Thursday, October 11, 2007

I've moved!  
Sorry, Blogger, but I needed a fresh start.  You've been a good platform, though. Farewell...

Visit the new and refreshed Tarmac Philosopher at

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Roman Holiday + Fiat 500 = Happiness
Cab rides in Rome rival open heart surgery, discovers the Philosopher 

Every now and then, the Publication decides to actually spend some of its budget and send a writer on a road trip.  Road trips like these can range from a 40 mile jaunt to the Mojave Desert to a full-fledged, fortnight adventure that would stress out even Phineas Fogg.  Today, our most respectable Editor-in-Chief sent me a memo to announce I would be traveling to Rome and driving the new supermini Fiat 500 from the Eternal City to Turin.  It would be like something out of a romantic Italian road movie, an earthy adventure in the hot, olive-skinned hills of Umbria.  He declined to word it in that way, but Ennio Morricone was already playing in my head. 

Fun was the first word that came to mind.  Those cars are cute.  I usually detest calling a car “cute”, a symptom of my respectful adoration of the Mini Cooper, but the Fiat 500 is so cute I want to pinch its cheeks and hear it giggle.  

The best thing is that it’s not pretentious or cutesy-cute.  It’s not the Hello-Kitty cute that so dominates contemporary small-car design.  It’s a beautiful Italian cute.  Dignified and classy, yet playful and fun.  Golly, it’s a fantastic-looking car.

I had one week to prepare for my wild car-cation, and spent most of it at Barnes&Noble frantically soaking up as much of Fodor’s and Frommer’s as possible.  I had been to Italy before, but for a very short time: I once drove a Pagani Zonda F from Modena into Switzerland without stopping anywhere within Italy.  But this time, I would have to stop for petrol, stop for food, and stop for lodging, and I was totally devoid of street smarts.  Not good.  I would also be traveling all by myself.  Even worse.  

So without knowing a lick of Italian (with the exception of “autostrada” and “birra”), I boarded a massive Virgin Atlantic jumbo for Aeroporto Leonardo da Vinci di Fiumicino.  I arrived at the terminal jetlagged and tired, all because of a little Italian girl who was screaming so loud the entire trip I thought she was being forced to listen to the health and safety lectures on repeat.  Anyway, I arrived in Rome totally unprepared to be arriving in Rome.  There are some things in the world you must be prepared for: medical board exams, open heart surgery, and driving through the Eternal City.

I had an hour to get to the Fiat factory and pick up my press-issue 500.  I decided the best way to get my bearings was to take a taxi.  Hailing the taxi was no problem: there were approximately 4 million taxis parked outside the terminal..  However, the taxi ride itself was one of the most vomit-inducing experiences I have ever been through.  My driver, a man named Vittorio, apparently had no conscious awareness of life, death, and eternal punishment.  He drove on any surface that was not vertical, and drove at speeds rivaling a Bugatti Veyron at Ehra-Lessien.  All the horrific rumors I have heard about Italian motoring were true.

"There are some things in the world you must be prepared for: medical board exams, open heart surgery, and driving through the Eternal City."

The Fiat factory suddenly appeared beside me, and I promptly got out of the car feeling like a quadriplegic who had just fallen down the stairs. I felt like falling out of the cab on my knees, kissing the ground, and screaming, "LAND!". 

Finally, I entered the wonderful world of Fiat.  The lobby was modern and cool, and a minibar with little bottles of San Pellegrino beckoned for me to refresh myself.  I presented my press badge, said the name of my contact, and before long, I was briskly en route to the press building.  On the way, the Fiat spokesman told me the amazing wonders and unearthly pleasures I would experience in my stint with the 500.  I wasn’t so sure.  I would be more certain once I reached the countryside and was able to collect my thoughts.  Rome was enough to beat even the most seasoned motoring journalist to a bloody pulp.

  Further into a gigantic warehouse, we met the tidy fleet of 500s.  I had not seen one in person before, and I must say, the pictures do no justice to how attractive and well-proportioned the spicy little number really is.  We approached spot #46, and there sat a creamy white 500, with chrome trim and the classic, throwback wheels. It was one cool car.  And that’s all I can essentially say about it.  I was handed the keys, told the petrol tank was full, and given directions to the Circonvallazione Settentriolnale, the Autostrada beltway around the Eternal City.  From there, I would navigate north into the sweeping hills of Umbria on the Autostrada del Sole.  What a cool name for a highway.  Sounds like the name of a bossa nova album. It sure beats “Interstate 5”.  

Everything seemed peachy.  The car was stratospherically comfortable.  The motor was surprisingly solid and muscular.  The ride was smooth. The air conditioning actually worked.  I felt good; I felt like the pseudo-tourist.  

But my confidence was about to be shattered when I actually started driving the streets of Rome.  Nothing prepares you for it; it is instant baptism by fire.  Sidewalks are considered a passing lane.  Pedestrians have the same right-of-way as fallen leaves.  Honking your horn is as common as using your brake pedal.  Roundabouts are high-octane wildebeest stampedes.  I suddenly realized the beauty of little city cars, and why Europeans love them so much.  If I were driving even a small sedan, I would been dead.  

After about 2 hours of terror, I made it onto the Circonvallazione Settentriolnale, and I was surprised at how good the Fiat was.  Fiats have a very well-known reputation for being unreliable and just downright crappy, but this car could actually be compared to a Toyota or Honda, in my opinion.  The stereo system was superb, the air conditioning was ice-cold, the whole interior just worked.   The engine did not feel like it was powered by a hamster named Gerald spinning in his wheel fast, and the suspension did not feel like it was made of rubber bands strapped between toothpicks.  This thing actually felt like a decent car! 

I was glad to get out of the smog and filth of Rome and out in the Italian countryside.  What a beautiful place.  Hills that seem to flow like olive oil out of a decanter; villages that look like they were built by the ancient Romans.  Beautiful wide motorways that cut through the landscape as though they were part of it.  And there I was, in a Fiat minicar, zipping through it with the windows open.  The only thing that was missing was an Italian farmer’s daughter in the passenger seat, a picnic basket in the boot, and some Puccio Roelens Orchestra piping through the stereo. 

To Be Continued.....