Pisa

Today was the day. The promised day. The day I have been waiting for since I arrived here on 27 June. This was the day the car I had arranged would be delivered to me. The story does not begin at 10:15 am, when the guy from Peugeot was to meet me at the EuropeCar in downtown Pisa. No, the story really begins back in March when I contacted Kemwel in Portland, ME to rent a car for the summer. They have this fabulous program called OpenEurope, whereby you lease a car through them, directly from Peugeot. When you book the car, a car is manufactured to your specifications and delivered to you upon your arrival in whatever European capital you choose (from a very extensive list).

I contracted for an automatic transmission convertible 308cc Peugeot. I was to pick said car up at Linate Airport in Milan, some 3 and a half hours from Castel del Bosco. But, no worries. I would sleep on the plane and be fresh as a dozen daisies and ready for my drive home. Besides, I'd have the top down and I would get some well needed sun. I would arrive on via Raffaello all kissed by the sun and ready for anything!

The plan went pear-shaped around London... when I missed the connecting flight to Milan. I called the number on the voucher and explained that I would be a little later than expected. The woman on the other end of the line was less than sympathetic and in the end said, "I hope someone will be able to be there to meet you." This did not bode well.

I arrived, indeed, 3 hours after originally expected, but this delay was exacerbated by the fact that British Airways had forgotten to load my bag onto the onward flight. After I waited for all the bags to be claimed, I went to the lost luggage desk and declared my bag lost. So, by the time I finally emerged from the terminal (I will not bore you with the details of the lost bag, and the three days I waited for the bag to magically reappear in Castel del Bosco), it was about 2PM. I dragged my one suitcase to the parking lot where the Italian woman from the phone was waiting for me. I apologized profusely and we set about transferring the car into my name. "Let's go see your car, shall we?" I followed her to a lovely sleek, black convertible. She began to show me all the features, beginning with the trunk and when we arrived at the inside of the car, my face fell...

"But, is this a manual transmission?"
"Yes... of course."
"But, I contracted an automatic."
"But, it is a beautiful automobile, no?"
"Beautiful, for sure. But I cannot drive a manual shift car."
"Sure, you can. I will teach you."

Now, remember those daisies I was supposed to be as fresh as? I was feeling like someone had driven over them, backed up and hit the gas one more time, just for good measure.

"I am sure it is easy. However, I do not want to learn in the parking lot and then practice on the autostrada for 3 and a half hours to Pisa. How are we going to resolve this?"
"Are you sure you don't want to learn?"

The conversation was taking a Fellini-like turn and I didn't like where it was headed. So, I offered to call Portland to see if someone there had any suggestions. The Italian woman was rather incredulous that someone would be there at, essentially, the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning. I assured her that in America, someone was ALWAYS there. And, in fact, someone was.

I spoke to Joshua at Kemwel who assured me that he would work everything out for me. But, in the meanwhile, I had to get to Pisa. So, I hopped a bus, then a train, then another train, then a taxi (thank god I wasn't lugging two bags...) to Castel del Bosco. I spoke with Joshua again, and he said that he had arranged an interim car rental for me until the snafu was resolved. I had to pick it up in Pisa on the 29th. So, I headed to Pisa on the 29th to pick up the biggest Mercedes C class I had ever seen. (well, maybe that is an exaggeration, but it was a pretty big car...) I kept the car until I received the call from Jacques, my man with Peugeot, telling me that my car would be delivered from Nice on the 7th.

In between, the 29th and the 7th, there was a flurry of phone calls between Jacques in Paris and myself in Italy. I will leave you to imagine how those conversations went. I will say, however, Jacques also suggested I learn to drive the car that was in Milan...

However, the day arrived. Today, in fact. I woke up extra early. Got all cleaned up, lipstick, a great linen number all pressed and ready to go. I left, full of hope that I would return in my convertible. I even put on some SPF 6 for the ride home. I set out at 9:35, to make it to Pisa by 10:15. (In Jacques' most recent communication, he wrote that the driver would meet me at the car rental place in downtown Pisa between 10 and 10:30, because he had a train back to Paris at 11:30.) I even allowed time to stop for gas along the way. I arrived at the EuropeCar at Lung'Arno Sonnino number 1 at precisely 10:15.

At 10:29, my phone rang. It was Jacques. He wondered if my car had arrived. I replied that it had not and I was waiting exactly where we had decided. He said that he would try and call the driver and call me 'right back.' Now, perhaps the American 'right back' and the French 'right back' are two different things. I expected a call back within 10 or 15 minutes. When I had not heard back by noon, I was getting a little nervous. I called the French number from my correspondence to no avail. I was not dialing the numbers correctly, and I had no idea what I was doing wrong. So, I decided to call my buddies at Kemwel.

I would like to take a moment and describe how I imagine the guys at Kemwel are: in my mind, all the guys at Kemwel are big, rugged young men, all handsome, and all wearing LL Bean gear, duck boots, included, and look like they have just come in from a hike. They are all good natured, granola types who have never met a stranger and all have names like 'Josh' and 'Jeff' and 'Cameron.' They could just as easily work in a tackle shop offering expert fly fishing advice as organizing rental cars for poor beleaguered school teachers on vacation.

I call Kemwel, and sure enough, Bradley answers the phone and after hearing my tale of woe, swears that he will take care of everything. He puts me on hold and comes back a minute later.

"We are going to call Josh and wake him up and get to the bottom of this."

I was mortified at the idea of waking poor Josh up. He must be very exhausted after a day of chopping wood, or hunting duck. However, I was assured that it was fine to call him at home for some assistance. I was told just a few minutes later that Jacques would be calling me shortly. And, sure enough, the call came through. I was informed that the driver had encountered traffic and would be a couple hours still. I, in turn, informed Jacques that I was going home. I did not intend to sit in the hot Pisan sun for another 2 hours. I gave him the address in Castel del Bosco and told him to pass it on to the driver. I would take a train home and wait there.

Sure enough, about 45 minutes after arriving home, I got a call from Jacques. It seemed that the driver was lost. I offered some navigational advice and waited some more. At this point, Vivetta was keeping me company on the front porch, on car alert. She had a great time hyothesizing about this driver.

"Maybe he is a handsome Frenchman who will come in and sweep you off your feet..."

At about 3:00, a silver Peugeot 308 cc Feline piloted by my potential Frenchman came creeping past the front gate.

"She's here!" I squealed!

Vivetta dashed inside, lest she be seen in her housedress by the possibly dashing Parisian. I gathered my documents and opened the gate. My lovely car came inside and out came Jean-Claude, the driver who was neither handsome nor young.

"Bonjour, monsieur." I said, in my perfect French accent. (This is the only thing I can say with a perfect accent. I have often fooled people into thinking I speak French with this phrase, only to have to admit that that is all I have got.) "Parlez-vous Anglais?"

As I expected, Jean-Claude spoke no English. So the rest of the conversation was him speaking in French, me in Italian, but Italian spoken with a French accent. We signed all the documents, transferred the car into my possession, and I drove poor Jean-Claude to the train station so that he could catch a train back to Paris, from Pontedera, a journey of about 10 hours.

But what do I care?? I got my car and hot damn is it a nice car! I put the top down on the way back from the station. I turned the music up loud and drank in the sun. I did get a little burned on the back of my neck, however. Between walking to the train station in Pisa, and all the waiting in the sun in front of the car rental place, my precautionary SPF has melted away. But, no matter.

I will not lament my sunburn, rather I will wear it as a badge of honor, signifying all I have been through in the week and a half on my quest for the perfect holiday car. A rather noble quest, indeed.