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As we boarded our plane for Rome I realized I was really nervous. In the weeks leading up to this trip, I’d immediately opened every Italian guidebook we had come across to the Safety and Security section, to see if my unease was justified. I wanted to find out if our planned trip – self-driving around southern Italy – was foolhardy.
Privately I thought it was.
I’d even quipped to friends: “So long as we get back with our bags and passports, I’ll be happy.” Then I’d add, “And the car!”
The plan was to drive south from Rome, where (good sign) it turned out the rental company had upgraded us to a natty little navy blue Alfa Romeo, then south to Naples, heeding warnings galore about pickpockets and worse.
From there we planned a quick lap around Sicily (watch out for the Mafia, friends said) then back to the mainland, outlining ‘the boot’ of Italy and the back of the leg, crossing back from a point on the east coast, level with Rome.
Four weeks, we’d given ourselves, to do all this. That’s if we lasted the distance. Word was the locals weren’t too fussed about tourists. That was yet another thing, and I wondered why I wasn’t simply packing up and heading for Paris. My mood was as black as a Calabrian widow’s dress.
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