Driving with babo 2

My biggest fear before the trip was that we would get lost.

When my father suggested that we rent a car and drive all over Tuscany, my blood ran cold and he knew why; he acquires a terrible temperament when he gets lost behind the wheel. Family outings which require long car rides often involve my mother threatening to divorce while my sibling and I strap our seatbelts tightly in the backseat. So when he bought a few maps of Italy, suggested we get a manual car (it was 200% cheaper than renting an automatic), and made me book all the hotels, I studied very diligently. Found hotels I could place on a map. Printed out copies of routes from Google Maps and learned a few helpful phrases in Italian.

We wandered around Castiglione del Lago on the fourth day and it was quickly getting dark. A little old lady had led us completely astray when we had asked her for directions to the Locanda Poggioleone and my father was getting impatient. I braced myself for the beast to come out, a fear which kept me very attentive to all the signs we passed on the road. Signs to Pozzuolo kept leading us in circles and Google Maps gave incomprehensible directions.

“Junko, go ask that woman…” my father would point to a lady getting in her car.

“You do it... it’s always me...” I groaned.

“Your Italian is better!” Always praising me when it’s useful.

“You are fluent in Spanish too!” I quipped back. Despite my whiny comebacks, he did not raise his voice or look angry. We did not get into arguments, which is rare of us. It got quiet in the car and he gently reassured me: “I know you are uncomfortable asking for help, but how else are we going to find the place? It is getting dark soon and my phone is not working.”

I hate to bug strangers. I hate to get out of the car with a sweet smile and pleading eyes, revealing to the world my foreigner status and asking for their charity. I had gotten really good at it here and the people had always been helpful and pleasant. Within a few days of this, I became increasingly thirsty for the rush of the successful interactions I’ve had. I would secretly look for excuses to ask for directions, to try out my Italian and to learn new words I would then excitedly look up in the dictionary. This, of course, I did not admit to myself at the time and the thought of letting it be known to my father was something I subconsciously avoided at all costs.

However, his surprising softness convinced me to do my part maturely; I might as well enjoy myself, I thought. We stopped by a house on the side of the road where a man with a protruding belly was hosing this field. “Scusi... buena sera. Sapere dove la Locanda Poggioleone?” I proudly asked him with an innocent, sweet smile planted on my face. The man scratched his head, grabbed my printout from Google Maps and said a few words out loud. He gave up after a few minutes when he saw my blank, smiling face and called out to his wife inside the house. My face quickly changed expressions. Come se dice? No, it doesn’t matter, please don’t bother yourself... I stood like a mute trying to dissuade the man with my sorry gestures. How terrible was this moment I understood my vulnerable position.

The wife came out and the two argued for a few minutes in their loud, Italian voices. Her curly hair bounced a little as they disagreed and bickered over directions. Neither of them seemed to know where the Locanda was situated, and so they called out to the uncle who was repairing the car in the garage despite my pathetic attempts at pleading them to not to be bothered. They argued in their loud voices for a while longer and I was unable to decipher what they were saying as their words overlapped and interrupted each other. The uncle suggested West at one point, which was met by a chorus of “No, no, no!” from the family members. Naturally, they collectively called the sister who was cleaning up inside the house: “Mariana!” She was wearing long plastic gloves which met at her elbow and were slightly stained with grease. “Sorry,” Mariana shyly expressed to me, excusing her unclean state. The only English word I heard from them was the apology I could not deliver.

This is the part of the story where I have to swear that what I’m telling you actually occurred. Mariana did not know and so they called the grandma who was rocking in her chair in front of the house. The elderly woman slowly made her way towards the row of family members encircling me, arguing and contemplating amongst each other where this Locanda could be. It’s okay... please don’t concern yourselves with our problems… my face was becoming slightly flushed in embarrassment, bowed down like the Japanese do in these situations. The man pointed to my father who was sitting in the car and told me he would direct us. No, he said he will drive his car with his sister and we should follow him. “Oh, no...it’s okay....” I mumbled in English, knowing that their minds were already set while my mind was slightly unsettled. Do they truly know where the Locanda is or are we going to drive around until we find it? Still, you cannot turn down such a considerate offer. I sat in the car and my dad turned to ask: “Well?” he looked hopeful. “Babo... they want us to follow them.”

Off we went, shyly waving goodbye and thank you to the grandma, uncle, and mother who saw us off. The mother handed her husband a shirt so that he could put it over his casual tank top. They drove in front of us in the opposite direction in which we arrived and my father and I exchanged some worried looks. “How incredibly nice of them,” we commented out loud. “But…” We kept on following like obedient guests, content that somebody else was alleviating our burden even if we may not find the place in the end. Down a little road we went, up a hill and around the curb. The car in front of us stopped and over our heads we saw big, neon green letters in front of a modern establishment: Locanda Poggioleone. So it does exist!

We were ecstatic in our gratification, shaking the hands of our hosts who hugged us tightly and laughed with their full bellies. Much can be understood in happy expressions and extended arms. “Ciao! Grazie mille! Buena sera!” I threw a string of generic phrases at them as they drove away. When their car was no longer in our sight, I turned to my father who was still grinning. I breathed a sigh of relief.

We did not argue once in those seven days I drove with babo. Perhaps I should give thanks to the impressive Italian hospitality for averting a potential argument. We were certainly lucky to have experienced such a warm dosage of cultural shock. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that we were lucky we let it transform our relationship.