Stranger Things Have Happened
But Not Much
Barga, Luca province, Italy
This is a Small city, and the term city is proudly and insistently used by the Bargasiani. It does have a Duomo, the major qualification for being a city. It also has about 200 permanent residents in Barga Vecchia, the old center city.
Interesting side story, in 1920 there was a devastating earthquake that severely damaged the Duomo. Benito Mussolini came to Barga to see the damage. He insisted it must be rebuilt but the mayor pointed out that Barga was just a village and not eligible for governmental assistance. Mussolini declared Barga a city because of the Duomo. Repairs done.
My saga begins after a 16 hours marathon flight from LAX through Istanbul and backwards to Bologna, Italy. I rented a car when I landed in Bologna. Budget. No contract, no waivers, nothing to sign. They had my name, handed me the keys, and pointed me vaguely toward a parking garage. Car found, on the road. I arrived in Barga, parked in a lot outside the main gates to the old city and settled in. After a week or so, I had to actually use it for more than a grocery run and go to the train to pick up Sylvia and Nick. 4km. That’s it. On the way, a kindly trucker pulled me over and pointed out that I had a flat tire.
Oh Bother
On the way back up the hill, Sylvia and I found an open garage and they checked all my tires. Two were flat with punctures in the sidewalls. There was what appears to be an authentically ancient one-inch ooooold metal nail left in one. Also, someone apparently pushed in the side door leaving a large indentation.
His first question was, in Italian, “Was I a mushroom hunter?” It seems that he noticed mud on one of the tires and apparently the locals are quite adamant about outsiders parking in the woods and stealing their prized funghi! Pleading total innocence, he put inner tubes in both. And on I go.
The next morning, just because, I wandered out to the carpark to check on things. One of the tires just fixed was completely punctured through the sidewall, again, this time completely flat. The local Bargasiani were horrified. This does NOT happen here. I have had a very low profile, low key, 2 weeks here; chatting with locals and tourists alike, a few meals at the Ossteria and other spots, coffees and a Spritz now and then. Mostly walking, taking photos, but primarily in my apartment writing! WTF?
This car had to go
After two days, quite literally hours of calls to Budget, Chase card services, and roadside assistance, I finally got a relatively English-ish speaking person who sent a tow.
Now the first tow driver (Italian only) sent me a location ping and said he’d be there in 30 minutes. I checked out his location, he was 147 miles away, across a mountain. He was near the town of Barge, not Barga.
Meanwhile, back in the carpark, another tow driver arrives! Happy to have ANYone at this point he starts to load the Fiat but then, as if out of a really bad Italian film from the 60’s, my phone rings with a rather angry-in-tone Italian speaker demanding to know where I was, exactly, and loudly proclaiming that the driver I was dealing with was NOT their driver.
Enter my friend, Keane, who has the gallery below my apartment. I put everyone on speaker and let the Italian speakers vociferously debate about jurisdiction, location, etc. Finally, after about ten minutes, I began to hear my driver say “Perfetto” several times. I took this as a good sign.
The Fiat was gone
But then the trouble started.
I began to reach out to Budget to find out about getting a replacement car. Fat Fucking Chance that would be easy. The phone calls, through the cues, to a pseudo-English speaking agent, were continually dropped. I started over at least eight times begging them to take my number FIRST just in case.
I also filed an insurance claim online, the only option, but with no contract number, no receipt from the tow driver, no police report (they appear only open on Tuesdays from 8a-4p, I had little to offer and NO idea where the car I was responsible for had got off to.
Oh, the orrore
It was also a Sunday, those not at Mass were not working anyway so after spending six hours trying to manipulate a solution out of thick Italian air, I gave up and went in search of a drink and dinner. To quote Scarlett, “I’ll think about that tomorrow”.
First thing Monday I began anew. More dropped calls, more transfers to other departments until finally I got an agent who, between his limited English and my nascent Italian came to a cross-cultural communication. He figured out where Barga actually was! Amongst his mumblings to himself I heard Lucca, twice; once for the province Barga is in, and once, I assumed, was where I could find another car. It is a tourist hub, after all.
Meanwhile, back on my screen
I was madly checking transportation to Lucca. Answer: train (3 transfers, through Pisa, four hours, once a day, car (for more than obvious reason that would be a non-starter), and bus. Aha! Again, limited runs but 58 minutes and a few Euros.
Now I wait, once more, for a phone call back from Budget. Meanwhile, I hike down to the Tabaccheria, the only pace to buy bus tickets, and hope this all come together sometime today, or not.
When in Rome (or Barga) pray
