Anything but routine...

Last night, Ashley and I were gaily traveling to her concert in Fratta Todina. We had just come into the town, and we were wondering where we were supposed to be exactly.  A town name is a good starting point, but...

She pulled out her notebook, and found the name of the concert location.  Which didn't help too much, since we aren't that familiar with the town.  When in doubt? Ask around! And there it was! A handy carabinieri car with two dapper policemen standing next to it! Perfect!

I slowed down, only to notice that one of them had walked out into the street waving his reflective plastic lollipop, beckoning me over.  Hmm. I didn't think I'd been speeding, but...

I rolled down the window with a cheerful smile, and asked if I'd done anything wrong. "Yes, you came to Italy," was the unpromising reply. Trying to keep up a good front, I started looking for my driver's license and libretto (title book, which you must have at all times). As I was going through the plastic folder with those documents and fumbling around, I heard one of the two talking enthusiastically about my car.  The other one was impressed when, upon my giving up & handing him the whole folder, he saw that the libretto was the original one for the car.

He was not impressed, however, by the fact that at some point my international driving permit had become wet -- causing the photo to stick to the certified document, etc., and rendering it unusable.  He was willing to take my US driver's license alone, but wanted to know what "Class C" means.  I don't even know what "Class C" is, but I cheerfully offered him the Russian translation in the back of the international booklet...until I found the Italian translation. He was satisfied that if I can drive a van in the US, I'm permitted to take my itty-bitty sweetie out on the road.

He then commented menacingly that I should be prepared to sell my car. Shocked, I replied, "But no! It's my 6th child!" At that point, I still wasn't sure exactly how much trouble I was in or what exactly I'd done.  Ashley was of course worried about being late to the rehearsals (completely unfounded, since the rehearsals started 20 minutes after the named arrival time, and we were the first ones there, as it turned out, but still), and I was worried about multiple hundreds of euros in fines.

I couldn't stand the suspense any more.  I got out of the car and walked over to their car, where they were perched in an impromptu office-like setting -- clipboards, stacks of paper, and so on. I finally asked what exactly I'd done, to which they cheerfully responded, "Nothing! This is just a routine traffic stop."

Phew.

We asked directions to the concert location, and drove off into the sunset.

Love,

Alexandra