I had 101 reasons why not to invest in a driving license: too expensive, too time-consuming, too boring, too unsustainable… Though all those points carried seeds of truth, what made me most resistant was probably the fear of failing. I never thought I would pass. Ever.
Needless to say I was up up in the clouds when the driving instructor passed me the paper of confirmation a few months ago, saying, not sure you deserve this, but I can see you are actually a smart woman, so you will figure it out with time.
Positive.
From that point onwards there was barely anything I loved more than driving: the flavor of ultimate freedom and independence. And of course, I couldn’t wait to embark on my very first roadtrip, which is what this story is about. The car story ;) starting in the land of pizza, pasta… and affanculo.
From the minute I entered Italy, my excitement about roadtrippin got taken to an even higher level. What a refreshingly rebellious way of driving! 150 when it said 100, 120 when it said 90, 100 when it said 60!? Nooo, noooo, I am not the bad gurl here — as usual, I was merely adapting to the average vibes ;-)
And next to our neighbour’s peculiar interpretation of rules, I was absolutely charmed by the Italian passion penetrating the air of the autostrada. “Affanculo” here, — beeeep beeeep — “Affanculo” there. One of a kind. I absolutely loved it.
And I was absolutely loving it this one afternoon, driving along the A14 towards Bari, howling to a bomb-ass song by the Desert Dwellers, when, suddenly, I couldn’t help but notice that my little red lady got slower. And slower.
And slower.
Not to worry, I thought. That actually happened quite a lot when the road led slightly upwards. (Unfortunately her smart shape couldn’t make up for her innate inner values — 40PS.) Wait, what? This time the road was actually going downwards… Clearly, something else was going on.
Could it be that we ran out of gas? No way — checking the fuel gauge on a minutely basis had become my favorite neurosis.And the last time I checked red lady guaranteed me that she was fine.
Slower. And slower.
Other cars started to beep at me. I accepted that it was time to rescue us, and steered into a little safe-haven on the side. Once I stopped, the music turned off, and an unfamiliar beeping sound went on. My eyes pierced the fuel gauge — we had ran out of gas. Red lady — what is going? I trusted you to tell me truth!?
I gently turned around my keys, trying to seduce her into starting again, but it was in vain: Apparently, I had bequeathed red lady the overgiving gene that is running through the female side of my ancestral line.
What a bummer!
What started with accepting the shadow of red lady was an odysee through a wild jungle of Italian phone numbers. The wave of luck stayed right with me — none of the Italian car assistance numbers worked. So… I figured the best thing I could do was calling the police department of Foggia, the next bigger city in the area.
Pronto, the local police officer greeted me. Turned out the poor guy was so overwhelmed with English that he beeped me right to the immigration department before I could finish explaining my misery. The woman at the immigration department, on the other hand, listened very patiently. Yet after the 3rd repetition she asked slightly confused, ääah, miss, you lost your driving license, I connect you to different department!?
Nooo, I screamed, sounding just frustrated enough, meaning that she agreed to listen to my story one more time. This time I started with, me very stupido, — though in actuality I was merely covering up for red lady’s poor boundaries — to give her some context. Needless to say that didn’t really help either. Sorry Miss, can you please send your issue to Email?, she said, starting to spell out the most complicated combination of letters one could think of.
Jesus Christ, how was this lady supposed to help immigrants?
Never mind, I said, and hung up. At this point, the whole odysee had been going long enough for red lady magically transforming into a sauna — sweat dripping out of poors I didn’t even know I had. Then a lightning strike hit me: ÖAMTC. Of course — the Austrian car emergency can help me. Filled with new hope, I dialed the number and was greeted by a young man with a classic Viennese accent.
Home sweet home! He understood me: balm on my sweaty soul. Against all odds, he said, Sorry miss, since you are not a member I cannot help you.
I really really want to become a member, I begged.
Näääääähn das geht nicht Fräulein, das ist gegen die Vorschriften, he repeated himself.
A-f-f-a-n-c-u-l-o
I am not sure you understand my circumstances mister, I have been sitting in my car for over an hour now, it is freaking hot, I don’t have water and none of the Italian authorities understand me. Please h-e-l-p me
Sorry miss, I am not authorized to rewrite the rules. I connect you to an Italian number.
But they don’t unders…. — — Beeep.
A-f-f-a-n-c-u-l-o
After a long trip in the waitingline accompanied by the Italian national hymn — as if things weren’t already dramatic enough — a peculiar voice started to speak to me in English. Well, speak is a little of an overstatement: We bounced around words as if we were playing basketball, but got better the longer the game went on.
Okãi, Belinda, help coming, the voice assured me in the end and hung up.
Shortly after my phone ran out of battery. I found myself a shadowy place under a bridge and waited. Frankly, I was preparing to hang up my hammock and taking my holiday on the road to the next level…
Eventually, when twisting my thumps started to make me anxious, I decided to write down this story. Sometimes creativity blooms in strange places…
The moral of the story?
Italians are really — and I mean really — bad in English. (No offense, amore mios!)
Austrians are stiff, rule-adoring affanculos. (Well, I don’t have an issue with offending my own kind…)
And, most important of all, overgiving sucks. You may think you are helping. But you are not. I repeat: you are not! So make sure you recharge your own batteries first. And ask for help when you need it. I assure you, my little red lady, I will still love you — to the south of Italy and back ❤
Written and photographed by Bella Linda