If you own a car in the center of Rome it conditions your life.
One can’t even drive a car INTO the center of town without a permit. This is only given to people who reside or, in some cases, who work in the center.
Residency is proven by presenting a deed of ownership to an apartment or a valid rental contract plus insurance documents to the car in the name of the person whose name is on the deed, or rental contract. Oddly, the City of Rome doesn’t require you to be the owner of the car, only that the insurance be in your name.
Sounds easy, right?
Well, yes and no.
Rental agreements are not so straightforward. In order to get a valid rental contract from the owner of an apartment, said owner must declare the contract. This has tax implications i.e. the income from this rental will be taxed. Although it’s illegal to do so, very often your rent will be lowered if you agree to forgo signing a contract. This is often a negotiation with the owner and is not in the renter’s interest. This means that your monthly rent goes straight into the owners pocket. You could also be asked to sign a contract for less monthly rent and pay extra on the side. Sometimes you will find that you have not rented an ‘apartment’ but rather a ‘studio’ which, as a commercial property, does not meet the requirements necessary to prove residency. These, and myriad other short cuts are things that non-Italians can’t possibly know about. End result? Forget about owning a car.
“Well!” I hear you thinking. “If it’s illegal I can report the owners and force them to do things legally (in regola).
Well… Yes and no.
For, you see Rome was built about 2800 years ago with horses in mind. The city cannot possibly give everyone who qualifies a permit. As a matter of fact, the City of Rome doesn’t really WANT cars in the center of town and therefore don’t really WANT to give you a permit. They therefor often turn a blind eye to these abuses. Getting people to do things by the letter of the law in this country is a problem because, in most cases, nobody knows what the letter of the law is.
This, fortunately was not a problem for us because I own our apartment.
No, our problem was another. The car insurance is in my wife’s name.
“Well,” I hear you say, “Our last names will be the same right? My wife Judith is Judith Goldfield correct?”
Well… Yes and no.
In Italy women never really take their husbands last names. My wife’s name, legally, is Judith Willis-Flowers (her maiden name). If she wanted to be known as ‘Judith Goldfield’ we would have to change her name legally and this is something impossible to do unless we could prove that she was are on a Mafia hit list.
I will not get into what we had to do to straighten this out. My life is too short to get into the re-telling of these battle stories of which I have hundreds. Suffice it to say that after many visits to the City Government offices, and after many sworn declarations, official documents and tax stamps in various amounts, we were issued with an orange and red permit to drive our car into the center of the city.
But that didn’t guarantee us a place to park.
As a matter of fact we were almost certain that we would have to park the car miles away from the house and walk. So why bother to get the permit in the first place? Just do with out it. You can get by, right?
Well yes and no.
What happens when we go shopping and have bags to get home? What happens when we pick up friends at the airport and they have suitcases? What happens when we pick up my Mother to bring her here for dinner? End result? Gotta find a garage.
Garage space in the center of Rome is fought over. It’s ridiculously expensive and seemingly handed down from generation to generation.
I wasn’t going to take delivery of this car until I had a place to park it. Without a garage our lives would be spent going round and round and round and round the neighborhood looking for a parking space. Once found, we would be loath to use the car and give it up! Why own a car if you feel you have to leave it parked for months at a time just because you’ve found a parking place?
My search for parking started with me visiting every garage in the neighborhood. There are only two so this only took an hour. Neither of these places had space. I now had to go by these places three times a day to be the first face seen just in case a space became available. In doing this I became friends with every garage rat in the neighborhood.
Rino works the morning shift at Garage Palatino. He’s a Roman smart-aleck. The way to enlist his help was to be as cynical and cutting as only Romans can be.
The majority of Italians do not appreciate cynicism. Americans understand that when you call someone an ‘idiot jerk-weed’ you don’t really mean it. This is not the case in Italy, with Rome being a rare exception. Without cynicism to soften the blow, all of those lighthearted malaprops loose none of their sting. Here curse words mean just what they say and, unless you are very good friends with someone indeed, you just don’t use them. Even with close friends I have to be very careful. I very rarely curse in the second person (i.e. ‘You are an idiot’) but instead limit my cursing to the third person (i.e. ‘He is an idiot.’)
I’ve known my friend and collaborator Franco, whom I’ve spoken of often in these pages, for decades. He was one of my brother-in-law Federico’s school buddies and I was introduced to him when Federico married my sister thirty rears ago. When I first started dating Judy, he was the first person I introduced her to. As a matter of fact he was best man at my wedding. He did the same when he met his wife Michela. I took him to the hospital when his son was born and his mother and father in law consider me an important part of the family. I know his brothers, their wives and children. We’re both musicians and appreciate the warped style of humor that musicians practice. Even so, I would think long and hard before calling him an asshole.
My conversation with Rino, the morning man at Garage Palatino went something like this:
O, senti ‘lei’. Ce sarebbe ‘na speranza de trovà parceggio qua? (Hey chief. Is there any hope of finding parking here?)
“Finche c’e vita c’e speranze…” (Where there’s life there’s hope…)
“Non sto in cerca di filosopia, ma de parcheggio… (I’m not looking for philosophy but for a place to park…)
“La filosofia e facile da trovà, er parcheggio no..” (Philosophy is easy to find unlike parking…)
“Che, mi devo disperare?” (So should I dispair?)
“Piano bello. Forse la settimana prossima” (Take it easy handsome. Maybe next week.)
Coniglietto works afternoons. His name translates into ‘Little Bunny,’ which is a riot because he’s a huge hulking Romanian. In time I came to realize that he is the gentlest, sweetest guy in the world but at that point in time I wasn’t sure. I thought it best to use the formal mode of speech with him.
“Buon giorno signore. Io mi chiamo Goldfield e sto cercando posto per la mia machina.” (Good day sir. My name is Goldfield and I’m looking for a place to park my car.)
“Cio e’ qua?” (You mean here?)
“Si signore, qua.” (Yes sir, here.)
He rocked back forth on his heels, not sure how to respond but flattered at being called ‘sir’)
“E molto difficile qua. Si molto difficile. Hmm. No, e molto difficile…” (That’s tough here. Yep, really difficult. Hmm. No, that’s really difficult.)
I gave him a piece of paper with my phone number on it.
“Se sente dire di qualcosa qui o altrove me lo fa sapere?” (If you hear of something here or elsewhere will you let me know?)
He took the piece of paper, smiled and stuck it in his pocket. I wondered if he could read.
The garage closes at 1AM. The night man is an Indian fellow named Rolf. Even now I rarely see him. He sleeps deep in the bowels of the garage and drags himself upstairs only when somebody rings the bell.
During the day there was an old man who was always sitting in a rickety metal chair out front. I would try to talk with him but he never answered me, almost as if I wasn’t there.
This went on for a month until Rino stopped me in the street.
“La machina sua quante grande?” (Is your car large?)
“E piccola, picolissima.” (It’s small, really small)
“Che macchina è’?” (What kind of car is it.
“Una Ka.” (A Ford Ka.)
“Una Ka? Non e una machina, e piu tosto un animale domestico.” (A Ka? That’s not a car, it’s more like a pet.)
“Sara piccola ma basta.” (It’s small but it’s enough.)
“E avanza. Vai a parlare subito con Tomaso. Forse uno spazo ci sarebbe.” (More than enough. Talk to Tomaso right away. There may be a place available).
Smiling he indicates the old man in his rickety chair.
“Buon giorno Tomaso,” Good day Tomaso, I say to the old man. “Sua collega mi ha detto di parlare con lei…” (Your collegue suggested that I speak with you…)
He reacted violently to my approach.
“Rino!” he shouted. “Perche questo signore sta parlando con me?” (Why is this man talking to me?)
Rino replied, “Cerca un audienza col Papa. Che non ricevi oggi?” (He seeks an audience with the Pope. Why, aren’t you receiving today?)
“Ma va… Sei uno ragazzacchio senza rispetto! Lascia mi stare,!” (Get out of here… You’re a bad boy with no respect! Leave me alone!)
Rino smiled and indicated an office just inside the entrance to the garage.
“Tomaso sta la dentro.” (Tomaso is in there) To the old man: “A nonno, non ti agità!” (OK grandpa, don’t get so upset!)
I go in and talk to Tomaso He tells me the price, I agree immediately and write out a check for the first month’s rent.
He explains that the old man out front is his father Tomasino.
I go home and tell Judy the good news.
All the pieces were in place. We had presented several pounds of paperwork to the city officials who, in turn, had given us the permit we need to drive into our neighborhood and park our tiny car in the ridiculously expensive garage that I found after a month of searching. I’d also made three new friends: Rino, Coniglietto and Tomaso. I wasn’t so sure about Tomasino.
We now took delivery of our car, which we had bought from Judy’s sister Karen who was returning to America after 30 years. I drove to the garage and Coniglietto drove the car down the ramp where it disappeared from sight. For insurance purposes we were not allowed to actually drive the car into or out of the garage. When we needed it we just asked whoever was on duty to bring it outside for us.
The garage was filled to the gills with every kind of car imaginable. During the summer the far wall was home to the Ferraris, Lamborginis and Porsches. These made an impressive backdrop for the more mundane cars that filled the garage. There were a few Bentleys and other such luxury cars parked in a separate area up on the second exit ramp. The owners of these cars had to call in advance because the guys had to move half the parked cars to get them out.
The garage guys have a second sense about who is coming to get their cars and have the cars arranged accordingly. I asked them about this and they explained: The sports cars only went out when the weather was good. They were parked in a separate facility for the fall and winter. The Bentleys and other such only came out on special occasions and funerals. The guys knew every one of the owners of these cars’ birthdays, anniversaries and saints days. They were also aware of the health of older family members and their children’s marital status. When a Bently owners son or daughter was preparing to marry, that car was moved closer to the second exit. As their parents got older ditto. In our case they knew that Judy needs the car every Monday and Wednesday and Friday afternoon. I’m not part of the equation here. Even back when I could drive I would never use the car, preferring to walk or take public transportation. The only exception to this was on Saturdays when I would pick up Mom for a drive in the country with Judy. The car was always in the on deck circle at ten o’clock Saturday morning.
On about the 4th of every month a receipt for that month’s garage bill mysteriously appears on the dashboard. This is my cue to pay the bill which I do religiously on the 6th of every month. The bill is in Judy’s name since the insurance papers are in her name. They have by now completely forgotten that my last name is Goldfield I am ‘Signor Flowers.’ Remember when I said that wives don’t rally take their husbands name? Well…
It took a while longer to get friendly with Tomasino. He is generally a cranky old guy and never really opened up to me until I had my stroke. When he saw me walking around in sunglasses sporting a white cane he began to sense a kindred soul.
As soon as the doctors gave me the OK I began taking daily walks. Tomasino had been doing the same for years and he began asking how I was doing whenever our paths crossed. I was allowed to sit in his chair if he wasn’t around and I finally learned his philosophy.
“Dove vai, caro?” he’ll ask whenever I walk by the garage. (Where are you going my friend?)
“Ma, vado ai Fori, poi dall macellaio. Tu sei gia andato a spasso?” (I’m going to the Roman Forum than to the butchers. And you? Have you had your walk about?)
Si, e mi sono gia rotto i coglioni con tutti quanti. Ricordati, caro, di mandare tutti a na’ fan culo. (Yes, and everyone has already busted my balls. Remember, my friend, to tell ‘em all to fuck off.”)
“OK Tomasino. Ci vediamo dopo.” (OK Tomasino. I’ll see you later.)
This is Tomasino’s’s take on life. “Tell ‘em all to fuck off.” He has managed to imbue this rather easy-to-understand philosophy with incredible detail.
“Vado in banca. Che, capisco cosa fanno coi soldi miei? Perche chiedere? Che andassero tutti ana fan culo.” (I’m going to the bank. Do I know what they’re doing with my money? Why even ask? They can all fuck off.)
“Cosa?! I dottori non ti lasciano mangiare la pastasciutta due volte al giorno? Che ne sanno? Dilli tutti di ana fan culo” (What?! Your doctors say you can’t eat pasta twice a day? What do they know? Tell ‘m to fuck off.)
“Un cafe all bar Licata? Quell posto e andato in rovina quando hanno diciso di vendere sigarette. Van culo…” (Do I want to get a coffee at bar Licata? (on the corner of Via Leonina and Via dei Serpenti, 20 meters down the street.) That place went to hell in a handbag when they started selling cigarettes. Fuck ‘em.)
“Vai ai Fori? Ci sono turisti dapertutto. Nessuno di quelli parlano l’Italiano. Che tutti andassero ana fan culo.” Going to the Forum? The tourists have taken the place over. I can’t even talk to anyone down there. Fuck ‘em all.”
Evey time I walk by Garage Palatino I’m reminded of my duty with regard to the rest of society.
I have often thought of selling the car and would have done so long ago except that Judy needs it and I’ve gotten used to visiting with Rino, Tomaso, Coniglietto and Tomasino.
Plus I now have this permit…
©2010 Paul Adam Goldfield
paulgoldfield@yahoo.com
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