Taxi!

It’s over a week since we said good-bye to the temperamental but much missed hire car – so how have two men and two dogs managed in a small Italian town without independent transport? Well, as was the case with Blanche Dubois, we have had to depend on the kindness of strangers.

In an attempt to ameliorate the situation, today was the day we were going to find a car – with the help of Romolo, as we needed someone with a car to help us locate one. We’d decided that we’d look for a Fiat Panda 4x4, as Stephen’s research highlighted these as good cars for the money and ones that can cope with challenging terrains. What the research doesn’t say is that because they are indeed popular in Italy, no one actually wants to sell theirs so the second hand market is a bit thin on the ground.

We did manage, after about an hour driving around to the south of MSP and checking out a few dealers, to track one down – at which point my proverbial heart sank into my even more proverbial boots. Now I suppose I’m spoilt as I have always bought new, but I had the idea that second hand traders would at least have something that resembled a forecourt and an office, if in the most rudimentary of ways. Not so around here – a bit of fencing, a few rows of cars in need of a good wash and men in singlets or checked work shirts with two day’s growth darkening their already swarthy complexions is the standard.

This place was no exception, but when the dealer ambled out of his hut, he said that yes he did have a Panda 4x4 and took us along the front row of cars. This is when, for the first time since we’d arrived, I had doubts about what we were doing. Had I exchanged my much loved, virtually immaculate Jazz for a car with a cracked bumper, missing handles and mesh behind the front seats as it had been used as a van. “It’s ok,” said Romolo, “the back seats are still there, you just need to unfold them.” Not wanting to appear unreasonable, I smiled heroically and said nothing. Stephen told the man we would think about it, telephone numbers were exchanged and we drove off.

We had no better luck in any of the other places, until eventually we came to the last one in our search area. At least this one had the appearance of a proper business, and it had waiting by the entrance a white Panda 4x4, almost as if it were meant to be. This one was newer than the other, in much better condition and looked like something you would not wear a bag over your head to be seen in – always an disadvantage when driving. We were quite interested in it, but we thought the price a bit steep. Again, we said we would have a think – not wanting to appear too eager if we were to do a deal, and drove off.

Even though I would have been quite happy to drive the white Panda, it was at this point that Stephen said the words that every man wants to hear: ‘I think we should look a new one, just to compare.’ And so, a little while later we drove into the Pompei parking area, walked round the servicing area and into the show room (which is on two floors – there’s posh). It was like walking into Heaven, if you forgive the irreverent cliché: glass, space, shiny floors, air-conditioning, stylish chairs, coffee, magazines…and new cars. They had, of course, a Panda 4x4 but over in the window was a Panda 4x4 Cross – “I’ve read about those,” said Stephen, “they’re the ones that would be ideal for where we’re going to live.” I knew then it was inevitable, or would have been if not for Italian bureaucracy.

To get to the point, we looked at it, we sighed, the man came up with an unbelievably good offer, some €5,000 below list price, we asked if they were open in the afternoon, we went home, we came back and it was then the man, who I think might be Mr Pompei himself, played his trump card: his handsome son, whom he called over to talk about the car, as he spoke English. How were we not going to buy the car when a brown eyed, brown haired Italian rugby type, who looked like he could carry us both up the hill from the house himself without the need of a four-wheel drive, was extolling its virtues?

But this is where we hit the big snag. Mr P took us into the office, while his obliging son fetched us each a coffee, and started to fill in the paperwork. To buy a car in Italy you need a codici fiscal (check) and a certificate of permanent residency (uncheck – we only have a temporary one). The man looked concerned and made a phone call while his son reckoned it wasn’t a problem and to just sell it (bless him). The upshot is that we’ve completed the paperwork and Mr P is going to contact the council to get an update on our official status. We also told him that Flavia would be in touch, but he must not have heard about her because he didn’t visibly blanche and agree there and then. So it’s a matter of waiting to see what happens, and crossing fingers that we won’t lose the car.