A Word on Italian Confidence.

I’d like to write a quick word on Italian confidence, starting with our experience driving on roads throughout Rome and southern Italy.

It’s cray cray out here, y’all.

There is what I’ve begun to call the third lane, which is really the middle strip of the road used as a motorcycle lane for two-wheeled vehicles ranging from scooters to touring bikes. Drivers and passengers range from 75-year-old white-haired mustachioed grandfathers to thirty-year-old fathers with 8 year/old kids clinging on behind them. We have been in awe of their boldness and ownership over that third lane on these tiny mountain passes, and have learned to just roll with them like birds flitting through the boughs of a tree.

This is how excited you are about fuel efficiency and the “wind through your hair”, before you actually hit traffic and find yourself both wishing for one of those nifty airbag moto jackets and also wondering whether driving in Italy is a covered cause of mortality in your life insurance policy.

Then, there are the cars. First off - if you have a big family and need a big car to come to Italy….. rethink it. Go to Canada or, like, somewhere else. There isn’t parking for you. Albeit a Catholic country that I imagined would count itself lucky to host large families, they must expect you to be awfully skinny, packed on top of each other, and without significant amounts of luggage.

Never get the SUV. Never get the van. Suck it up, get the wagon, and hold your luggage in your lap if you have to, because these curves are TIGHT.

This is someone else’s photo of the Fiat Tipo crossover wagon we’ve had for the week. It’s just about as big as we need and that we can easily park in Italy.

The cars on the road poke into traffic in ways that Americans wouldn’t dare. They get too close to other cars. They zip around and pass in no-pass zones. It is astonishing every single time we drive somewhere.

And the pedestrians as well are fearless. They walk down the side of winding mountain passes, headed for the local market or some such locale, walking straight on the side but amidst the most gut-wrenching driving I’ve ever encountered. Even the octogenarians, shuffling along the roads at their own pace are bold, confident, and purpose-driven, and I admire it.

I’ll state now that I am super duper glad that I’m not even registered to drive the car. I have no interest in it. Nope. Thanks but no thanks. I’ll leave that up to J.

He does beautifully BTW, when I’m not holding onto the handles and screaming silently inside. By the time we drop off the car again in Rome, he will be a pro at this.