Driving Miss Ditzy

It sure is nice having a car again.

I didn't need one for the first part of my stay in Sicily. Ortigia is all walkable, and I saw the rest of Syracuse with Eva Greco, who was my guide and driver one afternoon as we explored the Greek theater and Roman amphiteater there. I'll tell you about that one of these days.

I didn't want a car in Taormina, and here's why.

I wouldn't drive in Taormina on a bet. I did pick up my rental car there, however, which was a trip in itself. The Avis/Budget rental agency isn't right in the middle of town, fortunately, but it is on a busy thoroughfare swarming with tourists, tour buses, motorcycles, taxis, and other people in rental cars. When my turn came to receive my car, two of the agents hopped on his motorcycle and drove to wherever they keep the cars, which is not nearby. He returned alone. A few minutes later, she returned driving my little Hyundai (Hyundai?? Where's my Fiat?) which she parked cattywhompus in the middle of the intersection where buses and cars were making u-turns to access the road out of town.

Okay, fine. I loaded my luggage and got out of Taormina in a hurry. I failed to notice in all the chaos that the car was not equipped with wiper blades, but that's a story for another time.

Driving in Italy is a lot like driving in Mexico, and I'm thankful daily for my apprenticeship there. In towns, people drive however the heck they want to. Motorcycles create third and fourth lanes, merging is whoever is ballsiest goes first, stop signs are vague suggestions, horns are used as much as steering wheels, and whoever is nearest to the wider part of the road has to back up when two cars meet face-to-face in a street the width of a sidewalk.

There's a kind of sign here that I really like and have never seen anywhere else.

Isn't that a good idea? They're all over the place to tell you that you may be going in the wrong direction.

The sign I don't like so much is the one that's an exclamation point inside a triangle. That's all. Just an exclamation point. "What??" I always wonder. What's so exciting? They never tell.

The autostrade, or toll roads, are similar to the cuotas in Mexico. They are mostly smooth and straight, with even fewer exits (which can be a problem) than the cuotas. There are always people who drive faster than me, and I tend to like to fly along on highways. There are signs that tell you when to slow down to 90 (which is about 55 mph), but no signs that tell you how fast you can go the rest of the time. I like that.

The Autostrada Waltz is even a bit more elegant than its counterpart on the cuotas. People drive well. Slower cars and looky-lous stay in the right lane. Passing is done in the left lane. Blinkers are used when someone wants to pass and when they return to the right lane. It's beautiful and it's easy, as long as you keep your eyes open for your exit and stop at every possible service area, of which they are not many.

The Autogrill stops are humongous, offering gas, diesel, bathrooms, snacks and real food. The biggest ones straddle both lanes of the highway. They are definitely not like the OXXO's of Mexico. First of all, there's usually toilet paper. Secondly, people stand at a counter chugging thimblesful of coffee. And thirdly, the sandwiches of the Italian autostop are most certainly not Bimbo sandwiches, one paper thin slice of cheese and one paper thin slice of mystery meat on two slices of Wonderbread.

The smaller service stops along the highways offer equal fare, if not better. Coppacola on a fresh baked baguette, which they heat to order, has become my favorite when I find myself hungry on the road.

Also thanks to my driving throughout Mexico, I understand toll booths. Here in Italy, one enters the toll road by taking a ticket from an automated whosit. One pays a guy in a box upon exiting. Usually, this is a perfect system. Yesterday, though, I discovered a small glitch.

Leaving the town of Patti, to which I had to drive back up the insanely curvy coast road for forty minutes from my rural hotel in Gioiosa Marea in order to access the toll road which zoomed happily by only half a kilometer past said hotel, I followed the A20 Messina signs. No prob. At the toll booth, the car in front of me stopped, then went on. The car in front of him had pulled over to the side. It was my turn to get my ticket. I pulled up and pushed the button. Nothing happened. I tried again. Nothing happened again. The gate was open (usually it's the removal of the ticket from the slot that causes it to rise and let one through). So I drove onto the Autostrada. Ticketless.

I began to think about this situation. This was possibly not a good thing. In the U.S., if you lose your parking ticket, they charge you for having parked there a month or so even if you've only been in the garage for thirty-one minutes. On the other hand, the car in front of me had pulled on to the highway without a ticket. On the other hand, the car was marked "student driver" and maybe they don't have to pay tolls.

Well, too late now. I drove the half hour or so to the Milazzo exit.

I pulled up at the toll booth. "I have a problem," I said, which is the Number One Most Important Phrase to learn in any foreign language, in my opinion. "When I entered at Patti the machine didn't work. I don't have a ticket." I said nothing about the woman I'd seen in my rearview mirror in Patti, going out to service the machine and take care of the car that had (properly, I suppose) pulled over to the side. Instead, I waited.

The man in the box pressed his lips together. "Where did you get on?" he asked.

"Patti," I repeated.

He looked at a schedule beside his cash register and pointed to the digital display beside his window. 2.30 Euros, it said. I paid with the exact change and hightailed it out of there.

So now I was in Milazzo. I'm not usually a Luddite, but I have avoided getting a GPS on this trip against nearly all advice. I've also not managed to buy a map of Sicily for some reason. Usually what I do is study the Google map of wherever I'm going, in both the larger view and the zoom view, memorize whatever I can, and get in the car.

I had done just that with my Milazzo hotel. It's only a few blocks from the ferries to the Aeolian Islands, which I figured had to be pretty well signed. I knew the street names and the directions they ran, as most are one-way. I was right, the ferry signs were clear and led me into the heart of the large-ish port city of Milazzo. At that point, I discovered that street names are really not that evident in Milazzo. In fact, they can be non-existent. But I knew pretty well where this hotel had to be, and I'd looked at a picture of it on the website so I'd recognize it.

I drove down the beautiful main avenue beside the sea.

Eventually I turned left and drove back in the direction I'd come, cruising and looking for street signs. I pulled over a few times to let cars that knew where they were going pass me. That was easy--people park wherever and however they want to in Milazzo. I circled a bit more. I felt I was homing in on my hotel.

Now, at this point you are probably saying, "She is an idiot and needs to get a frigging GPS." You may be right, but remember what happened to Jenny and Peter from New Zealand. Charlotte (which is what they named their GPS) sent them all over hell and gone half the time and at other times down roads barely wide enough for a donkey.

No, really. I knew I was close. I was looking for a little one-way street heading toward the sea. I knew it's name but that was worthless. Finally, I pulled over. I walked a quarter of a block to a pasticceria which was open. "Prego?" asked the young woman at the counter.

"I'm looking for La Chicca Hotel," I said, after buongiorno-ing, of course. That, by the way--"I'm looking for"-- is the Second Most Important Phrase to learn in any foreign language.

She turned to ask another woman when I heard a man's voice say, "Aspetta, aspetta!" Wait, wait. A short and very round man came out from behind the bar where he had been schmoozing with his pals over teeny coffees. He shepherded me out into the middle of the street. "Where's your car?" I pointed. He then proceeded to give me lengthy directions in fast Sicilian, which sounds like someone pouring olive oil down a washboard.

Fortunately, we Sicilians talk with our hands, so I was able to follow every word. What he said was, "Go one block, turn right, go one block and there's your hotel." I heard a round of applause for him when he went back inside.

And he was correct. There was a free parking place right in front, too. It's a super hotel. I love it. It has everything I want in a hotel: lovely staff, a shower with hot water that's big enough to shave my legs in, a little refrigerator, excellent wifi, and a view terrace where I can smoke. It's only a couple of minutes from where, tomorrow morning bright and early, I and my car will be boarding a giant ferry to go out and visit the Aeolian Islands for a few days.

One of them's a volcano. I'll take pictures.