Driving in Italy

I never meant to be driving in Italy. When Basil and I visited the country last October, we observed the narrow streets and the cavalier manner in which cars traversed the highways. When we were planning our escape from the states, we booked our first long term stay in an Airbnb Basil found. The beautiful oceanfront condo, according to maps and the Airbnb listing, was just a ten minute walk from a train station. A few weeks before we left Arizona, however, Basil discovered that while the train station still exists, trains do not actually stop there these days. (This seems to be a thing in Italy.) The owners of the apartment, who live in a town about fifteen minutes away, forgot to update the listing. While we were still fairly certain we could rely on taxi rides to the train station and walking to get everywhere else, our Airbnb hosts insisted we really must get a rental car. So we decided we would rent one for a few weeks during the first month of our stay to see how things went.

When researching Italian rental car companies, I was surprised to find online reviews indicating tourists are often told when returning rental cars they have caused sufficient damage to the car to lose some or all of their deposit. While I am sure some drivers are rough on cars, the frequency at which this was reported for nearly every rental car company available would suggest there are often irreconcilable differences between the customer and the rental car company. I picked a small local company that has a five star average on Google. It is not near an airport, so I am not sure if the high rating is because the number of tourists using their services is limited, or if they are less discerning/demanding on their return process.

When I picked up the car, I was surprised to learn the deposit for the car had to be paid in cash, but the cost of the rental itself could be paid by credit card. The other part which was completely different from my extensive experience renting cars in the U.S. is the rental car agent did an extremely thorough walkthrough with me on the condition of both the inside and the outside of the car. Every scratch, nick, or scuff either of us could locate was recorded in detail on a diagram, which would be compared to the car just as carefully when I returned it. So much for my theory they would be more lax in the monitoring of the car’s condition!

As the agent walked me through how to use the Fiat Panda, I was thankful I had been taught by my parents to drive a manual transmission vehicle. Automatic transmission was not an option. It had been nearly a decade since I had driven a manual, but I had been assuming– hoping– that it would all come back to me once I sat in the driver’s seat. Which, thankfully, it did.

But remembering how to operate a manual transmission is really the least of my worries when it comes to driving in Italy.

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We left the United States because it was time to go. Relocating to the European Union was something Basil and I had discussed for many years. With the impending re-election of Donald Trump and the onslaught of anti-trans laws being written and implemented by state legislatures around the country, combined with the all too common occurrence of mass shootings, it seemed like it was time to opt for a higher standard of living. And we were fortunate enough to have the privilege to leave now, which so many other folks do not have.

After years of working with a counselor I really liked, I’ve finally realized that I had come to assign most of my personal value to how successful I was at my job at the professional accounting firm I have worked at for the last ten years. Before this realization, I thought by continuing to climb the ladder I would somehow silence the demons in my mind. If I were successful at this job, it would make up for about a decade (ages 21 to 32) spent trying to find a “serious” (non-retail) professional path. It would prove my mother wrong and retroactively erase all the shitty things she said to me about being a failure and my life going nowhere. I would finally be proud of myself.

It seems obvious now that this is why, even though I was consistently quite good at my job – I received rave performance reviews, I was promoted timely, I had loads of happy clients – I still experienced a high level of stress about it. Because I had to make sure I was always as good as I could be, so that I could feel like I was generally “good” or “okay” as a person.

While I enjoyed many aspects of my job, there were some that I didn’t. As I have started to settle into middle age, I am perhaps predictably wondering what I have done and can do to leave the world a better place. The trans/LGBTQ advocacy I did during my time at the firm was extremely rewarding and meaningful to me. This led to my current plan of attending law school in Ireland. I want to become a solicitor who supports LGBTQ+ folks in Ireland.

But these epiphanies, as edifying as they were, are just the first step in a long journey. While high-tailing it to Europe may sound like a lot of fun, a self-financed international move across the ocean where we have no support network is a huge undertaking. We got rid of quite nearly everything we owned, save ten boxes of stuff which are now on a slow boat to Ireland and a few suitcases we managed to drag along with us. Come fall, we will be battling for a place to live. The rental market in Ireland is so bananas that real estate agents literally don’t take phone calls about open properties because hundreds of people inquire about each property every day. You have to submit a curriculum vitae and references in order just to be considered for a rental application.

It took me years of therapy to realize that putting my job at the center of my identity was negatively impacting my mental health. I left that job in January when we stepped on that flight to Italy. So now I have to learn how to revamp my own view of myself, and my self-worth, after a decade of thinking it hinged on what I was paid to do.

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Villa San Giovanni, the small town in Reggio Calabria where we are currently living, has history dating back to before the common era. The roads are narrow, winding paths worn long before there were autos. People park on both sides of any street, even when it is a one way street. Parking is also its own freestyle art here: cars are frequently sitting on all or most of a portion of a sidewalk, sometimes at surprising angles. To be fair, the city existed long before parking lots were in demand. A few lots exist at hotels, a shopping mall, and by the ferry terminal. Most of the time you have to make your own.

There are no lines painted on the paved roads because the roads are so narrow there would be no point. On roads where traffic goes both directions, cars must squeeze past each other any way they can, lanes be damned. This also results in many folks driving straight down the middle of the road until they encounter someone coming in the opposite direction. It’s like a constant game of chicken! Add to this the alarming sense of urgency with which many Italians drive. Speed limits seem to be regarded as, at most, a polite suggestion. As I have tried to observe these limits, many frustrated locals will speed up and pass me, which is harrowing.

Consider grappling with kilometers instead of miles, figuring out what street signs mean as you’re in the process of driving and learning Italian, relearning how to drive a stick shift after a decade, all while driving a rental car one cannot so much as bump a grocery cart into without financial ramifications, and it is easy to see how you can turn into a basket case before you even turn the key in the ignition.

The unfamiliar and treacherous-seeming roads of southern Italy remind me of the recent twists and turns my life has taken in this new chapter. What is coming around the bend? Will I have to slam on the breaks as some cavalier pedestrian unexpectedly makes their way across the road? Will I have to dodge out of the way of a parked delivery truck which has suddenly decided to throw open its driver’s side door? I am actually being less safe by driving the speed limit?

I am best behind the wheel in Italy when I am present, trying to enjoy the experience as much as I can. When my mind is clear and focused on one thing at a time, when I’m smiling as much as I can about the batshit insanity happening all around me, my driving is as nimble as it can be. And I even learn in the middle of it all that I am enjoying myself! (I really have missed driving a manual transmission.) If I worry about the proverbial traffic and hazards which await on the path ahead as we make our way to Ireland and build our lives there, not only will I be miserable, but I am all the more likely to cause a wreck.