Why Real Men Don’t Ask Directions in Italian

Italy: Land of popes and pasta. Land of cathedrals and magnificent Renaissance art. Land where Americans asking directions in Their Best Italian are neither seen nor heard from again.

Escape from Rome

After a few days in Rome where we never got seriously lost, we were off to Orvieto to pick up a rental car and tour the Umbrian countryside north and east of The Eternal City. At Rome's main train station, we followed the advice of European travel guru Rick Steves and scrutinized the poster-sized yellow train schedule on the station wall to locate the track where our train to Orvieto would depart. We strode confidently to the track, verified from a sign with pictures of trains that we had the right one, and hopped aboard. This train is eerily quiet, we thought, and there are no other passengers who have taken their seats. Ah ha! We know these Italians! The passengers and crew will clamber aboard at the last momento, and off we will go! 

The absurdity of this notion quickly dawned on us. We jumped down to the platform, found a TV monitor showing departure information, and discovered that our train would leave in less than five minutes from the other side of the station. Running past track after track, and nearly bowling over a half-dozen officers of the politizi, we leapt aboard barely a minute before the train began to move. Gasping for breath, I asked (in My Best Italian) an off-duty conductor if we were on the train for Orvieto. He glanced up from his paper, gave me a quizzical stare, and simply said: "Si." 

Dove Hertz?

When the train pulled into Orvieto, I asked (in My Best Italian) a newsvendor in the station "Where is the Hertz car rental agency?" Pointing across the street to the funicular railway, he said something about "ascending." Now, Orvieto is a medieval town built on the top of a dormant volcanic hill and it hardly would make any sense to put the car rental office up there, would it? But up the mountain we went. Reaching the top, I asked (in My Best Italian) a bus driver if he was headed anywhere near the Hertz office. He wagged his finger at me, said "No, signore," and drove off. By now it was noon and I knew that the Hertz office would soon close for the three hour afternoon siesta. Problemo grande!

We caught the next bus to the Tourist Information office where I asked the TI Lady if she knew the location of the Hertz office. She shook her head no. I pulled out my railpass and showed it to her. Seeing the picture of a train on the cover of the pass she exclaimed: "Il treno, il treno!" "No, signora, La Machina ("The Machine"—meaning "the car")!" I explained, pointing to the page where the car rental company name was printed. "Ah, 'Ertz!" the TI Lady said. Oops! That's right: Italians don't pronounce the leading "H" in a word! Since every tourist "ascends" Orvieto to see the cathedral maybe the newsvendor at the station thought I was saying "church" instead of "Hertz." No problemo.

The TI Lady called the 'Ertz Lady who fetched us in our rental car, drove us down the hill to her office, and after some back and forth (in My Best Italian and Her Best English) we completed the paperwork. Were we through getting lost in Italy that day? Far from it.

Out to lunch

It was now about 1:15 pm. We were starving so the 'Ertz Lady phoned a local restaurant to make a lunch reservation for us. Gesturing toward the top of the hill and speaking (in a mélange of Italian and Her Best English) she pointed out the garage where we should park before "ascending" and walking to the restaurant. But by the time left the car we had forgotten which way she had said to turn. No problemo. This is not a very big place. I figured the restaurant must be near the cathedral, so turning right, off we went.

After a half hour of forced marching, we had found no sign of the restaurant, despite the fact that there were signs everywhere showing the direction to everything. By now, my wife's stomach was rumbling like a not so quiescent volcano. Trailing me by a few yards, she loudly insisted that we just find a place to get a "damned sandwich." But swinging my arm forward in a "tomahawk chop," I continued my quest to find the illusive "Il Grotto" and our waiting table. At last, we spotted an arrow pointing down into the bowels of the earth and the entry to the underground eatery.

Wearing blue jeans, sneakers, a TravelSmith "army field jacket" and a baseball cap, I approached two tuxedo-clad waiters and proclaimed (in My Best Italian): "We have a reservation!" With looks of disbelief, they consulted the reservation book, confirmed that Signor and Signora Jordan did indeed have a prenotazione, and escorted us past tables filled with Italians "dressed to the nines" to a cozy nook where we were fed an absolutely wonderful meal.

After finishing lunch, we stepped outside only to discover that the parking garage was next to the restaurant! We spent some time leisurely visiting the sights we had missed during our earlier peripatetic race around the town, and then drove down the hill and onto the northbound Autostrada. An hour later, we bumped our way up a dirt road and into the yard of the Umbrian agritourismo where we would spend the next two nights.

So do Real Men Ask Directions in Italian? Sometimes, they do, and sometimes they don't. Along the way adventures and misadventures are bound to happen, creating consternation, confusion, and amusing stories to share when you get back home.