La
Màcchina
There are fish
stories and then there are fish stories.
This isn’t one of them. It’s a
car story, a màcchina
story, and going against
the grain of a typical fish story, this one didn’t get away. Nor
is it a prize worth mounting, preferring instead to sit quietly in a garage. Hopefully, it’s also not too
exaggerated like your typical fish story, and with any luck it’s here to stay, even after appearing to flop
around like a fish does in the bottom of a boat. In any case, I offer you this tale (no
pun intended).
Maria Elena and I had talked about buying a car in Italy for some
time. After ten years, it had progressed
from a dream, to beyond nice to have, to an outright need. It was only after a three month stay, the
length of a summer that included the visit of our daughter and her family, that
we finally conceded, having convinced ourselves we had to have one. Four rentals of various sized vehicles later and
a bill approaching $3000, and it was time to reconsider, time to get serious about
owning a vehicle of our own.
But we worry about things.
Personally, I often over-worry. As
the driver and the guy with his name and address on the Libretto di Circolazione (registration document) in the glove
compartment, something the Carabinieri
always ask for when they stop you, I'd initially hesitated because, for a long time, I thought
I'd need to take an Italian driving test.
When I say an Italian driving test, the operative word, for me at least,
is "Italian". I wasn't worried
about the "show me how you drive" part of the certification; It was the
written test. Unlike in the good old USA,
where you can request a test in your native language, it just isn't so in
Italy. Not yet at least. Even on a good day, with a multiple choice
format, I couldn't imagine myself being able to understand the questions
sufficiently to cull out the nuances couched within the questions. Those ‘trick questions’, we all remember them
- there are always some. That plus the
number I'd normally miss and I couldn't see myself ever passing.
Then there was my worry about
documentation,
for as I said, the Libretto had my
address in Calitri. On the other hand, my
driver's license was from the USA and would reveal a different address. To confuse things further, the car would be
registered in Italy but insured through my American insurance pass-through
company in London. My experience was
that of the physical address, plates/registration, and driver's license, at
least two had to be the same. About the
only things that would match would be the photo on my driver's license and my
face grinning from the driver's window at the policeman. I could see them impounding my car and me
being hauled off the nearest station for questioning under the heat of a
dangling lamp, just like in the movies. Such
is life imagined on a very bad day, and such were my worries, enough to put off
any car buying decision.
But ignorance, or better yet the lack of
information, can sometimes stymie us. It
definitely had in this case, my thoughts moving faster than the reality
of the situation. Were my preconceived beliefs
actually valid? I did some checking or
at least my friends did, even before we returned to Italy. They talked with the driving school
instructor, people in the insurance office, even Vincenzo at the local Automobile Club d'Italia (ACI) office about
my concerns. They were able to assure me
that because I didn't actually live in Italy, my American license would do just
fine along with a current International Driver's License. My fears about a driving test and
documentation melted away like gelato
on a hot day, with or without the added heat of a dangling lamp.
Our concerns now in the rear
view mirror, we
next had to decide on what exactly we were looking for in the four wheel
department. We would have to settle on
more than just the color, which in Italy to the average observer seems to be limited
to four colors - black, gray, silver, and white. Whatever the color, it would need to be a
used vehicle. Our brief stays wouldn't
justify something new. Besides, if it
was brand spanking new, I'd worry about every scratch so why not start with some.
Let’s face it, considering the way
Italians drive, scratches, if not dents, are inevitable. And it wasn't as if we were asking
for the moon. Our preference was for a
four door vehicle, with a manual transmission, and air conditioning. Beyond this, any additional whistles and
bells would be considered luxuries.
Another prime consideration was economy.
Economy began with the cost we'd have to pay and continued with fuel
economy, since gasoline in Italy approaches $6/gallon. If we were going to save money by no longer
renting, we first had to pay ourselves back for the sunk cost of the vehicle
itself and recurring costs to include inspections and property taxes.
We started our search by putting out feelers with
various area dealers and word-of-mouth by way of friends. In a short time we were looking at cars
ranging from the newspaper man’s car he admitted he wouldn’t risk driving out
of town, to an Alfa Romeo that had sat in the grass by the side of a road for
months. In our search we found that
diesel powered vehicles were popular and for a while concentrated on them. Diesels, unfortunately, came at a premium,
even in the used car lot. I attributed
their appeal, and hence their higher cost, to the lifespan of this type of engine,
the resulting extra mileage per liter they produce, along with the price of
diesel fuel in Italy. Simply put, they
were in demand. Contrary to the States, diesel
fuel in Italy is less expensive than regular gasoline. Go figure.
In any case, even with odometer readings on the high side, 200,000 km mileage
diesels seemed to run about €1000 higher than the same vehicle with a gasoline engine. We looked at a few of these locally, but their
€4000-4500 price-tags were disheartening.
This seemed simply too much for a holiday car. We decided to cast our net farther and look
beyond diesels.
Outside of the local
word-of-mouth market in Calitri, it seems that most used cars are imported, not from Japan
or the like, but from northern Italy.
The common belief was that with wealth concentrated in the North, northerners
could afford to trade-in their cars every few years. Their cast-offs were then trucked south to
the used car lots of the Mezzogiorno.
Our broadened search began on
the Internet,
starting with suggested Autoscout24.it.
Thank God for filters for there were overwhelming numbers to choose
from. In the final
running we settled on two makes, Peugeot and Fiat - Peugeot simply because we
liked their look and this being Italy, Fiat (Fabbrica Italiana Automobili
Torino, literally the Italian
Automobile Factory, Turin), because there were just more of them
(and parts too).
There was one added twist, the engine. For some it may be a surprise to learn of a
relatively new type of automobile fuel; in Italy it’s called GPL. Rearrange the letters and it stands
for Liquefied Petroleum Gas. Think of
it on the order of the stuff in your barbecue’s gas bottle. Like those "chips" only now beginning to appear in American
credit cards, in the supposed “Old World” they’ve had them for years. So too with GPL. We were familiar with GPL, having driven a
vehicle years earlier, duel-fueled with both standard gasoline and GPL. GPL was also readily available at gas-stations
throughout the country, their numbers growing daily. In any case, run out of GPL and the engine automatically
switched to regular gas. Flip open the
flap to the gas tank and find two receptacles, one for the gas nozzle, the
other for injection of the liquefied gas.
Though the GPL tank is small, limiting our range on GPL to 200 km, the
nicest part about liquefied gas is its cost, only about 50 cents a liter. Since most of our driving would be in and
about town, the savings afforded by GPL was too much to pass up. It wasn’t long and our Internet search filter
was set to GPL!
Of the few hybrid-fueled,
used vehicles in our area that would occasionally pop-up, Fiats dominated. After a month or so of looking, one in
particular caught our attention. It was
a single owner, 2010 Fiat Punto with 89,000 km (55,000 miles) for the
asking price of €2700. Now we were talking. To see it, beyond
the photos posted online, we needed to drive to Cerignola. The town of Cerignola, an exit off the A16
Autostrada when heading toward the Adriatic, is in Italy’s heel region of
Puglia between Foggia and Bari. About an
hour away from Calitri, it is known for more than its giant red Bella di Cerignola
olives. During WWII, the Giulia Airfield, a former German
base, was located four
miles northwest of Cerignola. When the
Germans skedaddled, it became home
to a 15th Air Force
bomber group. Once its rough
runway was clad with pierced steel plank, better known as a Marston mat, the
group flew B-24 Liberator bombers on raids into France and Germany. But there was more to its notoriety.
Seemingly as part of some congenital Italian wait and see attitude
of non-interference, a characteristic of that conspiratorial silence of the
south, no one said a thing about the dark side of Cerignola until after I made
a deposit. Only then did we learn it had
a reputation along the lines of Batman's Gotham. According to the talk, it was the Sodom and
Gamorrah automotive sin city of Italy, even worse than Naples, one of those
stay away from places when it came to all aspects of cars. Unfortunately, though apparently common
knowledge to everyone else, we heard this all after the fact, including how
every odometer there, had without a doubt, been rolled back. Could the 58,000 miles be even close to the
truth? Could we believe in a former single
owner? We were told they didn't even
offer theft insurance in Cerignola unless the vehicle had an alarm system!
I should have caught on a lot
earlier though,
well before we starting to drive off to Cerignola one afternoon with a little
cash and our good friend American Joe, Joe for short. Joe is an expat from neighboring Pescopagano who
loves cars. He agreed to come along and
help us out as translator and all-around confidant. When it came to buying a car in Italy,
I was out of my depth, beyond naive. I
needed help. Exiting the Autostrada, I recall remarking about the number
of auto graveyards, car lots, garages, dealers, and parts places lining the
avenue. It seemed every building had a car
related function, if not a visible car lift.
Still dumb as a rock and yet unsuspecting, I recall remarking that if
you needed a part, this was certainly the place to get it. But ignorance was bliss as we looked for
someone named Vito in a supermarket parking lot.
Vito arrived, and preliminaries concluded,
we followed him to the car. He was a
young lad, I'd estimate in his late 20s. Broad-faced, with a easy smile, and seemingly
just as easy going, he was man
and boy alike. Though listed online as a
“private seller”, verses an outright dealer, like man and boy, he seemed a combination
of both, occasionally as he explained, he dabbled with buying and selling cars
as they came along. That in itself
seemed a little deceptive seeing all along I thought Vito was that "single
owner". Why he wasn’t driving the
car to begin with also concerned me, but he explained it away to the fact that
it was not registered. That would seem
to be a problem, wouldn’t it, if I decided to take a test drive. We arrived to find the car parked along the
side of a busy street. It was love at
first sight, only the music was missing.
Though it only had two doors, one headlight was dead, and it was missing
the radio, it looked great even with a scratch here and there. Joe remarked that the state of the interior,
which was immaculate down to the look and feel of the seats, said a lot. The interior was mint. We only needed to drive it to be convinced
that it was time to stop looking. Ready
to pull away from the curb, Vito advised that we U-turn immediately, away from
the police station just across the street, due to its lack of documentation! The road test went well, thankfully without
police intervention, even considering my U-turn. Everything seemed to work and I gave Vito a
deposit along with a promise to return the following week with full payment. Since it hadn’t the required insurance and the
property tax hadn’t been paid, Vito promised to fix the headlight, get some
dealer plates, and drive it home for us.
A week later we returned, but not without issues. First off, Joe was on vacation and our
friend, Antonio, agreed to come along in his place. I especially needed him to drive one of the
three cars we anticipated in our convoy. Only I could drive our rental, Antonio would
drive our 'old-new' Fiat, and Vito would bring up the rear in his car, which he
needed to get back home along with the dealer plates. During the few days’ time between trips to
Cerignola, I also checked on the official status of the car at the ACI office,
for about then I was knee deep in a flood of negatives
about Cerignola. It was "a place to
avoid", "not to be touched with a stick" (a loose translation), where
you had to "watch your wallet", and the like. At the ACI office, Vincenzo tapped into the
master vehicle database in Rome and checked the car’s pedigree and legal
status. He was able to quell my
apprehensions by confirming the vehicle indeed had only one previous owner, a
man up north from Asti in the Piedmont region. Thankfully he hadn’t
reported it stolen! I also had to gather
enough cash to pay Vito in full. This proved
to be a chore for it isn't easy in Italy, even when you have the cash, and all
you need to do is make a withdrawal. I’d
given up on the Post Office bank years ago when I wanted to do something
similar. This time, anticipating we
might actually buy a car while in Italy, I had set aside funds in a kind of
debit card arrangement. All I needed to
do was visit our local ATM machine and make a withdrawal. However, limits on the amount of money I
could withdraw per day meant I'd need to make multiple visits in the few days
we had. It was these daily recurring
withdrawals that caused me problems. For
my part, in an effort to open the faucet to my funds, I'd visit three different
money machines in Calitri on the same day, some within minutes of each other. Each would dribble out their daily limit that
in the aggregate would allow me to accumulate what I needed in time. Maybe clever on my part but clearly problematic
to the computer security overlords whose job it is to monitor these things. One withdrawal after another looked
suspicious, so much so that they had cut me off, well short of what I
needed. Though the money machines hadn't
confiscated my card, thank God, none of them would talk to me any longer. Clearly a problem, it took two phone calls
back to the States before the pipeline opened again. Problems aside, when we returned to Cerignola,
I had what I needed in a small
bankroll in my pocket.
Again we met Vito at the market, closed this time, and were soon
following him through busy streets to where the car was garaged. It looked great alongside an original Fiat Cinquecento,
something he wouldn't consider selling. From there, with Antonio behind the wheel, our
three ship convoy, in tight formation, made its way to an office where car
ownership transfers occurred and Libretti
are born. Telling from the welcoming handshakes
and friendly chatter, they seemed to know Vito. He appeared to be a regular customer, moored
to the place, which I interpreted as a good sign. The formalities concluded and the Fiat now
officially ours, though not yet paid for, we headed back toward Calitri. As a further inducement to make it there, I
informed Vito that I'd pay him in full when we arrived.
Vito, playing pathfinder, took the lead guiding us out of
town. He was followed by Antonio, while Mare
and I took-up the rear position. We
started off just fine, but it wasn't long before it went sideways and deteriorated
into a scene right out of a farcical Keystone Cop movie with us going off in
different directions. It began when Vito
pulled over to the side of the road. Antonio
for some unknown reason kept going. We
were spread out with some cars between us. I hadn't noticed that Vito had stopped and
kept going. We must have driven right
past him. When I'd caught up to Antonio
and couldn't see Vito anywhere, we called Antonio and learned that Vito had
stopped by the side of the road. As
Antonio took an exit toward Torre Alemanna, a thirteenth century
Teutonic Knights complex, the phone started buzzing. It was Vito in a rant, a very Italian rant,
which we couldn't understand but could easily interpret as being damned
upset. With my advanced degree in hindsight,
I could understand him easily concluding we were attempting to run off with the
car without paying him. After all, he
didn't know us or where exactly we were going.
What he didn't know was that we weren't the type, nor had we the
inclination for such shenanigans. We
soon stopped, Antonio talked to Vito on the phone, and it wasn't long before
Vito rejoined us, his irritation plainly visible. Aligned once again and apparently Vito set
right, we were soon, once more, underway.
When we reached the autostrada, now familiar territory, I took
the lead. I knew where we were headed
and could also easily watch everyone in my rear view mirror. If that excitement wasn't enough, the weather
turned bad. I could see thunderstorms
ahead, marching to the horizon, their positions seemingly directly along our
route. The massive spine of the
Apennine mountains rose in sharp relief to the storm, while the blotted sky presented a sinister armor gray cast
growing darker and darker by the moment.
As it presented itself, we were headed for trouble. From a distance this mammoth storm looked like a mushroom
rising from the earth, the rain so intense it appeared solid beneath the
billowing muffin-top of the storm-clouds. In a way it was beautiful, its beauty
the least threatening of its features. What daylight there was gave
an ominous cast and although we were familiar from a lifetime of thunderstorm
experience, this one literally had the added wrist of a funnel cloud. Did they have tornados in Italy? Apparently yes, because we could see it
through the downpour. Like a spinning needle,
it stuck out the bottom of one dramatic cloud that seemed to shadow us all the
way back. It would change shape,
telescoping toward the earth but never actually touching down. Moments later, as though searching for more
energy in the cloud, it would constrict to a fattened stump, before repeating
its downward plunge. All that was missing was a fusillade
of hail stones, like popcorn escaping its massive stovepipe cloud-top. Years back, a windstorm had sandblasted and
pitted my car's finish. I've also seen
what hail can do. With nowhere to hide,
hail would have been disastrous. I
consciously slowed us down hoping it would soon pass as the storm's early mist
began to pearl on my hood. It had begun.
Still together,
we continued west toward Candela before being forced to turn directly toward
the heart of the storm. We were embraced
by the tempest. The storm was all around
us, the needle coming and going almost with a rhythm, the rain so intense that
I wished the wipers could have moved faster.
It was a relief to eventually see the sign for Pescopagano. We exited toward this
cluster of dwellings clinging to a mountaintop, home to American Joe, and began
the climb. Even though he was away, Joe
had arranged for a
garage where our car could sit until the next time we returned. Things like insurance and property taxes
could wait until then.
The rain was still falling when we finally reached the safe
harbor of Pesco and I paid Vito
through his half open window - I never did get Vito's last name. He was on his cellphone as I walked in the
rain to his car and passed him what I still owed him.
A quick count, a handshake, his relaxed smile, and with that he was off. The drama had ended but Antonio wasn't so
sure for he swore that a car had followed us from Cerignola all the way to the
outskirts of Pescopagano. Ever observant
me, I hadn't noticed. Could Vito have
been that devious and called for back-up after our snafu in Cerignola? Slow to attribute it to conspiracy, I found
it easier to believe in coincidence ... someone from Pesco needing a car part
sounded far less threatening, but Antonio, likely bolstered by Cerignola's negative
repute, couldn't be convinced otherwise.
He saw conspiracy, some coterie of gangster carjackers afoot. Conspiracy aside, Mare and I learned a
little more about Italy from our car buying experience - saw its shiny
exterior, as well as its grimy undercoating.
If I hadn't heard the horror stories, half my worries would have never
materialized. Though I'd had many dark
moments over the course of this transaction, at times as dark as storm clouds
themselves, I consoled myself that thus far things had turned out just fine. While
I hadn't driven the car, Antonio had proved that the windshield wipers
certainly worked, it could make the trip even without a snorkel in a furious
storm, and climb a mountain all on GPL. Bravo!
Only
a few days earlier it had been my birthday. In fact, it had been at my surprise party
that I'd first contacted Vito by phone with Joe's help. In a way, this little Fiat had been sort of a
birthday present to myself as I once again began another annual orbit of the
sun, the actual number of orbits being classified. My birthday present will also mean some changes. In the future we'll need to better plan our
arrivals. In the past, when we arrived,
we rented a car at the airport. Now to
get to Calitri we needed to either use public transportation, rely on a friend
to meet us, or rent a car for a couple of days just to get us there before
returning it. This will require that
Maria Elena drive in Italy, something that until now the chief navigator has never
done. Hopefully, it will not be a case
of buyer’s remorse, where we grow to regret the purchase, or to get back to my
fish story analogy, wishing instead ours had been a ‘catch and release’
story. If we do, I'm sure to
mention it sometime soon.
It may be hard
to believe but like a fairytale ending, the skies began to clear as Maria
Elena, Antonio, and myself drove down the mountain, and home to Calitri. Dizzy from it all, I felt about then that we
could all use a Café Macchiato Vodka Valium Latte, but as yet I don't know of
any combo bar, pharmacy, and coffee shop in Italy offering them. If you know of one, please let me know, subito! Such are our Italian adventures.
Oh, did I mention,
our FIAT is standard issue white!
From That Rogue Tourist
Paolo
