[Life in Italy]

A long time ago, I had an old beat-up Cinquecento (Fiat 500) that I bought for $60. from an Italian who needed cash, quick. Though it had many thousands of miles on it, I drove that little baby for years; it never gave me any trouble and I had one heck of a lot of fun in it.

Once, two young Americans came to visit and I took them for a little late-night sightseeing. After Glen and Sandy had seen a bit of Rome, I pulled into St. Peter's deserted piazza around midnight. I showed them the window the Pope spoke from on Sundays, and then on impulse turned into the narrow passageway between the columns on the left side of the square. "

I'm sure this is illegal, guys," I said, as I drove right on through, "but what the hell, I want to get you closer." I suddenly gasped and slammed on the brakes, to avoid running over several soldiers who were blocking our way, semi-automatic guns at the ready. "Americani, siamo americani!!" I cried, as if being Americans made it all right. "I'm just showing these young men around," I hurried to explain to the stone-faced soldiers who circled the car with their guns aimed at us.

One leaned down and told me what I knew already: no one was allowed to drive inside the columns and what could you have been thinking, signora? I started gibbering about my nice young friends and how much they were enjoying Rome. I turned gaily to them with a big smile only to see sweat pouring down their flushed faces; poor guys were scared out of their wits. I prattled on and on to the head soldier about how Americans just adore Italy until he interrupted to say it was time for me to get going. "Okay, sure," I said, "but I was wondering...." I leaned out and gave him a big buddy-to-buddy smile. "Since we're already in this far, can't I just take the boys all the way?"

Oh, what a look he gave me. Seeing fingers tightening around triggers, I put the car in reverse and backed out of there as fast as I could. Glen and Sandy didn't start breathing again until we were well away. "So, where to next?" I asked. But for some reason, the boys had had quite enough sightseeing.

Another time, I almost killed actor Malcolm McDowell in that Cinquecento. He was in Rome for the film Caligula and sometimes took coffee in Piazza Navona, which is where I always took coffee. He had to go somewhere fast one day and I offered him a ride. As we pulled away, I cautioned him to hold the car door shut because it was broken. We zipped up and down the narrow streets until one point when I swung around a curve with such verve that Malcolm gasped in terror and released his grip to clutch at his heart. The door swung open and out he flew. I leaned over and only just managed to haul him back in. White as a sheet, holding the door shut with trembling hands, he finished the rest of the ride with eyes closed.

Then there was the time my mom came to visit. She'd never in her life traveled in a car smaller than a living room and almost swooned when she saw the Cinquecento. I drove her around for some sightseeing, but it was marred by her moaning in terror and hanging onto the door for dear life. She really was the limit: not only did she hate my car but she refused to let the sights wow her. I will never forget standing on the wide boulevard leading to the Colosseum with the Roman Forum before us and asking if she didn't think it was just beautiful. Her answer: "Oh, we have stuff like that in Michigan."

After that, I was in a real snit. We got back in the car and I plunged like a madwoman into the pack circling car-choked Piazza Venezia, and didn't stop braking and accelerating fitfully until I'd had the satisfaction of hearing my poor mother gasp and cry out several times. Of course, she didn't know that there was absolutely nothing to fear amidst all those cars, because Italian drivers are simply the best on the planet.

That's not to say I didn't have a run-in or two with them, usually my fault, not theirs. Like the time when I was working at the Overseas School of Rome, which is located quite a distance from the center of town. I was headed home with my tiny Cinquecento packed to the gills: beside me was the very proper, very British headmaster's secretary, Margaret, and in the back were two other ladies from the school.

The guy in the truck behind me started honking his horn, I guess because I was going too slow. I tried to ignore him but he kept it up. I waved him on but he just leaned on the horn. Finally, he roared out from behind and let me have some choice words as he sailed by. This really ticked me off so I gave him the finger. Margaret gasped, "Oh, dear, you shouldn't have done that." "He couldn't have understood," I explained matter-of-factly. "I gave him the finger. That's American." (In Italy, one of the worst insults is to make a gesture at a man with just forefinger and pinky extended; it means he's cornuto, a cuckold).

Up ahead, the truck driver was gnashing his teeth. He shook a fist at me and suddenly I didn't feel so cocky. I took a quick right and stepped on the gas, tearing along a side road like a bat outta hell. To my dismay, the guy came after me, eyes rolling wildly in his head. He pulled alongside, then cut right in front of me, bringing me to a screeching halt. His door flew open and he jumped out. Margaret and I hurriedly rolled up our windows. The two ladies in the back whimpered in fear. "

It's okay, don't worry, he's not going to--"

An enraged roar stopped my words and, to my horror, I saw the trucker's face right up against my window, red and threatening.

I decided to explain. "

I did this, sir," and I showed him the finger again. "I didn't do this." And I showed him the horns.

Big mistake. Really big mistake.

He howled with rage and stamped his feet. He slammed his fist into my window, then leaped onto the hood of the car and began jumping up and down in a frenzy, screaming obscenities. I looked up at him through the windshield and started to show him again that I hadn't given him the horns but Margaret quickly grabbed my hand and forced it down. "A-NOTH-er explanation is quite unnecessary, my dear," she said in the King's English.

At that moment, the other truck door flew open and, to our amazement, out jumped another man. Uh-oh, I thought, now we're in for it. But, no, this guy reached up and pulled his frothing-at-the-mouth pal down. Talking persuasively and calmly, he maneuvered him back to their truck, all the while turning and bobbing his head at us with a lame smile. Within seconds, we four women were quite alone on the road.

Wheewwww!!

As I drove back toward the main road, I pondered upon the lesson I had learned from the incident. It was this: Being given the finger is evidently a universally understood gesture.

Those were only a couple of the many adventures I had with that battle-scarred Cinquecento. Not surprisingly, it ended its life in a rather bizarre manner. After I finally bought a new car, I gave that old 500 to my pal, Susan, who drove it until it was stolen one day and used in a drive-by purse snatching. Can you believe it?! Abandoned by the thieves and left for dead, it was finally hauled off to the junkyard. What a life...and what a death!

Rosemary Torigian, Los Angeles