The Mechanics of Italy

I'm sure that the more astute of you have figured out that my having purchased a 46-year-old car means that I also need to purchase "technical support." Enter...Daniele and Claudio, our nephew-uncle team:

Who wouldn't love seeing their smiling faces?

These lovely men are in my speed dial.  We are on "tu" basis (informal, not uncommon here, but still).

Most recently, I parked my car on a hill.  A Tuderte hill, meaning more than a gentle incline.  As Jeremy says, "The less steep hills have a defined slope, unlike this one." I digress.  When I got in the car, I sniffed.  It smelled suspiciously like gasoline in the car.  Hmm.

Crank 1.  Niente.
Crank 2.  Niente.
Crank 3.  Niente.
Crank 4.  Niente.

And, of course, we were pointing uphill, which is not as conducive to a nice roll start.

I think most of you know me well enough to have noticed that I'm, um, determined.  Luckily, my equally determined daughter was with me.  So between the two of us, we pushed, prodded, and poked my baby in such a way that it was pointing downhill on the (at this point of the road) gentle slope.

Roll start?  By now, I'm an expert.  Roll, roll, roll, pop-the-clutch, and...nuttin', honey.

I finally ditched the car in a completely illegal spot (side note: I started to tell the cops about it and explain why it was there so they wouldn't ticket me -- I wanted to explain which car was mine, but they forestalled me with the equivalent of, "Yeah, yeah, the old 500.").

Have I told you yet this was the morning of Easter Sunday?  And of course Monday's a big holiday as well.

Tuesday morning, I called Daniele.  He volunteered to come up the hill right away, but I wanted to have breakfast first.  He patted my head over the phone, telling me that I'd probably just flooded the engine (even though I had smelled gas before I had tried to start it). We set a time, and there he & Claudio were (shortly after the appointed time, but still).

Crank 1:  vroom vroom.
Alexandra: sigh

But I explained very Italianly (arms and gestures and vocal emphasis -- call it coloratura?) that there was really SOMETHING WRONG with the car.

In the meantime, Daniele had tried cranking it twice more to prove what a silly thing I am.  It didn't crank! I've never been so happy to have a car not start.  They cheerfully roll started it (gah!) and took it down to the shop.

Next morning?  Well, it's not good when your mechanic tells you he'll discuss how much it cost (note the past tense on the work, with future tense on the payment?) when you arrive to pick up the car.

I got down to the shop, and he broke the news gently that I had needed a new fuel pump.  The other had died (consistent with my observations, and he did show me the old one).  And they had done an oil change.  And of course new air filter, etc.

Heart sinking, I went upstairs to Claudio's brother (Daniele's dad) to pay at his scooter store (yes, you got that right: they have a good cop (Claudio) bad cop (Paolo) routine with the payment strategy).  I saw several invoices, any of which could be mine, for 300-500 euros each.  I've had a new fuel pump in the States, and it wasn't cheap.

Doing my best imitation of poor and pitiful, I asked how much it was.  "Umm," said Paolo, checking on the fuel pump price, "there's no invoice here, but a fuel pump?  That'll be 50 euros."

Are you kidding me?  I wanted to do a quiet jig, pay quickly, and get out even more quickly before they changed their minds.  But my conscience got the better of me.  I reminded him of the oil change, air filter, gas treatment, etc.  In the end, Paolo was talked up to 100 euros.

New story: this morning, the car wouldn't start (I know it seems like a pattern, but I SWEAR, most of the time it really does start!).  So I called Claudio.  He wasn't there.  I called his wife (who works in Paolo's section of the business, upstairs).  She said that he & Daniele were having their breakfast break, but that they'd call me back. I'll bet you can figure how well that message got through, but I'm savvy enough to know that I'd need to call back.

I reached Daniele eventually, and he gave us a ride back to the parking lot (we'd worked on errands in the meantime).  Started the car right up, no problem! He explained cheerfully that, being a classic Italian car, you normally start the car with no gas & lots of air (the little handle I pull up that's next to the starter).  However, if it plays these games with me, I'm to do the opposite: no air and lots of gas.  (This is the same man who accused me of flooding the engine not two days before, you understand.) He then regaled me with great Fiat 500 stories which are too long to tell now -- my fingers are getting tired!

How much for the "house" call?  Niente.

I love my mechanics.

Love,

Alexandra