When we picked up our hire car in Bologna,
the man in charge of the carpark stopped the traffic so we could turn safely
onto the busy street.
At least, that’s what I thought had
happened. Bronwyn told me later the traffic had halted behind a car waiting to
come into the alley I was leaving. The car, and the bus and cars behind it, had
waited while I made two failed hill-starts in front of a boom gate that went up
and down and up and finally down behind us.
Before we had left the carpark I tried to
write ‘this side’ onto my right hand – but I was so sweaty the pen wouldn’t
work. As I drove down the street, I tried to imagine I was just driving the
gravel road at Mt Gnomon in the ute, sticking to the right to avoid the
potholes. I gripped the wheel at 10 and 2 and leaned forward like a pained
turtle. It took about 15 minutes for me to realise where the rear-view mirror
was.
Bronwyn skillfully navigated the outskirts
of the city with the help of google maps and a dodgy tourist map from Europcar.
It took quite a while to get into the rhythm of pausing for zebra crossings
every 50 metres. Bronwyn was like the driving instructor I had when I was 17:
patiently and quietly giving directions and reminding me who to give way to,
and to watch the pedestrian, cyclist, scooter, truck, and deer…
As we reached the highway, the paper map
came to an end, and the phone battery ran out. We were on our own for a couple
of minutes as Bronwyn extracted my computer from a bag in the back seat whilst
not taking her eyes off the road.
It wasn’t long before the speed went from
50 to something much faster, and I found myself on a four-lane highway among
trucks, caravans, and whizzing little Fiats, Alpha Romeos, and Peugeots.
Bronwyn’s face paled a little when I excitedly told her I’d never driven among
four lanes of traffic before – let alone the wrong (or right) side of the road.
After about 30 minutes the pulsing blue
arrow took us off the highway – we had a couple of false alarms that gave me a
chance to practice merging back onto the highway – and we entered the
roundabout zone. This was the first time Bronwyn raised her voice. She didn’t
yell, but she was firm and pointed with great precision as I got utterly
confused.
In the countryside, I had to control myself
to keep my eyes on the road, and not look at the crops and the freshly rolled
bales of hay. The roads become narrower and narrower, and I hoped my hand-eye
coordination had improved since I put the tractor forks through two of our
sheds.
By now all our navigational batteries had
fizzled, and we were following written instructions to a family farm producing
balsamic vinegar.
When we finally found the address, and
pulled into the drive, I hugged Bronwyn and thanked her for navigating us
there. I was trembling as I got out of the car to meet our host.
P.S. I have now learnt how to say I am a
pig farmer: “Io sono una allevatrice di maiali”.
Next… Why did I just pay 90 Euros for 100ml
of balsamic vinegar?
Awesome!
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