Sicily Archives - Gray Matters

Tree branches scraped the side of my brand new rental car. I was driving on the shoulder, partly to avoid huge potholes, partly to avoid colliding with oncoming traffic. Twenty minutes into my drive to my agriturismo near Vittoria, I surmised that Sicilians had their own driving rules.

The center line, if visible, was merely decoration and crossed by traffic in both directions of the two-lane highway. Hugging the shoulder meant a car passing either way was less likely to hit me. If I stayed in the middle, cars would fly past me on the right shoulder, while oncoming autos approached in my lane. At one point, I closed my eyes and hoped I would not crash.

Driving had been my biggest fear traveling solo to Sicily. I have terrible navigation skills, I cannot parallel park, and don’t like driving. I had confident-sounding GPS, roadside assistance, and if I damaged the car, I’d pay, at most, 1200€. Nothing to worry about, I kept telling myself, eyes glued to the road. Just do what everyone else is doing.

So I drove on the shoulder. I careened around corners. I sped much faster than a reasonable person should given the road conditions and the warnings of radio-controlled speed monitors. An hour later I pulled into the gates of my peaceful agriturismo, Baglio Occhipinti.

The next day I drove ten minutes, an easy four turns on three roads, for my appointment at COS Vittoria, where Giusto and Joanna showed me how they make their amazing biodynamic wines. Giusto invited me to lunch with him, an offer I would never refuse, even though it meant I would have to follow him to the restaurant.

For a half-hour I kept my eyes on Giusto’s Fiat 500 as we drove up the mountain to Ristorante Majore in Chiaramonte Gulfi. I sped around switchbacks and slowed down for stop signs until we reached the city piazza where, as luck would have it, we pulled into two adjoining parking spots.

The next day, Google maps had me turn very sharply left and up into what I thought was a gravel driveway. I had been on a normal two-lane road. “You are on the best route,” she told me as if sensing my skepticism. I was headed to an appointment with another winery, Valle dell’ Acate, and not wanting to be late, I turned. I reached the top of the hill and was surrounded by fields. The day before, Giusto and I had taken a farm road out of his winery, but his was level. This road was bouldered, rutted, pot-holed, and in many spots, missing. I bumbled along slowly and heard the unmistakable sound of my car undercarriage scraping rocks.

After one nasty stretch, I looked at the GPS. Several kilometers to go. I considered turning around but there was no place to do so without ending up entangled in grapevines, and I did not think I could get back without damaging the car. I calculated how long it would take roadside assistance to find me.

I saw a car approaching in the rearview mirror behind the dust my Audi was kicking up. Oh good, I thought, if my car gets stuck, they can help me, the road was too narrow for them to pass. Instead, he tailgated and honked furiously. I crept to an area I could pull over and he shot past me.

Finally, white-knuckled and bone-jarred, I arrived. Oddly, there was no sign for the winery. I looked behind me and saw that it faced the other way. Google maps had sent me the back way.

The next day I got lost trying to find my Airbnb in Agrigento. I parked illegally in a piazza until my kind host arrived to fetch me. I then spent one hour trying to find the parking lot 500 meters from my Airbnb. I maneuvered though the market, navigated one-ways in a warren of narrow chaotic lanes, and remembered Sicily’s famous painted carts. These roads were once mule and donkey cart paths.

The next day, I parked illegally three times, getting the hang of Sicily’s rhythm, and optimistic that on a holiday weekend I would not get a ticket. I headed north for Erice, never so relieved to drive the autostrada, a four-lane highway.

I ascended steep switchbacks to Erice, grateful the Europcar lady upsold me to an automatic transmission. I got lost despite directions from my host, Massimo who came to find me. I would follow him through the tiny lanes of Erice to a legal parking spot. Thankfully, the Audi had distance sensors that emitted beeps from all directions in a variety of tones as I wended my way though improbably tight corners and narrow streets.

My joy at successfully parking on the left side of the street turned to dismay when I opened my door and it hit the curb. Crunch. Massimo winced. I looked down, two tiny scratches in the paint. I mentally noted to try covering them up with my Sharpie marker.

The car had twelve miles of fuel remaining when I returned it at the Palermo airport. I never had to put gas in it, my fuel option choice ended up being a good one. I took pictures of the car, in case they charged me for damage. The two camouflaged scratches were imperceptible. I never had to parallel park. And now that I’ve driven in Sicily, I can do just about anything.

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.

Tag: Sicily

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