OMENS and the TERRIBLE, AWFUL, VERY BAD VAN

Some people believe in providential signs. A flat tire means they shouldn’t go to the grocery store because they’ll be robbed in the fresh fruit aisle.  I change the tire and go to the store.  A delayed flight indicates the entire vacation will be a disaster with hurricanes and dancing witches so it’s best to stay home. I have another beer and wait for the delayed flight. I simply don’t believe in such ‘signs’.  Then again, the ancient Roman dictator Julius Caesar ignored the horrendous storms in Rome on the Ides of March, 44BC, and that didn’t turn out well for him since he was assassinated.  But to me, those ‘signs’ are just things that happen, cosmic blips that have nothing to do with the future.  They predict nothing.   

Yet every now and then my firm belief in the randomness of the universe is shaken a bit.  

I had rented a van to drive my tour group around Tuscany and while we explored Siena it was stolen from the parking lot.  The troubles had begun the moment we picked up this vehicle-from-hell at the rental agency in Florence. The sliding door fell off every time we opened or closed it.  One headlight dangled from wires and worked only when it wanted to.  The parking brake was disconnected so the first time I parked on an incline the van rolled downhill. The manual transmission was missing second gear and the gas gauge showed only ‘full’ so we never knew how much fuel was in the tank.  Emily, one of the girls in my group, insisted these were bad omens we shouldn’t ignore.  

“These are all signs, I tell you!  We can’t ignore them.  Something bad will happen if we take this van!”, she said.  We had landed late in the afternoon in Florence, Italy, and it was the only 9 passenger van left on the lot.

“We should wait until tomorrow morning!”, Emily insisted.  “More vans will be available!”  

Since our hotel was 65 miles away in Volterra, this was not an option.  We were tired from the 13 hour flight, hungry, thirsty and not willing to sleep on the floor of the rental agency.  We used bandaids to keep the headlight in place, squeezed our way into the van, and realigned the sliding door to close it.

We could have taken the Tuscany Bus Service but I wanted to be free of someone else’s schedule.  I figured all this was worth it for the independence a vehicle would give us.  We could set our own departure times, spend longer or shorter in some towns, and stop along the way wherever and whenever we wanted.  If we saw a wine stand on the side of the road or an outdoor cafe that looked charming, we could take a break and enjoy them.  To do this, I firmly believed, we had to have a van.

Until Siena, where the vehicle was stolen.  

We’d had a good day in Siena.  Green, red and yellow wind-whipped flags flew from stone balconies, roving bands of musicians played old Italian favorites, and the smell of fresh pizza wafted out of little cafes.  The narrow, medieval lanes date back to the 1200s.  Like 800 years ago, tiny boutiques with leather and glass wares, iron and pewter shops, cosmetics stores, wine bars and cafes are packed next to one another tight as a deck of playing cards.

When we returned a few hours later to where we had left it, the missing jalopy was such a shock we just stared at the bare spot on the asphalt.  Talking about it didn’t make it reappear so we trudged back to the city center to find the police. As we left the parking lot, I looked around.  It was empty.  Not one other vehicle was in sight.  It was a warm, busy Saturday in Siena, market day, and the city buzzed with crowds so the lot should have been crammed with cars.  But my mind was on other matters.

As we searched for the police I wondered why anyone would have stolen our dented, tobacco fouled, sticky-floored, one-head-light van.  Why bother to steal a dumpster, a vehicle any self-respecting Italian would not be caught dead in?  Out on the street were Lamborghinis and Mercedes, sexy cars, cars with a message that said ‘money, youth, beauty’.  Mine had a message, all right, but the message was ‘destitute, old, ugly’. 

We found a policeman, Sergeant Giorgio, directing a surge of pedestrians headed toward the local stadium for a soccer game, another reason the lot should have been full.  In Italian, I said good afternoon to Giorgio and he nodded his head and returned the greeting.  

“Our van has been stolen,” I said and showed him a photo of the missing van.  “It was parked in the stadium public lot and now it’s gone.”   He held my phone and looked at the photo, then up at me.  

“Your van wasn’t stolen,” he said.  “It was towed away.  That lot must be cleared by 3pm on game days.”  He didn’t say why.  “It’s 4:30pm now.” 

“3pm?”, I repeated.  “I had to leave the lot before 3pm?”  I said.  “But there was no sign, no warning.  How was I supposed to know?”

“There’s no sign.  All the locals know.  But it gets the tourists every time,” he said and shrugged.  A speed trap I knew of but had never heard of a parking trap.  

“Go to the police station, there,” he pointed. “Pay Sergeant Antonelli for the ticket.”  He tipped his hat to me, waved to my group and went back to directing the crowd.

At the police station, Sargent Antonelli matched the license number tag on my keys with a parking ticket and pushed the pink onion skin copy toward me.  $32. Not bad.  In Chicago it would have been $200.  I paid Antonelli the ticket fee and asked where my car was.  

“At Giancarlo’s,” he said.

“Why is it at Giancarlo’s?” I asked.

“He towed your car,” Antonelli said.

“OK, where is Giancarlo?”, I said.   

“At his shop.”

“Where.   Is.   Giancarlo’s.   Shop?”,  I said. 

“Go out.  Turn left.”  

I thanked him, said I’d walk over to get it, and turned to leave.

“It’s 25 miles,” he added.  

I found a cab.  The taxi driver saw the pink paper in my hand and without looking at it said, “Giancarlo’s, yes?” and I nodded. 

A half hour later we pulled up to Giancarlo’s Towing Service, an old gas station in a village that was so run down, I’d seen junk yards in better shape.  Next to the station was a Walmart-sized parking lot filled with towed vehicles, heat shimmering from the rooftops. I paid the $100 taxi fare, and queued up with 18 others paying a tow charge. Giancarlo sat at a desk in front of the long line of whining customers.

‘’Did you see a sign,” one middle aged lady in front of me said to her companion.  “I didn’t see a sign, there was no sign. NO SIGN.  How was I supposed to know I had to be out of that parking lot by 3pm?  This is a scam.  We’re being robbed. I’ll refuse to pay.”  

Everyone around her nodded in agreement, but in the end we all paid.  

After 35 minutes of other victims’ arguing and cajoling, it was my turn. I showed him the keys with the license number tag and asked for the bill.  $325.  I paid and went to look for the van in an ocean of scalding metal and diesel fumes.  

I was in a foul mood, determined to let it ruin an otherwise good day.  A lot of energy went into being this angry and I refused to give it up easily.  After all, what good was a bad mood if I just threw it away?  I had to get something out of it.  The day had cost me nearly $500 and hours of lost time.  I was hot, tired, enraged and was going to enjoy it.  

I picked up my people back at the Siena cafe where I’d left them holding glasses of wine and nibbling snacks, and headed back toward Volterra.  Their good mood was irritating. We drove along like this for quite a while.  They laughed, I scowled. 

About a half hour outside of Volterra a billboard the size of an apartment building loomed up.  Usually roadside signs in Italy are small and discreet.  Not this one.  It had a brilliant blue background and in the foreground a giant gleaming bus filled with smiling passengers.  Stenciled across it was, “LA PROSSIMA VOLTA, PRENI L’AUTOBUS!”.  I slowed to read it again, in disbelief.  

“What does it say?’, Emily asked.  

“Next time, take the bus!”, I translated.  The group laughed so hard I thought they’d wet themselves.  Even I had to chuckle at the irony.  

“So,” Emily said, “do you believe this sign?”  Yes, Emily, I did indeed.  This omen had punched me in the face. The dangling headlight, the sliding door that popped off at a touch, the faulty transmission and the dangerous parking brake all might have been signs of impending doom which I had ignored.  But this sign, I’d remember.  The next time in Tuscany, we would take the bus.