The Italian Job

Well hello!  I'm back again! Sorry I haven't blogged in a while, I've had my nose stuck in a really good book so my train journeys have been bearable.  Plus, I've went to the pub a lot after work so I've been drunk on the way home regularly!  I've been in Italy a few times in August, just got back from Naples where I've been for a week with work, no train journeys but plenty of commutes and other interesting moments.  Why do I always find myself involved or in the centre of drama? I can't help it, it just seems to follow me around!

So there I am, in Naples.  In the 40 degree scorchio heat.  I can't go outside as the sun is heating up my kirby gribs and burning my scalp.  I'm sure ill look like a self harmer when I part my hair a different way.  I think I have sunburn on my eyelids.

I'm told that there is a delivery for me but the driver won't part with it until he speaks to me, I hope he's fit.  I walk outside and the heat hits me like I've just opened the oven door, its intense.  There is a DHL van with 14 boxes, the driver is refusing to part with them unless I give him some money.  Now I have been warned that Naples is rife with Mafia so I wonder if I've met a real life don who has a sideline as the DHL man.  He demands €460 in cash from me for the payment of import tax as I've bought goods from China.  Fucking great.  Who carries that sort of cash around, strippers and pimps? 

He speaks NO English and my Italian is limited to Grazie Millie and Pronto and even still I get them mixed up.  We go round in circles for about 40 minutes as I try to explain I have no cash and can pay it on a credit card.  No, credit cards are not allowed.  Apparently there are too many scammers and cards get cloned.  Oh, okay then, let me give you this cash that I carry around in my sock and get no receipt instead then.  Good one.

I am exasperated and eventually offer to show him my tits if he will just give me my delivery.  He doesn't understand as he looks at me blankly.  I resort to actions and pretend to get them out and then look at him quizzically as if to say "is this enough?"  He laughs and he has lovely eyes.  This is the point where he agrees to take a credit card, I don't want to know where he wants to swipe it.  The only problem is he doesn't have a credit card machine so i'll have to come to the depot with him which is a 20 minute drive away.  I can't help but wonder if I hadn't suggested the peep show, if this would have been necessary or not.

I see no other way.  I agree, he offloads my delivery and I have to go with him.  I try to hide once he's offloaded but it doesn't work.  He's waiting for me.  I grab a stanley knife and stuff it in my bag.  Well you never can be too careful and I don't want to end up sleeping with the fishes!

It's awkward as hell.  We don't speak each others language.  After 5 minutes of contented sounding sighs and waving my hand in front of my face to signal that yes, Italy is hot, I've run out of conversation.  Small talk with an English speaking taxi driver is bad enough.  Small talk with a fit Italian delivery man is torture.  "Habla Espanol?" I ask him.  He says no.  My Spanish is limited to asking for a table for 5 or for a glass of wine so it's not a bad thing he can't speak it.

He drives like a maniac.  And I mean a fucking maniac.  I'm actually worried for my life as I see the Italian country side disappear at alarming speed at my side.  I have my hands across my mouth in fear to stop me from screaming.  He looks at me and says "okay?" I try to style it out as a yawn and he smiles. 
We have several near misses along the way and I have to try and communicate that he's frightening the life out of me.  If I talk loud and slow, he should understand.  I say, "ITALIANO, drive.. FAST, SI?" He looks confused so I resort to using my hands to simulate a steering wheel action and try again.  "ITALIANO, drives (with actions) RAPIDO!" Surely rapido means fast no?  He understands and nods, then puts the foot down!  I'm thrown back in my seat as I see the speedo hit, 130 kilometres an hour, 140, 150.... Up and up.  The seat feels damp.  I think I've wet myself.  It could be sheer panic sweat though. 

My Blackberry has been a permanent fixture in my hand since I climbed in, just in case of emergency.  I'm not sure who I'd call that could help me, or even where I am for that matter.  Google maps has let me down and won't load.  It still thinks I'm in England.  Nice one Google, saving womens lives since never!

I have an idea, I "check in" on Facebook, the place, "last known location". If I'm not back at work in a few hours, surely someone will come looking for me.  Mind you, I've been traded for a delivery, so I'm worth nothing any more.  Dammit, I should have taken the delivery with me!  I curse my own stupidity.  Always have something to trade!

The countryside gets more and more remote, the roads get windier, civilisation is disappearing before my eyes and I'm increasingly anxious.  I'm certain that I'm about to be murdered or handed over to the Mafia and sold.  If not, then surely certain death awaits in the Italian Wacky Races.

Finally, just as I'm about to give up hope and write a will on my Blackberry, I see a massive DHL sign!  I'm saved!  We pull into the depot and I heave a massive sigh of relief.  I jump out and gratefully pay €460 for nothing more than a certificate of Import Tax.  I clutch my receipt like a trophy.  I can be traced, I was here.  I was ripped off for €460 but I was here!

I turn around to go back in the van with the Don, he's gone! I spin back round to the counter assistant and ask where my driver is?  I'm told he will be back later.  Later? Fucking later? No, I need to go now!  Stuck in a DHL depot, deep in South Italy is not my idea of fun.  There's barely air con in here.  It would be cooler if someone came and yawned on me.  I pace up and down anxiously and think about what I can do.  I have no cash on me, I'm not sure Italian taxi drivers take credit cards, I can only pay in kind.  Eventually I resign myself to the fact that i'll spend the rest of my life here.  I'll grow old here, become an Italian mamma and cook pasta for all the drivers, i'll speak no Italian and have to communicate with my hands and talking really loudly.  I slump down in a chair contemplating my future here.  Maybe it won't be so bad.  Ill probably have Mafia protection and if I order stuff on Amazon i'll always be in for the delivery. 

I wait for what seems like an eternity and I hear the "toot toot" of a horn outside as my driver has returned!  I never thought I'd be so happy to get in a van with a stranger before!  I climb in and buckle up and relax in my seat for the 20 minute hair raising, white knuckle ride back to work.  The second time around, its not so bad.  I've chilled out, I'm used to this crazy driving.  I'm practically Italian now I think.  Another driver cuts us up and we have to swerve.  I raise my hand and pinch my thumb and finger together and limply shake my wrist in a typical Italian manner.  We share a moment as he bursts out laughing and his eyes sparkle.  I think that means were married now.

I've been too busy saying my prayers, sweating and wetting myself in fear to notice how handsome he is.  We near my drop off point and I feel a twinge of sadness as I realise ill never see this man again.  My bottom lip trembles slightly and I make a mental note to send a monthly shipment from China to Italy with outstanding duty to be paid. 

We arrive, I turn to him and say, "I hate goodbyes". He smiles and nods, he doesn't understand.  This is so hard, I linger in my seat a moment too long.  Although, I'm still not quite sure if I've wet myself or not.  I smile and shrug my shoulders, I say "CIAO" as breezily as I can without my voice breaking.  I feel cheap.  I've just paid €460 for a few hours with a man dressed in a DHL uniform.

Import tax on a delivery from China - €460.  Whizzing through the Italian countryside with a tall dark Italian man who your not quite sure if he's going to pounce on you....

Priceless.

A. Passenger