> SlowTrav > Stories > Living Slow in Italy

Mustang Sally No More

Valerie Schneider

Bryan and I recently celebrated our twenty-second wedding anniversary, which means two things: time really does fly when you’re having fun; and I was practically a child bride. Which means that I was still in college when we married, so we had to scrimp and save and struggle for me to trudge through and graduate. Let’s just say that I took a tad longer than the normal four-year plan. Like, double. But when I did receive my bachelor’s degree, I was the first woman in my family to do so, making it something of a landmark event.

And when I finally graduated, I did what any red-blooded American would do after enduring years of brain-pain, a rigorous balance of work and study, and relative poverty. I bought a new car. We’re talking brand-spanking new, right off the assembly line, two miles on the odometer new car. A Ford Mustang. Remember back when they practically declared the sucker dead? Then they restyled it to look like the classic muscle car it once was in its glory days? That Mustang. Forest green. I named it Arnold. What can I say? I come from a long line of car-namers, and at the time, Arnold seemed appropriate for a muscle car.

Arnold was my first and only brand new car, and I loved what it represented. Buying it was a celebration of a specific accomplishment, but also marked the end of a struggle and the beginning of a new season of life. Its shiny paint represented brighter days ahead. I often took him out into the New Mexico desert where I would crank up the music and hit it to the floor, loving the sound of the engine on the hills and the gorgeous wide-open scenery in the distance beyond the desert roads. I was Mustang Sally!

I was proud of my baby, and washed and waxed it by hand. I’d warily park toward the end of parking lots to avoid dings and give wide berth to dump trucks and cement mixers to avoid the falling stones. Okay, I admit it ... I was a little obsessed with the car. Of course, the inevitable day arrived when I came out from a store strolling happily with my groceries to find the first scratches on Arnold. Actually, they were more like gaping gouges running along about 1/3 of the trunk. I stopped dead, stupefied. What the ...? I was in the store about twenty minutes! How the ...? I seethed.

When I got home, I dragged Bryan out to take a look. You must understand that my husband is normally Mr. Calm; it takes a lot to fluster him, but even he gasped audibly. “What the ...?” After a minute of shock, he went into action as the Claims Adjuster he was and evaluated it objectively. Where were you? What stores are in the strip mall besides the Whole Foods? He determined that the gouges were the result of a heavy box or plastic crate being shoved onto the trunk. He theorized it was probably a pet carrier, and that someone came out of the veterinarian’s office and set the thing down on my trunk while unlocking their car door. Nice.

After that, I gave up caring about the dings and dents. There is too much loose gravel and pelting sand, and too many discourteous people to fret about it all the time. Besides, Arnold already had battle scars, what were a few more scratches?

In Italy, things were much easier on my frame of mind. Our car came pre-scratched and already dinged, so I didn’t have to worry a wit about it. Worrying about being killed on the highway, that’s another matter.

Italians are infamous for wanton driving. If this fact hadn’t already been readily apparent, it has become very evident to me recently. You see, Bryan is studying for his driver’s test. It is the law that after one year of obtaining the bureaucratic designation of ‘residenza’, you must get yourself an Italian driver’s license. Well, at least we have to do so since the US doesn’t have a reciprocal agreement with Italy as far as driving is concerned.

Bryan dutifully read about the logistics of this feat. He visited several scuole guida (driving schools) to inquire about the exams. There are two: a written and a practical. Most expats say that to ensure passing, you have to pay a large sum and utilize one of these driving schools. Otherwise, your results may leave you relegated to public transit forever. I don’t know how true that is, but why chance it? We’ve had issues enough with the buses in the past to not want to return to that fate. (See Ignorants Abroad article)

So after much to-do, Bryan found a scuola guida he liked, with a helpful receptionist who not only told him that he could study for and complete the written test on his own, she even handed him an English-language book of the regole to study, saying he could take the test in his madre lingua if he so desired. Which he quickly decided he did desire. The practica, the in-car, on-the-road testing would still need to be completed through the school, but it would be fairly straight-forward, she assured him.

You notice I keep referencing Bryan’s foray into this new territory? That’s because I’ve left him to be the guinea pig in this whole adventure. If all goes well, then I will follow suit later on. No sense both of us taking a chance of failing at the same time, I say.

He has been diligently studying his text-book. Besides finding several editorial errors – and this from a notoriously grammatically-challenged guy – it’s been going pretty well. Actually, his studying is going a little too well, because now whenever we are in the car I get to hear about just how horrendous Italian drivers really are.

“Whoa! Did you see that?” he’ll exclaim. Then he’ll cite the statute that they’re breaking by performing whatever action it was, such as passing in a tunnel. Actually, passing laws seem to be the most blatantly ignored as this has been a frequent source of consternation for Bryan. Passing on tight, blind curves; whizzing head-on toward us in a clearly-marked no-passing zone; transforming a two-lane road into three lanes by zipping straight down the middle for miles while overtaking cars, trucks and tractors ... Bryan is now onto them all as no-nos.

Ditto for parking rules, delivery zones, speed limits and your general and sundry vehicular operations. He notices and rails about them all. To hear him tell it, you’d think the entire country is just one mass of motorized mayhem. His running commentaries are getting a little annoying. It’s also a little scary, though, to realize that the traffic statutes are so frequently and flagrantly ignored. To tell the truth, I had no idea; I just took it all in stride and considered it some form of orderly chaos, figuring there was method in the madness. And, maybe there actually is, since –quite surprisingly- we’ve not personally witnessed any accidents. We’ve come upon a couple of fender-benders, but given the speeds and maneuvers that we have seen in operation, you’d expect to see a lot more crash-and-burn.

That’s not to say they don’t occur. We have certainly read about horrendous fatal accidents in our area specifically and around Italy in general. But that type of incident seems to be more common in our home state than here. New Mexico is notorious for its bad drivers. I mean, really bad and reckless drivers. There is a territorial mentality, so it’s not uncommon to have a driver tail you for miles honking and giving you the finger for having encroached upon his space or cutting him off. We also routinely saw people weaving perilously in and out of traffic, careening across three or four lanes at a high rate of speed to exit the freeway, and stopping dead in the middle of the street and backing up to reach their missed turn-off. Seriously.

So, I am not fully convinced that the driving is any more dangerous in Italy. However, the cursing is certainly more colorful. Time to fess up: I have a few select words that I have always uttered, following the tradition of my mother and my grandmother before me. Not the “big kahunas,” mind you. But so it is. Bryan, on the other hand, has never been much of a cusser. In fact, he’s actually been known to say things like “ffffffudgesicles” or (my personal favorite) “shhhhhhh-ish kabobs”. So, it came as a surprise to suddenly hear him saying things in Italian that would amount to an actual cussword. They do roll off the tongue more easily and beautifully in Italian. And besides, can something that translates as “pig whore” or “cabbage” really be that bad? There are a couple of others he’s taken up, too, but those wouldn’t be said in polite company so I’ll leave it to your imagination. I will just vindicate him by saying that the “v-word” hasn’t really popped out his mouth much. Still, it’s a rather clear indication to me of his vehicular frustration that he is using any of these phrases.

And, when words fail, gestures stand in nicely. Americans are very uncreative when it comes to angry gestures. We have a single finger wave. Big whoop. Here you get your entire hand and/or arm involved. And, if one finger pops up, it’s not the middle one. This occurred to us one time in traffic when we were apparently not scampering quite quickly enough out of the passing lane on the autostrada. The Mercedes driver (because aren’t they always Mercedes drivers?) lifted the index finger at us. Huh? We inquired of our friend Giorgio, who laughed and then assured it was not a good thing. Bryan has adopted the full-hand up-and-down motion which expressed, “what the heck are you doing?” or “for the love of God will you move that thing!” He doesn’t lay on the horn, though; that, according to the official driving manual, is forbidden within a municipality. Now you know.

I drive occasionally. I admit, without my Mustang it’s not as much fun. The constant brake-and-zoom that you have to employ to get anywhere tends to wear me out a bit. So, while Arnold languishes in my sister’s garage and I’ve official lost my title of Mustang Sally, Bryan takes on a lot of the driving here. But then, he’s more qualified. He has read the manual and knows the lingo.

Additional Resources

Valerie Schneider is a freelance writer, who lived in New Mexico for twenty years before trading the high desert for the medieval hill towns of Italy in May, 2006. She is a regular contributor to Slow Travel, pens travel agency newsletters, and has written for Arthur Frommer’s Budget Travel. She and her husband, Bryan, currently reside in Ascoli Piceno where they conduct small-group tours called Panorama Italy. Read more on her blog, 2 Baci in a Pinon Tree. See Valerie's Slow Travel Member page.

Car Rental	Hotel Booking	Flight Booking	Train Tickets	Books, Maps, Events
Europe Cell Phones	Long Distance Cards	Luggage, etc.	Travel Insurance	Classifieds

* Advertise on Slow Travel | Post your travel questions on the Slow Travel Forums

Mustang Sally No More

Related Articles

Additional Resources

Living Slow in Italy

Travel Resources

Italy Resources

Affiliates