Benvenuta a Sicilia

My arrival in Catania, Sicily did not bode well. I hauled my bags back and forth in the airport arrivals terminal searching for Europcar. Hertz and Avis were represented, but no sign of Europcar. In my best Italian I asked the woman at the information desk. Of her rapid-fire, Sicilian-accented response, I understood “outside, and to the right.” I exited the terminal to the right, strode past hopeful taxi drivers, and when the sidewalk ended, continued down the street, thankful it was not raining.

I finally spotted a green Europcar sign on a bleak-looking building near a parking lot. Rather unusually, I did not have to wait in line. Carla helped me with my reservation. She asked where was I planning to drive in Sicilia. I recited my itinerary: near Vittoria, then west to Agrigento, then north to Erice, returning the car at Palermo’s airport. “Che belli,” she said, “Brava.”

Rather than the Fiat 500 or similar I had reserved, would I like to upgrade to a brand-new Audi A3? “We just received it today. It’s an automatic,” she said, “it will be good for your drive.” I told her I could drive a stick-shift, but was intrigued by the Audi. How much more? Allora, well, we have a special promotion, it’s only 20€ more per day. Sì Sì, va bene, that’s fine. I caved in. My last Fiat 500 was sufficient, but something with faster acceleration might come in handy in Sicily.

She tried to upsell me on a roadside assistance package. “Of course, even without a package, if anything happens with the car, just call this number. We will still help you.” When I declined the highway-robbery priced one, she talked me into an option that for the low price of 3€ a day, waived any charges if Europcar had to come to my rescue for an event I had caused, such as locking the keys inside it. Sì Sì, va bene.

The fuel tank option was next. I had an early flight out of Palermo. In fact, I would be returning the car before Europcar opened—and was paying an additional 45€ for that privilege. I asked her if the gas stations would be open that early in the morning. “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, “I am not familiar with Palermo.” She told me their price for diesel was very good. Not taking any chances with an early-morning flight, I capitulated. Sì Sì, va bene.

I had already reserved the medium-level protection package that provided 50,000€ insurance and reduced my liability to around 1200€ if I totaled the car. That amount seemed manageable given that I was terrified of driving in Sicily. It would hurt but not too much. Carla tried to get me to the premium level. No, No, grazie. I suspected that in me she had seen a first-time driver in Sicily, a tired, lone, American woman, and thought I was her ticket to win the internal contest for the number of upsells to a single client.

She presented me with an addendum to sign, written in English and Italian. I agreed to always lock the car; never to leave it unattended; always leave it overnight it in a gated, supervised lot; and never leave any valuables in it. I raised my eyebrows. “It’s perfectly normal for Catania,” she said, as if her explanation made me feel any better. I signed it, my fear of driving in Sicily escalating to downright anxiety.

She handed me the key. “It may be in stall number three,” she told me. “Ask one of my colleagues at the lot.” I walked to the parking lot that was shared by several rental agencies. Still dragging my bags, I looked for Europcar. After several minutes, I spotted a Europcar trailer. Reaching it, I could not find stall three. I left my heavy bags outside and entered the trailer.

Two male employees were engaged in a heated discussion that I guessed was about soccer. They did not stop when I entered. I stood at the counter, evidently not conversation-stopping gorgeous. Finally one of them turned to me in abject annoyance. I inquired in Italian where I might find the black Audi A3. He looked at my documents. “Number three,” he said, as if I could not read. “And where is number three?” I asked. He pointed in the direction I had just arrived.

I walked out, retrieved my luggage, and backtracked to the elusive numero tre, which, when I eventually found it, was not my Audi A3. I walked up and down the aisle, unlocking the Audi’s doors with the keys, I popped the trunk, unwilling to break the silence with the panic alarm. Finally, down and over a row, I found my Audi A3.

Mirrors adjusted, radio off, and navigation set, I drove out of my stall and tried to ascertain how to exit the fenced-in lot. No signs or arrows provided a clue. I turned left and drove down the narrow aisle until it ended. Reversing, I made a five-point turnaround surrounded by rental cars. The Audi’s distance sensors shrieked. I cannot get into an accident before I’ve left the parking lot, I thought. Thirty minutes in Sicilia, I was ready to leave it.

I drove the maze of aisles in the parking lot. A kind-looking gentleman smiled at me and pointed to my left. I waved grazie and took the exit.