“No comprende Italiano”

Can we all agree that vacations suck? Not the vacations themselves, per se, but the fact that you have to come home when they are over. Maverick always threatens that he is “not coming home this time,” to which I say as long as he can successfully fake his own death so I can collect on the life insurance, we’re good to go. He has thus far failed to follow through on that promise, and we continue to struggle with the “re-entry” especially when we bring home new or certain habits.

For instance, we just got back from Sicily. As you might imagine, life in Sicily is very different from life here. For starters, the people speak a whole other language, nobody speaks English, and admitting that you don’t speak Italian doesn’t change anything. I was just getting used to pantomiming and shouting a combination of French and Spanish peppered with Italian, and adding an “io” to my English when all else failed, because aren’t all the romance languages basically the same anyway? And knock it off, don’t pretend you don’t understand me when I say “no comprende Italiano” even though it was really adorable when that hunky sailor shook his head and pretended he didn’t understand when I told him to come back to America with me. Sure, in Italy it’s usually the much older, married man with the young girl, but here in America it’s all about the cougar. And how about when I tried to make a joke with that waiter, only to discover with dismay that I am not funny in other languages, or perhaps not funny in other countries at all, but somehow I still ended up as a guest on a radio broadcast, speaking made-up Italian words that I learned from the “Pepper Boy” on Saturday Night Live. I am sure I was a big hit, and I can feel my career getting ready to take off, kind of like how Jerry Lewis is so beloved in France. But I knew something was wrong when I said “Ciao!” to my butcher back home and shouted, “MIO WANT QUATTRO FLANK STEAKS!” while gesticulating wildly, and he gave me that blank look he wears so well.

But getting my language skills in check is nothing compared to how I have to tone down my driving. Driving on mainland Italy can be scary, but that’s a walk in the park compared to Sicily. I suppose it would have been helpful to learn their street signs before we got behind the wheel, but that’s not how we roll. Apparently the way I roll is to drive the wrong way up a highway ramp. But that’s not even the scary part. Scary was driving up mountains with hairpin turns, flanked by a cliff edge with no guard rails, and ancient crumbling walls. Oh, and one lane in each direction. OH, and cars passing each other around the turns and when you take your hands off the wheel for just a second to reach behind you for a handful of pistachio nuts (yes, I know it would have been smarter to get nuts that didn’t need to be shelled…) and a car is coming straight at you and you might as well shut your eyes too, because that’s about how effective any of your driving skills will be to get you out of the that pickle. But you are, after all, in the land of the Pope, so you say a quick prayer, which is completely out of character for you, but thank you Lord Jesus, You listened and we made it to the top of Mt. Etna in one piece, and we even toasted You with house wine. That scenario would only repeat itself several more times over the course of our trip.

Until BOOM: like someone flipped a switch we start driving like the natives! It’s awesome!! It might have had something to do with alcohol as we noticed the trip down Mt Etna was much easier than the trip up, after we consumed many, many glasses of wine at a beautiful winery poured by another adorable Sicilian man who didn’t understand my jokes about his “grapes.” Or maybe he did. Anyway, there don’t seem to be any rules or laws regarding drinking and driving in Italy, or I would be locked up by now.

So we were coasting along pretty well until we pulled into Taormina and got the car stuck between two buildings. You are probably saying to yourself, “D.Parker, that doesn’t even sound possible, how can that be?” And to you I respond, “Oh, it be!”
I guess wooden carts pulled by slaves in 300 BC were narrower than the Buongiorno Rental Cars of today. Take my advice, when the travel guide books tell you certain roads are difficult to navigate, they are being serious as a heart attack. All I can say is thank you Jesus, again (I really am going to have to start going to church) that we had those bottles of wine in the car because my claustrophobia would have done me in otherwise, and thank YOU, Cute Buongiorno-Car-Rental Guy, for talking us into the extra insurance, because that car was pretty banged up by the time we got it out, not to mention that we did a real number on the clutch, as was evidenced by the smell of burning metal. But I digress.

The cop that pulled me over for running a red light here at home didn’t speak any Italian, and feigned disinterest when I told him that in Sicily there are no red lights, just traffic circles, which sounds “loco” but it works! Although I did peak his interest when I told him that there is also a very casual attitude about drinking, especially wine, because it’s really just grape juice anyway, right? He looked at me the same way the butcher did, and sternly asked me to step out of the car. Oops.

Quick as a flash I said a prayer to myself as I heard the words leave my mouth, with perfectly rolled “r”s…..”No comprende Inglese!”