Romance is a Smoking Fiat
As my platform sandals striking the pavement echoed off the trees, I began questioning my decisions. There were no cars on the rural road and no guarantee that the people at the B&B we had passed would be able to understand me. But thinking of Federico back at the car, him and the vehicle both smoking as he waved his cellulare around desperately for service, I felt my resolve strengthen.
I had been in hairier situations in my decade of nomading. This would be nothing compared to spending an unexpected night on a beach or bribing law enforcement to save a friend. You are simply out of practice, I told myself.
Having just turned 40 as the second year of the pandemic rolled to a close, I was in need of a confidence boost. COVID had robbed me of the last years of my thirties, any semblance of romance, and the nomadic life I had created. I returned to Italy that spring to teach, but also to relearn how to exist in the world.
The day I met Federico had been right out of the fantasy many women have of Italy. We met in Florence’s Piazza della Signora for a midday spritz, after which we strolled through the tiny side streets and lunched on pasta and wine. Up on Piazzale Michelangelo, we talked in a mix of broken English and Italian while perched on a bit of wall. He kissed me, surrounded by tourists enjoying the view, and I was back on the train to Bologna before the sun began to set, tipsy on wine and attention.
The day was a capsule, like so many vacation romances: perfect in memory and best left there. But it’s always tempting to revisit those moments, so when he later invited me to a sagra with his friends, I hesitantly accepted.
We held hands in his old Fiat, windows down as the aircon was proving fairly useless against the early summer heat. I watched the crowds thin as we passed Fiesole on roads that clung to the hillside then dipped down into dense forest.
Just minutes from Lago Viola, the Fiat began to smoke. Luckily, an older man - a retired mechanic - immediately pulled over and assured us that, though the car needed coolant, filling the chamber with water would at least get us back to Florence, if we stuck to the highway. Optimistic, we jumped into his friend’s car for the short ride to the sagra: Festa del Tortello e Porcino.
The little venue surrounding the lake was packed with families filling up on tortelli and porcini mushrooms. Taking our place among them, I found myself shy at first, self-conscious of my language and being amongst virtual strangers. But Federico’s friends were welcoming, speaking in Ital-English for my benefit, and I felt myself relax into the day. We sat barefoot in the grass into the afternoon, before finally rising and heading back to the cars. After filling the coolant tank with water, Federico successfully started the engine to cheers from our little party before we split apart for the drive back.
The heat was breaking as we drove. The warm wind on my face conspired with the carbs and wine to ease me into sleep, so I did not notice when we turned off the highway, against the mechanic’s recommendation, and back onto the hilly road until the car began to lurch.
Federico’s cool demeanor cracked in the face of his smoking car and dissolved entirely when he realized he had just one bar of cell service. After he ignored my suggestions in his panic, I shouted “Basta! Vado all'albergo!" before taking off towards the small B&B we had driven past minutes earlier.
I practiced my words as I walked, hoping I could make myself understood. But my anxiety was unfounded: though they spoke no English, the proprietors were welcoming and allowed me to use their wifi. I called Federico’s friends, who were, miraculously, already headed our direction, having assumed there would be trouble when they saw him turn off the highway. They called a tow truck and picked me up on their way.
Standing there on the empty road, I entertained myself by watching the three men study the engine as though any of them understood how it worked. When I heard them wish that we had more water, I started trudging into the forest, proud that my comprehension of Italian was improving.
“No, Sarah, dove vai?”
“I hear a stream.” Their faces went comically blank as they listened, trickling water echoing through the silence.
They insisted on coming with me, but once again proved useless as we faced a short, steep drop to the creekbed. The mud was a step too far for these city boys in their tight jeans and designer sneakers. They made various sounds of protest as I removed my sandals and jumped down, gesturing for the empty bottles, but only one of them was shamed enough to jump in and help.
The engine no longer smoking, I continued to explore the forest (to their disbelief) while they waited at the car. I had always loved the woods. When the tow truck finally arrived, Federico talked with the driver then shrugged at us, confused. “He speaks dialect,” he explained as we loaded into his friend’s car. “I understand him like I understand you.”
The sun was setting as we summited Fiesole and descended into Florence, straight to Pita M’Ingolli to meet a crowd of their friends for a deserved drink. When asked what happened, I jumped in, regaling them with the tale of their friends’ uselessness in simple Italian and vigorous hand gestures. With each burst of laughter, I felt myself returning to the person I used to be, the person I came here looking for.
At the end of the night, Federico invited me back to his place, but I hugged him and declined. The day had been absolutely perfect, just as it was.
Sarah Jean Benvenuti is a writer of fiction and travel, professor, nomad, and creative entrepreneur; the founder of Benvenuti Arts; and a co-founder of the Wandering Theatre Collective. She has been published by Panorama Journal, Short Beasts, Blinker Lit, and Write Pittsburgh, amongst others.
