American drivers licenses don't count in Italy. Well, that's not quite true. They count when you're a tourist. Tourists can drive merry donuts around the Colosseum for as long as they like. But then when you become a resident, the fun is over. Your license collapses in on itself and implodes, leaving you at the mercy of the Italian department of motor vehicles.
When this happened to me I went into denial for five years. Then I got my act together, paid a bunch of administrative fees, studied absurd numbers of complicated legislative and regulatory provisions to pass my theory exam, and signed up for my six hours of required driving lessons. And there I met Carlo.
There are a lot of really amazing things about Carlo. First, I have to give him his due and say that he is really good at teaching driving. So there's that. Thanks, Carlo.
Then also there's his look. He's a sort of scruffy fifty-something, who dresses vaguely like a rocker, with silver rings and a beanie. He's like Bono.
And then there's his voice. He uses a soft, sing-song voice with dramatic highs and lows, and says things like, "Oh no no no no no, darling! Tsk tsk! We accooooooompany the clutch. We aaaaaaalways accoooooompany the clutch! With sweetness! Sweetness, sweetness, sweetness!"
So that's already quite a character.
But THEN, there's this: if someone cuts me off or something, he has a total psychotic break and jumps into my space to lean on the horn and curse the person out! "I'M OUT HERE FROM 6AM TO 9PM AND ALL. DAY. LONG. THESE ASSHOLES BUST MY BALLS! IF YOU LET ME DRIVE I'LL RUN THEM ALL OVER!"
And then he snaps back into his silly little rhymes, like "the road is free, shift up to threeeeeeeee, darling!"
With sweetness! Sweetness, sweetness, sweetness!