my old car

This is the saga of my old car.

When I first moved to Italy, my brother Piero asked me what I would do for transportation. If I didn’t mind a pre-owned car, he knew someone who had one for sale. I didn’t think I would be doing much driving, certainly not while there was a Covid lockdown in place, as there was at that point.

So before I even got to Italy, I told him to go ahead, that I trusted his judgment.

Piero reassured me, though I should have suspected something was not right when the price I was quoted was so low. In my defense, I knew, and still know, very little or nothing at all about ‘pre-owned’ cars, in Italy or anywhere else.

When I first saw the car, a Fiat Punto, about 20+ years old, I thought it looked old and beat up, but Beppe (my neighbor Ivana’s husband) reassured me that, never mind its appearane, it was in excellent conditions, he only had to clean it up a little, and it would be perfect for me.

Months went by. For some reason the car was never ready, Beppe was obviously too busy with his regular customers to pay much attention to me. Or perhaps there was some other reason. It took four months before I could finally take possession.

In order to tansfer the title, we had to go to the Automobile Office, and stand in line in the February open air, as only one person at a time was allowed inside (pandemic rule.) I was happy when I was at last able to drive away in my four wheels.

Besides the four wheels, though, the car did not offer much. There was hardly any suspension, and the noise from all its parts was a scary background to any ride. (I was reminded of the car my husband had bought for me when we lived in Rome, though I must say this was probably marginally better: that Roman one would actually drop metal pieces as I drove.)

I figured that when the pandemic lifted I would get a new car. For the moment we were only allowed to go grocery shopping anyway. And only a certain limited distance from home. After the strictest restrictions were lifted, and I was looking forward to move about again, I had a series of hospital stays with long convalescenses. A broken wrist and a knee replacement made it hard to drive, and I did only short runs. I did not trust the car to take me further than the village.

And with good reasons. The first thing to go was the battery, which was to be expected, after it had sat idle while I was in the hospital. “It was old,” was Beppe’s ‘what-do-you-expect’ sort of explanation. A new battery was needed.

Another day, on my way to the supermarket, I had a flat. I didn’t realize it right away because not only is the car hard to stir under the best of circumstances but the noise from the ripped tire sounded only marginally worse than usual. Besides, I could not stop and call for help as the road goes through woods where there is no cell phone reception.

I needed new tires, as they were all old and worn out.

The car has manual transmission, and in spite of Beppe’s reassurance that “it’s just a little hard to handle” I find that the pedal has to be pushed down extra hard before I can engage the gears. Shifting itself is also hard, and sometimes it requires both hands, especially if I have to put the car in reverse.

Then, last week Liver ran away. He was so excited to go free and to sniff at all the excellent smells outside of the garden, that he wasn’t paying any attention to my calls. I thought I would go after him in the car, but when I put my only key in the ignition, it came apart in my hand. Beppe said not to worry, he would fix it, and in the meantime he found me a spare key. “Try it to see if it works.” (I must give him credit for returning Liver home, though.)

The spare key did work very well, but when I tried the old key that he had “fixed,” the car stalled — and it wouldn’t start up again.

Call Beppe again. By now, what with the aggravation and the expense, I was ready to give up, but after the car was in his shop for a week, Beppe said once again that he had worked out the problem, and it now worked ‘fantastic.’ In typical male fashion he couldn’t hold back from giving me useless advice on how to treat the car! As if anything could help.

He returned the car this morning. Frankly, I am reluctant to get in it now: who knows, perhaps this time it will be the car itself that dissipates under my fingers, but I will be brave… until I find a better vehicle.

e less ancient.