Life in Italy — A Diary

I. Settling In

Reams and reams of paperwork proving residencies, visas, and soundness of mind to start life again in another country are required to merely purchase a car; each signed, emphatically stamped, and filed away.
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Neighbors in the know suggested an old Fiat Panda 4x4 to navigate winter. Truffle hunters, mushroom foragers, and beekeepers swear by the car’s legendary ability to navigate steep slopes and rocky terrain. They’re cheap, easy to maintain, and drive like farm equipment. Craggy old men maneuver them around the countryside, windows down, two sun-browned hands firmly on the tractor-like wheel, cigarette dangling from lips pursed in concentration, a dingy tank-top only adding to the glamour of the car’s pre-Gorbachev, Soviet stylings.
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We arrived at a gas station, a meeting point near the car owner’s home. A very old man, who fit the above description to a T minus any teeth, pulled in, driving a Panda matching the write-up from the ad (reminder: get eyes checked). In classic Americana, I smiled broadly and waved madly. He pulled close to inspect the two women, completely enthusiastic to see him. He grinned salaciously, immediately chilling my menopausal clamminess. His car was riddled with rust, clearly not our intended ride. At that moment, a younger man arrived, motioning for us to follow him to his home, where we discussed engines and gearboxes in broken Italian, which made it only…