“OK, I think I know the direction we need to head, as we go around I’ll tell you when to get off,” I instruct my racing car driver of a wife, deftly piloting our vehicle. “We’ll go around until 2 o’clock, then get off.” I used clock terminology because that seems to make the most sense for giving directions driving in a roundabout. We had entered at about 6 o’clock, and since this was Italy, where they drive on the right side of the road, we were going counterclockwise. If you’re in England, St. Croix, or Australia, where they drive on the wrong side (I mean the left side), you would be going clockwise.
We were going around nicely, and I was trying to read the signs of the streets going out as spokes from the circle.
“There it is! Get off there!” I yelled, to no good effect, since by the time I had realized that was the street we wanted, my brain told my mouth what to say, my wife heard my words, and she comprehended them, we had passed the exit. We kept going around in the outer lane of the circle.
“I have a plan,” I proudly and sagely stated. “We will simply stay in the circle another go-round, and now we know where to get out!” A good plan, I still say.
We proceeded around the crowded circle, cars buzzing in and out of the circle.
“Here it comes, wait for it, here it is! NO WAIT! DON’T GO!” I yelled as my master navigational plan was foiled by my sudden realization due to my expert signage skills that we were about to turn onto a one way street going the wrong way. That’s right, our projected exit from the roundabout based on my map-reading was actually a road leading into the traffic circle, not out of it.
“Hhhmmm, that was a close call. We’ll have to go around again and get out on the exit right before that one. It has to be a one way street out of the circle,” I counseled my driver.
Three times around an Italian traffic circle during a Friday night rush hour in the dark by two Americans in a car rented from a major international rental car company after driving all day with little food. That just sounds bad. A recipe for disaster. We both knew it at the same time. A premonition. Will we make our escape? Has our luck of the day run out?
We were both thinking the same thought when the impact came. BLLAMMM!!! We were T-boned by a large white BMW. Our little car thudded to a stop in the outer lane of the roundabout, right in front of one of the main exits onto a bridge over the River Arno. The heavy traffic quickly split around our two cars and kept going, like water flowing around a stick stuck in the mud of a shallow stream.
We were ok, a little shaken, certainly alarmed by the impact, but physically unhurt. Since we were only going about 35 mph around the circle, the impact, as car accidents go, wasn’t too bad. The BMW luckily hit our left rear wheel head-on, instead of a body panel, deflating the tire and bending the fender.
The other driver got out of his car and gave us a look of disgust while he cussed us out in Italian. He was a young guy, probably in his late 20s. He looked like a clothes model from Milan. Tall, lean, handsome, with black wavy hair. He looked like someone who is called Mario, which may or may not have been his name. We quickly determined that he spoke no English, but he did have a cell phone, which he proceeded to whip out and make a call. I don’t speak Italian, but I think this is what he said to his supermodel girlfriend:
“Sorry, but I am going to be a little late for our dinner date tonight. Some stupid American tourists don’t know how to drive in a roundabout and got in my way. I’ve smashed the front of my new BMW and it’s their fault for coming to our country and renting a car from a major international rental car company and thinking they can drive around like Italians. Be there when I can. Amore. Ciao!”
After that call, he was more polite. He rambled on, pointing at the exit to the roundabout, and at our car. After a few iterations of this I realized that he thought we were idiots for continuing to drive in the outer lane and spinning around the circle instead of getting off. He thought we were exiting from the outer lane, so he sped up from the next innermost lane to exit, and when we didn’t exit, we were right in his path. He pulled out some accident forms from his glove box and started to fill them out.
Since I didn’t have a cell phone, he graciously loaned me his phone. I called the local service department of the major international rental car company. A nice sounding Italian woman answered.
“Hello, this is the American tourist who just got in a car accident in your country. Please come help me. I am stuck in the middle of one of the main traffic circles in Florence,” I said.
“I am sorry to hear that, sir. Which traffic circle?” she replied.
“I have no idea! It’s one of the round ones by the river in the middle of the city.”
“There are several of those, sir. If you can identify your location I will send a repair truck.”
I then asked Mario where we were. He got on the phone with her and explained the situation. I am sure I heard him say something about dumb American tourists.
“OK, sir,” she said when I got the phone back. “We will send a repair truck. I understand you have a flat tire. Then you can be on your way. The truck will be there in an hour.”
I launched into a tirade about driving in Florence, how I tried to return the car earlier in the evening to their office by the airport which had closed, and how I didn’t want the car anymore. She didn’t understand.
“We will send the truck to repair the tire, sir,” she said again.
“Excuse me, miss. You are not understanding me. I do not want your car. I do not want to drive it anymore. Please come and take it away.”
Eventually she relented and agreed that she would send a flat-bed truck to collect the car. In an hour. Great, I thought, we get to stand around here for another hour. At least we won’t have to drive this car anymore and try to navigate to our hotel.
Then the police showed up.
The police were a laid-back man and woman. They were obviously amused to find American tourists in a car accident in the middle of the roundabout. Probably the third one this week. They motioned that we had to move our car out of the way of traffic and off to the side of the circle. They stopped traffic while we maneuvered our car out of the way. This resulted in several hundred horns honking. At this juncture, Mario took his leave, driving his wounded BMW away with the signed accident forms that he could turn into his insurance company. The police wished us luck and went to the next stupid American tourist traffic accident or whatever else they had to do that Friday night.
In time, the flat-bed truck arrived to load the rental car. The smirking driver had me fill out a form, asserting that he had indeed collected a damaged rental car from some American tourist who thought he could drive in Italy without CDW coverage.
We finally caught a taxi to our hotel and crashed (slept soundly in bed, I mean). Along the way I reassured Lisa that it probably wasn’t her fault about the accident. I mean, the guy hit us, we didn’t hit him, how could it be our fault? Sure, we were in the outer lane, but so what? We hadn’t achieved escape velocity yet.