We rented a car in Rome, which is an experience in itself. When I initially called the company, I was told there was a rental office two blocks from where we were staying. Traveling along the street, I noticed a large gathering of adolecents and young adults in the courtyard of a church. Then without warning, a canister -of what I assumed to be tear gas from the reaction of the crowd – was fired from a police vehicle. I turned around, called the rental company and requested an alternate address. The directions furnished by the car rental company sent us to Via Marsala 29, Roma. Karen and I mapped our route and decided to walk from Via Giulia where we were staying. It was about 3 miles and there were plenty of sights along the way to distract us from the distance. A vibrant blue colored the sky set the backdrop and the temperature remained mild. After seeing the Coliseum, the Roman Forum and several churches we stopped to have lunch in a very nice trattoria on Via Cavour. Via Marsala ran parallel on the north side of the Stazionale Termini (Train Station). From mapping it on a friend’s computer the prior evening, I knew #29 was west of the station.
Crossing a major road in Rome requires a sense of adventure and nerves of steel. Cars, busses and especially Vespas seem to create a game of how close they can get to pedestrians without making contact. I have heard that many people are not that lucky, since pedestrian collisions in Rome occur daily. After many narrow misses, we reach 29 Via Marsala only to find an attractive Italian wearing an apron and standing behind a counter. I proceeded in the best Italian I knew:
“Hello, I had rented a car from this address,” I stated securely but a bit inquisitively.
“You want a beer?” she responded, obviously confusing my words.
“Sure. But I would also like to know about my car. Is it here?” The fact that I was asking a counter waitress about a rental car did not seem odd to me. I had encountered far stranger arrangements in Italy. She hands me two beers.
“I’m not sure if I understand,” she says confused.
“May I show you the paperwork?”
After perusing my paperwork, she explained that this address was no longer Via Marsala; this street had changed to the Via Volturno about 1 block back. Apologizing, I said I must have missed the sign. She assured me there was no sign and instructed me to continue back toward the train station. We walked the entire length of Via Marsala six times and saw no 29. I was tired, frustrated and confused. Finally, Karen saw a police officer and ran toward him with our paperwork.
She speaks only two words in Italian, both necessary for shopping, but her infectious smile and blonde hair go a long way in this country. The officer was somewhat confused by the address, but informed us that there were several car rental counters inside the Stazionale. In America, this would have been obvious, but seemed far too logical for Rome.
I had reserved a Smart Car. SMART® was the brainchild of Swatch® and Mercedes-Benz® to economize parking in Europe by creating a car whose length was the same as most cars width, creating the possibility of parking facing the curb. When I finally reached the car rental, a very nice woman informed me that they no longer had any SMART cars in stock; a nice German couple in front of us had decided to rent the last SMART. The nice lady at the rental agency shared my disdain for German tourists and offered me a free upgrade for my troubles. The Fiat Punto.
The Punto was the bastard child of European motors. It resembled the wicked love child of a Volkswagen Golf and an AMC Gremlin. I would have complained, but the thought of waiting for an alternative addled my brain. I turned to Karen and screamed “Ecco il Punto” – Here is the Punto. We both took a moment to sit and regain our composure, our stomachs hurting from the laughter. I had made it out of the garage screaming the catch phrase on each level.
When I went to pull out of the parking garage, a large bus appeared before me nearly removing the front bumper before ever having the chance to glance for traffic. I have driven in N.Y.C., D.C., Chicago, Philadelphia, Orlando, L.A., San Fran, Cleveland, and Newark. If you feel you could possibly compare driving in any city in this country to driving in Rome, you are tragically mistaken. The Italian driver maintains a type of genetic symbiosis between his car and the road. The volume and area of his car is ingrained in his mind and movement is not thought, it is felt. The drivers of this city traverse these streets to the syncopation of a fine aria, exhibiting a symphony of movement. Glancing over to Karen with a sly smirk of anxious anticipation I said, “Close your eyes.”
The gas pedal of the car was quickly to the floor. Although labeled a tailgater in America, in Rome my style of driving made sense to other drivers. It translated to an uncanny management of space, never occupying any more of the road than necessary. A lead foot was attached to a man who needed to reach his destination. Cutting someone off, again, fell into the category of economical movement. I was home! Glancing at the black and white photo-copied map of Rome furnished by the rental company, I realized I should have prepared my own map. I doubt if a magnifying glass would have helped, but the naked eye could recognize only two items on this map: the large circular highway that surrounds Rome and the word “ROME.”
I deftly moved about the city as if I had lived there my entire life. Throttling a button located on the gear shift assisted with tight corners. I cursed Vespa drivers that cut me off with an intimidating “Faccia dominga! ECCO IL PUNTO!” Laughing as if riding a rollercoaster, I was brought to hysterics with every “Oh God” that escaped Karen’s pursed lips. I had not had this much fun in years.
Something innate controlled my body as if I were drawing on the collective consciousness of past leaders or lost generations. These streets were being driven on recall, nearing instinct. I’m not sure how we got back to the apartment but we quickly finished packing and loaded the car to begin our tour of southern Italy, which will include il Punto on the Amalfi Drive. I question if I have ever been this aroused in my life.
Crossing a major road in Rome requires a sense of adventure and nerves of steel. Cars, busses and especially Vespas seem to create a game of how close they can get to pedestrians without making contact. I have heard that many people are not that lucky, since pedestrian collisions in Rome occur daily. After many narrow misses, we reach 29 Via Marsala only to find an attractive Italian wearing an apron and standing behind a counter. I proceeded in the best Italian I knew:
“Hello, I had rented a car from this address,” I stated securely but a bit inquisitively.
“You want a beer?” she responded, obviously confusing my words.
“Sure. But I would also like to know about my car. Is it here?” The fact that I was asking a counter waitress about a rental car did not seem odd to me. I had encountered far stranger arrangements in Italy. She hands me two beers.
“I’m not sure if I understand,” she says confused.
“May I show you the paperwork?”
After perusing my paperwork, she explained that this address was no longer Via Marsala; this street had changed to the Via Volturno about 1 block back. Apologizing, I said I must have missed the sign. She assured me there was no sign and instructed me to continue back toward the train station. We walked the entire length of Via Marsala six times and saw no 29. I was tired, frustrated and confused. Finally, Karen saw a police officer and ran toward him with our paperwork.
She speaks only two words in Italian, both necessary for shopping, but her infectious smile and blonde hair go a long way in this country. The officer was somewhat confused by the address, but informed us that there were several car rental counters inside the Stazionale. In America, this would have been obvious, but seemed far too logical for Rome.
I had reserved a Smart Car. SMART® was the brainchild of Swatch® and Mercedes-Benz® to economize parking in Europe by creating a car whose length was the same as most cars width, creating the possibility of parking facing the curb. When I finally reached the car rental, a very nice woman informed me that they no longer had any SMART cars in stock; a nice German couple in front of us had decided to rent the last SMART. The nice lady at the rental agency shared my disdain for German tourists and offered me a free upgrade for my troubles. The Fiat Punto.
The Punto was the bastard child of European motors. It resembled the wicked love child of a Volkswagen Golf and an AMC Gremlin. I would have complained, but the thought of waiting for an alternative addled my brain. I turned to Karen and screamed “Ecco il Punto” – Here is the Punto. We both took a moment to sit and regain our composure, our stomachs hurting from the laughter. I had made it out of the garage screaming the catch phrase on each level.
When I went to pull out of the parking garage, a large bus appeared before me nearly removing the front bumper before ever having the chance to glance for traffic. I have driven in N.Y.C., D.C., Chicago, Philadelphia, Orlando, L.A., San Fran, Cleveland, and Newark. If you feel you could possibly compare driving in any city in this country to driving in Rome, you are tragically mistaken. The Italian driver maintains a type of genetic symbiosis between his car and the road. The volume and area of his car is ingrained in his mind and movement is not thought, it is felt. The drivers of this city traverse these streets to the syncopation of a fine aria, exhibiting a symphony of movement. Glancing over to Karen with a sly smirk of anxious anticipation I said, “Close your eyes.”
The gas pedal of the car was quickly to the floor. Although labeled a tailgater in America, in Rome my style of driving made sense to other drivers. It translated to an uncanny management of space, never occupying any more of the road than necessary. A lead foot was attached to a man who needed to reach his destination. Cutting someone off, again, fell into the category of economical movement. I was home! Glancing at the black and white photo-copied map of Rome furnished by the rental company, I realized I should have prepared my own map. I doubt if a magnifying glass would have helped, but the naked eye could recognize only two items on this map: the large circular highway that surrounds Rome and the word “ROME.”
I deftly moved about the city as if I had lived there my entire life. Throttling a button located on the gear shift assisted with tight corners. I cursed Vespa drivers that cut me off with an intimidating “Faccia dominga! ECCO IL PUNTO!” Laughing as if riding a rollercoaster, I was brought to hysterics with every “Oh God” that escaped Karen’s pursed lips. I had not had this much fun in years.
Something innate controlled my body as if I were drawing on the collective consciousness of past leaders or lost generations. These streets were being driven on recall, nearing instinct. I’m not sure how we got back to the apartment but we quickly finished packing and loaded the car to begin our tour of southern Italy, which will include il Punto on the Amalfi Drive. I question if I have ever been this aroused in my life.
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