All Roads by Brian MacLeod Carey, single shot of espresso

Rental car.  Tailgating.  Stick shift.  Narrow and winding roads along cliffs over Lake Como.  Speeds and acceleration far above my pay grade.  I’m fifty-something, but I’m sure my reflexes haven’t aged.  The road signs are in Italian, but I took Spanish in high school.  We’re fine.  Totally fine.  I roll down the windows and lean into the turns.  I push the engine with the anticipation that I might ‘level up’ soon.  I don’t have any previous experience racing cars, but I coerce the steering wheel as if I might just be a natural.  Life is good.  Va bene!  Ciao!

Last month, I took my family on a two-week road trip through northern Italy.  At 15 and 17 years-old, my two daughters had nothing and everything to learn.  My wife, forever 29, found joy in everything… except the driving.  She doesn’t have any previous experience in debate or legal argument but it turns out she’s a natural too!  Life is good.  Va bene!  Ciao!

Driving in Italy for many Americans is a death wish.  Not to say it didn’t have its moments, but, in the end, I found it offered up the biggest ‘aha’ moments of the trip regarding my understanding of culture.  More than visiting museums or appreciating the architecture or even eating the food - the experience of driving dawned on me in a different, but equal, way.  The word that kept coming up was empathy.  It was a new twist on an old idiom: ‘to drive a mile in another man’s car’.  An understanding and sharing of feelings with regard to others while driving is what sets them apart.  Yes, it is absolutely chaotic and fast and busy and crowded and scary, but it was in stark contrast to what I learned growing up in the states.  And the empathy was palpable.  It wasn’t that the locals were polite or necessarily friendly while driving, but that they actually shared the experience and limited space of the pavement and cobblestone.  Lanes are narrow, not just in the city.  Most people drive fast, and speed limits are just a suggestion, but the narrowness and speeds necessitated the concept of common area.  The idea of ‘what’s mine is mine’ has no place in most of Europe, but particularly not on Italian roadways.  Once I got this concept processed in my brain, and then transferred to my hands and feet working the rental car, I settled in.  The realization became a flashpoint of calm and understanding.  At least, until we hit the roundabouts.

Italian roundabouts, especially in urban centers, provoke the initial feelings of what it’s like to be in an earthquake: ‘duck and cover!’ or to be at the foot of Mt. Vesuvius while it’s throwing metal, glass, and rubber in every direction.  But, again, after a few weeks of driving I realized there was a place for me in all the flying debris.  This experience was finally validated when, on the final day of our trip, my wife and daughters actually had their eyes open when entering one.  You see, the thing is - and here is the distinction - Italian drivers actually pay attention to where other drivers are.  American roads are not designed for motorist empathy.  The lanes are so wide and distinct that most people can manage to complete a quick, or even lengthy, text before they hear any of those bumps that remind them to pause for a bit to center their vehicle in the lane.  Text, bumps, center, repeat. Say what you will in America, but in Italy lattes are for the cafe, music is for the club, and makeup is something you put on before you get in the car.

Ultimately, driving in Italy is like a series of Tangos.  You have a partner for a brief moment, and then another, and then another.  Sometimes the dance is brief, sometimes the break in between is brief (very brief), but you are working in lock step with that other driver for whatever duration is required.  And, as it turns out, Italy has some pretty good dancers.  If they ask for your hand, don’t be shy.  Prepare yourself for intimacy.  It might feel like they are squeezing your rear bumper with their front bumper.  They might be enjoying themselves, but they hope you are enjoying yourself too.  Everything is amorous and filled with possibility, romance, passion, and then agony of the arrivederci at your lane change.

On one of our last days, I received such an arrivederci from a motorist before parting ways.  Driving down a narrow country road, still thinking I’m driving at speeds way above my pay grade I see another driver quickly getting larger in my rearview mirror.  Pulling up behind me, my rear bumper gets a little squeeze.  Of course, there was no contact, but a presence, like a warm breathless whisper at the side of my neck as if to say: ‘We dance, no?’  I edged my car to drift ever-so-gently to the right and, to my surprise, the car followed my lead, sliding its way, ever-so-gently, to the left.  An oncoming car approaches, which slides my partner back in, behind me to the right.  I sway back left.  The movement is patient and kind, even tender.  Our dance continues and we move together again, me to the right, she to the left.  There is a twirl, and a dip, and a ruffling of skirt.  It is a dialog between two, improvisational movements.  The melancholic hum of a violin.  Or is that a bandoneon?  Perhaps it’s the ebb and flood of sound coming from the 1.4-liter MultiAir turbocharged four-cylinder Fiat crying out: ‘Yes! That’s it!  Work with me!’

As the driver passes me to my left I look over.  Her expression asks the question: ‘Was that good for you?’  I direct my eyes back to the road in front of me, but I roll down the window.  To let my hair flip in the wind.  Life is good.  Va bene!  Ciao!

Bio:

Brian MacLeod Carey graduated with a degree in Creative Writing from the University of Washington. He lives and writes in Seattle.
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