Italian Taxi Drivers - The Exuberant Kamikaze

In Rome, Jeff and I took a taxi back to our hotel one night. We’d had a little to drink, which no doubt made it even more exciting, but I feel strongly that it did not alter my memory of the somewhat harrowing journey. In fact, it is really good that we’d shared that bottle of wine, otherwise my knuckles may have remained permanently white.

It is important to note that the streets in Rome are quite narrow and often quite bumpy. This doesn’t stop the Italians from parking on the sides of the street, however, or even on the sidewalk. But, knowing that cars will be passing at 60 or 70 k, we could see that most conscientious drivers had the foresight to turn in their side mirrors (every inch counts).

I knew the name of the street our hotel was on. Or, I thought I did. Via Viafranca. The taxi driver had not heard of this street. We’d already started driving, cars everywhere, pedestrians crossing in front of us, in a three-lane road with no painted lane lines, when he started typing it into his GPS. It wasn’t coming up. “Viafranca? Viafranca? “ and then more fast loud Italian words that sounded something like, “I’ve never heard of Viafranca! You crazy tourists don’t even know where you are staying! Viafranca? There is no street called Viafranca! I don’t believe you, you must be making it up. Viafranca. Ha!” He kept shouting out to other taxis that were passing us (or cutting us off), asking if they’d heard of Viafranca or Hotel San Marco.

Finally, we had a winner. Our driver threw his hands in the air and shouted, “Villafranca!!! Villafranca!” and then something in Italian that must have been, “You silly girl, you were so wrong. You weren’t even close. Villafranca, not Viafranca.” I remembered then about the L’s – I’d been reading them as if it were Spanish. Italian is not Spanish, whatever you may have thought, it is not even that close.

To make up time, our driver decided to go twice as fast as everyone else. He weaved in and out. He drove far too quickly up very narrow streets. At one point we heard a loud thump and I had to ask Jeff if he was all right, thinking he may have had his hand out the window, but no – someone had forgotten to turn in their side mirror (live and learn).

….

I’d thought that was going to be as good as it got, but then there was one afternoon ride in Naples. Driving equally as quickly, as if the cars around us were an obstacle course to weave around, this driver put icing on the cake by exhibiting his opera singing skills. As loudly as he could, waving his arms about the car, with a big smile on his face, he sang Italian opera to accompany our adrenaline high. I couldn’t help but enjoy it, actually.

When we stopped at a light, a pretty young girl with her window down stopped beside us. Our driver, who must have been at least in his late 50s, paused in his singing for a moment to cast out his best line. I don’t know what he was saying, but she was just laughing at him – and when she pulled forward, be pulled forward – shouting out the window, not forgetting his opera. The girl finally waved and drove away, giggling. So did we.