Driving Miss Ditzy 2: Further Adventures

In the first episode of Driving Miss Ditzy, which I posted about a month ago, I explained how driving in Mexico was the perfect training for driving in Italy. This was true so many ways, so many days, and in so many situations.

It was also not true sometimes. Let's start there.

Part One: Little Roads

Unlike Mexico, there is normally no lack of signage in Italy. I showed you in the first installment the great signs that tell you where you're not going, which are outside of nearly every town. I also mentioned my reluctance to use GPS, given that I have a particular fondness for following intriguing roads and for getting lost, often the best parts of my adventure. Many of those roads are considerably less signed.

Outside Orvieta, on my way to Assisi, I drove up an anonymous second-gear back road which wound up out of a valley. Soon, to my delight, I was in a long-needled pine forest, tall red-barked trees that looked for all the world like Ponderosa pines. For the first time, I saw the sign warning of forest fires, which I would spot again here and there on my wanders, although Italy doesn't seem to have a Smoky Bear. I drove past ranger stations and campgrounds tucked into the trees, of which I was made aware by the smell of woodsmoke wafting through the forest. Beside the entrances to the campground are neatly stacked piles of firewood, cords and cords of it, for the taking. No presto logs for sale to these campers. I sighed with envy.

Leaving Siena, I decided to shun the Autostradale Firenze-Siena in favor of a drive through the Val d'Orcia, Chianti country. I had heard about its beauty from friends in the States and from friends in Tuscany. I wanted to drive at least as far as Greve in Chianti, where a very nice cafè owner had told me his family had a winery and farm that supplied the restaurant with its abundant fresh produce and house wine. I thought I'd look out for it and stop in if I happened to see it.

The drive through Chianti was charming, with stone houses scattered among vineyards.

The road I was on was well traveled, softly curvy and easy. Of course, I couldn't leave well enough alone. In Greve, I began to search for a road I saw on the map, a shortcut back to the Autostradale which I would take north to the A1 and the A11 to Lucca.

I drove slowly through Greve, looking for both my friend's family farm and this road, which was so obvious on the map. I saw neither. I knew right where the road had to be, but it didn't seem to be there. I turned up a tiny driveway of a street which immediately began climbing straight up to an old church. That couldn't be it. So I returned to the Greve plaza and walked into a store that sold regional products to tourists. Two lovely women there informed me that, yes, that was the road all right!

Up I went. The road passed the old church and went through a tiny village, houses nearly touching my sideview mirrors. Once  out of the village, the road became steeper and curvier. It had no center line at all and was barely wide enough for maybe a little car and a half. Then I saw a sign: Road Narrows. Oh goody.

(I haven't been everywhere in the world, of course, but I'd still be willing to bet that Italy has the world's best motorcycle roads.)

I kept driving, up and up, glimpsing spectacular views on either side. Then I rounded a curve and laughed aloud.

Just ahead, beside my little road, was a full-blown castle perched on the side of the mountain. The road widened a bit on the other side of this astonishing installation, and I finally saw a few more cars, all heading toward the castle which I'm sure is a destination...from that direction.

🚗    🚙    🚗

In Sicily, there are signs all over the place that read Moorish Castle, Doric Temple, Norman Tower, Saracen Wall, Greek Gymnasium, Roman Amphitheater. Once out of Taormina, I had a blast driving in Sicily. The tunnels along the coast, roads hugging the shoreline, the mountain roads with surprises along the way and at the top.

My two favorite driving adventures in Sicily happened on successive days, after I'd left the Aeolian Islands and driven west toward Cefalù, where I would stay during my quest to learn more of my ancestry. I stopped along the way in Santo Stefano di Camastra on Sicily's north coast to find a place to rendezvous with Sandra and John, who would accompany me to Mistretta the following day. We actually ended up meeting in Mistretta, which entire story you will find in the post Sicily in My Heart. 

Here's what I did not tell you in that post.

Part Two: The Shakedown

I was driving out of Santo Stefano to rejoin the highway north to Cefalù. As I rounded a long curve that led to the toll booths, driving reasonably as I wasn't sure of the turn, I noticed two police cars on the side of the road just ahead. I thought nothing of it until, to my surprise, one of the cops stepped out and motioned to me to pull over.

Hmmm...what's this about? I wondered. I saw no stop sign. I was definitely not speeding. A big mean-looking local cop came to my window and asked for my driver's license. I gave it to him. Understand, please, that all the following was spoken in Italian, and mine is rudimentary at best.

He looked at my Washington State license and shook his head. "No," he said.

"No?" I replied.

"This is no good. You need an International Drivers License to drive in Italy."

Now, this is flat-out not true. I did considerable research on this very question previous to my trip. 

"No, I don't," I replied. "Avis, who rented me this car, and AAA in the United States, both told me this license is all I need." Along with half a dozen dependable internet sites.

He frowned grimly and shook his head. "You need an International Drivers License." 

Notice that he did not suggest any remedy whatsoever to my "problem". Living in Mexico, having driven in Mexico, I knew right away what was up. Aha! I thought to myself. This is a Shakedown.

I felt a tingling heat down by my tailbone, beginning to rise slowly toward my head. This was the third and last time in my solo travels that I'd felt my Sicilian temper rise, each time in the face of an arrogant man who was trying to take advantage of me. I looked at him, right in the eyes.

"Where?" I asked. "In this town?"

"In Italy," he insisted.

"No. I don't," I said, and the anger had reached my voice.

One thing I've noticed in these few interactions: Italian men seem to become distinctly uncomfortable in the face of a woman's anger. He changed tack.

"You're American," he observed, glancing down at either the wallet in my lap or my legs or both.

"Yes," I said. "I'm on my way to Mistretta to visit the town where my grandmother was born." Which I wasn't yet, but hey, I could change tack too.

"Mistretta," he repeated, flatly. Mistretta is absolutely in his neighborhood, twenty minutes up the road from where we were. He could've been born there himself. How could it hurt, I figured, to play the Sicilian Grandmother Card? I had another up my sleeve but I didn't have to use it.

We locked eyes for a full ten seconds, which seemed longer.

He turned and called to his buddy, who had just pulled over another car.

"American. From Mistretta," he said with a giant shrug. And he gave me back my license.

I don't know how to say "Gee, thanks" in Italian, so I just nodded to him and left.

The following day was the day of the actual drive to Mistretta. I had to retrace my steps, including driving into--and out of--Santo Stefano, which is where road 117 to Mistretta starts. Following the directional signs to that mountain road, I found myself again on that very same curve. And sure enough, there they were, parked in exactly the same spot as yesterday.

I moved into the outside lane, rolled down the passenger side window, and, as I passed the two cops standing beside their cars, I smiled and waved...and kept going.

I got one short glimpse of his wide-eyed recognition, and then I heard behind me his loud and hearty laughter following me out of town.

🚓    🚓

Part 3: Get Lost

Later that same day, I left Mistretta in a haze of delight. What a day it had been! I was so euphoric that I entirely missed my turn back onto 117. I realized it soon enough when I found myself on an unfamiliar country road. I saw a wide spot ahead at the top of the hill and decided to turn around there and return to town to find the correct road.

As I pulled into the wide spot, I saw there was a big fruit truck already there. What the heck. I drove up beside it and stopped. The driver, a stocky and happy looking fellow around fifty, looked at me and gave me my favorite Sicilian greeting: "Ciao, BELLA!!"

I grinned back. "I'm looking for the 117," I said. 

"Ah," he replied. He started to explain, then stopped and turned to his younger companion and said a few words. He climbed out of his tall truck, walked over to my car and indicated with words and hand language that it would be easier if he just showed me.

These are those moments when the experiences of a life must be depended upon. Here I am, on a strange mountain road, and a man I've never seen before has asked to get in the car. I looked at him. He had kind eyes, a sweet smile, and a gentle face filled with humor. I made my decision in seconds. I moved my pile of documents from the Municipio into the back seat and opened the door.

He got in. The seat belt bell began dinging immediately. He ignored it. His buddy pulled out in the fruit truck and we followed him. Of course, his curiosity knew no bounds, so I filled him in on my day in Mistretta as we wound further along a hillside on the mostly dirt road. We introduced ourselves. His name was Salvatore and he spoke Sicilian.

"You're from America but you're Siciliana!" he exclaimed, beaming. Salvatore told me that the truck ahead was his and he owned five more. He was proud but not smug as he told me of his success in life. He called me "Candi Bella" and "Bella Amica" and sat a bit crooked in the seat so he could watch me. I had a feeling a marriage proposal was next.

It may have been, but alas, ahead of us the fruit truck pulled to the side of the road. Salvatore pointed to a road that wound down from the steep hillside road we were on.

"That's it?" I asked.

"Si!" he replied, and took my hand for a moment. "Buon viaggio, Bella," he said, and returned to the driver's seat of his pretty truck.

I thanked him sincerely, pulled around them and turned down the road. I'd gone maybe half a mile through farm gardens and between roadside houses when I thought, "I wonder if he meant THIS road or that fork back there?" I backed into a driveway to think for a second when I heard, 

"Bella!! What are you doing?" Way, way up the hill, I saw Salvatore and his buddy standing beside their truck, each with a foot propped on the stone guardrail, watching me to be sure I went the right way. They were laughing. "No," he shouted down the mountain. "Go on! That's the road!"

By this time, I was laughing too. I got out of the car, waved and blew them kisses, then, still laughing, continued down what was, in fact, the right road.

The name Salvatore, by the way, means "savior".

🇮🇹

I have more. Let me know if you're getting bored.

 

Comments

[Char]

yes, indeed, you can fill me to overflowing...so wonderful!

[Jeanne]

What a nice man! Yes, more please.

[Fred Feibel]

Si mas Bella!

[Sheri]

Yes please! Can we have some more? You can tell me it all over again when I get to Mexico in a few days but this time with proper Italian hand gesturing. That will be fun!