenly this white van behind me pulls out into the oncoming lane, passing me to the left of my left turn lane, to make the same left turn. This could have resulted in a head-on collision with oncoming traffic. I followed the van to the local hospital where he stopped and much to my delight there were two policemen in the parking lot. With Donella’s help, and full of fury and indignation, I spewed my tale of catching this rogue in an act of very, very unsafe driving and demanded that they ticket him, or at least yell loudly. The police officer glances up the hill to where the white van is now parked near a small door going into the hospital and says that he understands my frustration but isn’t going to speak with the driver. “He’s picking up a body at the morgue. A difficult job. Sometimes things in life that are hard make you drive badly.” I kinda got his point.

A small detail from driving school rules I found interesting. The person being passed is equally responsible for the safety of the event as the person doing the passing. I don’t remember a similar law in America. It seems a bit unjust, but also oddly mature and pragmatic. An odd reminder that I have more responsibility for the events in life than is sometimes fair or comfortable. But true nevertheless.

March 31, 2019 In Best Of, Live, Roam By Nancy

Satan in a box: the autovelox

Continuing the series on what you need to know about driving in Italy…

You are driving along on a freeway. All the cars around you are comfortably ignoring the speed limit, treating it as a mere suggestion, then suddenly all the cars break dramatically to slow to exactly the speed limit for about 500 meters, then continue along their merry way. Why? Most likely you are in the presence of the dread autovelox. These camera boxes along the side of the road capture your speed and if you are going too fast a speeding ticket appears in the mail about a month later. The ticket gets more expensive the more you exceed the limit, but they’ll get you for even small transgressions. We recently got one for going only 4 k.p.h. faster than the limit.

The tricky part is that not all of them are operational, which is why it’s important to pay attention to how seriously the other drivers around you are taking the speed limit. In the province of Arezzo many of of the boxes do not function and I love the reason why. Arezzo was a very wealthy and powerful Italian city with several politicians who were some of the most connected and influential in government. It’s not an accident that the autostrada and the main train line between Florence and Rome take quite a detour to stop at Arezzo.

According to local lore one of the mega powerful and connected politicians was caught speeding by an autovelox and received a speeding ticket. He was furious. So furious that he mysteriously was able to get the vast majority of the boxes in the province turned off.

The good news for drivers is that there is always a sign warning you of an autovelox ahead of the actual box, but reading it assumes that you are actually paying attention to the constant chatter of signs that are a part of any road journey in Italy. To avoid a surprise ticket always assume they are active, especially outside the province of Arezzo.

March 17, 2019 In Best Of, Live, Roam By Nancy

The visual delight of Italian road signs

(Part I of a series on Driving in Italy.)

The architecture, the design, the paintings, the love of pageant and opera—few other cultures are as visually-obsessed as the Italians. This visual exuberance even extends to Italian road signs. There are literally hundreds of different types of signs that warn, chide, and advise about almost any situation you could imagine yourself encountering on the road when driving in Italy.

Italian road signs almost always come in groups and tell little short stories about a section of road through their hieroglyphic language. Sometimes it feels like there’s an Italian grandmother sitting in the passenger seat, delivering a monologue while I am driving. “Watch out, sometimes there are deer and boar on this road. Why Giuseppe hit a deer 15 years ago! And even though it is July, it can freeze and be slippery around this curve in the winter! And your tires could pick up gravel and possibly hit someone walking by the road. SLOW DOWN big curve coming! Did I mention that when it rains a lot it can flood here? WATCH OUT—soft shoulder!” And all this can be delivered in about 20 feet of road signs. With more around the next bend.

When we took the very hard test to get our Italian driver licenses, and had to memorize the meanings of hundreds of signs, I was particularly amused by this sign of a car falling off a dock into the water and could hardly imagine a context when it might be necessary to use it. Then I went for the weekend to the tiny Isola del Giglio in the Tuscan archipelago and discovered why it exists in the road sign oeuvre.

More about the Italian visual nature in one of my favorite books about Italy, Tobias Jones’s The Dark Heart of Italy. There’s a fascinating chapter about the British preference for the written word and the Italian preference for visual communication, and how it plays out in the culture.

December 14, 2018 In Live By Nancy

Learn to be an Italian driver

John and I had lived in Tuscany for just over a year when we realized that our American drivers’ licenses were no longer valid in Italy. Unfortunately, we discovered the process of getting an Italian license is one of the most rigorous in the world. There are 10,000 possible questions on the exam. You get randomly assigned 40 on your test, which you have to answer in 30 minutes, and get four or less wrong to pass. And it is only in Italian.

The best way to approach this challenge is through a “scuola guida,” or local driver’s school. It is a sort of rite of passage in which sweaty teens and terrified expats are on a level playing field.

Our instructor for the written test thought it was better if John and I were taught apart from the teens, in a kind of “special” student way. We, and one other friend, arrived three times a week to a typical classroom with rows of desks and a big screen up front. A noticable difference from the usual classroom environment was the tire calendar with topless women on the wall.

Every week our instructor would run through his slides, a selection of possible test questions, and try to mime and convey in very loud and slow Italian what the question was about. John and I had been married for ages by that point, but we discovered a new aspect of our relationship—that we became cut-throat competitors when academic superiority and glory were on the line. Who first yelled out “vero” or “falso” to a question became a matter of pride.

The questions are intentionally tricky. “When you happen upon an unfortunate by the side of the road with a possible thoracic spine injury do you move them to an incline of 30-degrees?” “Does a 50cc. scooter have brake fluid?” “Is a pregnant woman required to wear a seat belt?” Sometimes I understood the question, but had no idea of the answer. Other times my language would reach its limit at an important moment: “When your car stalls within 10 meters of a train track do you cojidhfp immediately?” (Answer key: vero, vero, falso, and I still don’t know.)

The best part of this process was the relationship between the instructor and the class. It’s hard to imagine the lack of ego, endless humor, sense of equality between instructors and students, and amount of abuse that is coming your way when you enter the classroom. Our daughter, Donella, is currently taking the class and says that all of them laugh nonstop.

The class was asked: “If you happen upon an unfortunate by the side of the road, who is on fire, do you extinguish the person or wait for the fire to go out?” The instructor advised, while rubbing his hands together and with an evil grin, that actually “falso” might be the appropriate answer, because with a little olive oil, rosemary, and garlic … There’s a kid in the class who is the latest generation of a long line of morticians in our village. Unfortunately, for him, much discussion in class is about the possible dangers of driving—some possibly fatal. With great glee, the instructor always extrapolates to the worst outcome, then refers to the situation as being great for the mortician’s business.

This week one of the instructors was telling off someone in the class for an answer he thought was stupid, and kept yelling “Curse on those who teach you,”—implying himself. It reminded him of a recent trip to the post office that had amused him greatly. He was looking for parking, noticed a car leaving, and put on his turn signal to wait for the spot. The other driver seemed incapable of getting out of a parallel parking position—spending several minutes moving back and forth without making any progress. The long line of waiting drivers were getting impatient. Finally, our instructor got out, knocked on the window, which was rolled down, and he was greeted with a big smile. He told the woman how to get out of the parking spot. Turns out he’d taught her how to drive two years ago. He thought it was hilarious that she still couldn’t park.

November 22, 2018 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

I park, therefore I am

The Tuscans are astoundingly pragmatic about life and I delight in seeing how this pragmatism plays out in daily life. Take the act of parking, for instance, which seems to be elevated to a fundamental right of freedom and self-expression. If there’s a large section of pavement across from your favorite bar, which happens to be a striped traffic island, who says it can’t also be a perfectly good place to park? After all, no one is supposed to be driving there, anyway, and a traffic island is a waste of good real estate.

As an overall rule, the lines painted on the pavement of parking lots are only vague suggestions of where cars should go, or how many cars fit in the lot. Many, many more can fit in as long as there are good manners and common sense used about never blocking someone in.

There are a number of parking lots I have noticed with no exit. The only way out is to backup the length of the lot, hoping no one is coming in at the same time. This system accommodates more cars in a lot and everyone just works around the inconvenience for this reason.

This is one of my favorite parking moments, for so many reasons. It’s a car from the official driving school (the one John and I took driving lessons from, which is a whole other story…). This parking lot is full, so the driving school instructor decides to park illegally in front of the trash dumpsters. What isn’t in the photo is that there is a huge lot right next to this one that is nearly empty, but you have to pay 70 cents to park there, so clearly it’s much better to ignore the no parking zone and park in front of the dumpster.

But the real story is that all of this somehow works. The driving instructor knows when the trash truck comes by and will need access to the dumpster, and that it is fine to block it for now. The police wouldn’t ticket for the same reason—you can’t really expect someone whose office is opposite and is constantly in and out of their car to park in the pay lot.

About a month after we’d moved to our village I’d parked the car in the square overnight, as we often did. When I returned the next morning I was surprised to find that it was now the only car there, and that the weekly market had sprung up surrounding it. Even more surprising, we hadn’t been ticketed. It turned out the police knew the car of the new Americans in town and cut us some slack because we weren’t yet up to speed on the fine points of village living, like what days the main square is emptied of cars for the market.

I love all of this, and it makes me frustrated when I come back to the U.S. and the rules of parking lots feel rigid, with no opportunity for creativity, common sense, and freedom of expression. In any given parking lot there is so much wasted space because people are parking only between the lines. I see parking opportunities everywhere, just ripe for seizing, if you are willing to break the rules.