Erica in Italia drives in Sicilia

Tree branches scraped the side of my brand new rental car. I was driving on the shoulder, partly to avoid huge potholes, partly to avoid colliding with oncoming traffic. Twenty minutes into my drive to my agriturismo near Vittoria, I surmised that Sicilians had their own driving rules.

The center line, if visible, was merely decoration and crossed by traffic in both directions of the two-lane highway. Hugging the shoulder meant a car passing either way was less likely to hit me. If I stayed in the middle, cars would fly past me on the right shoulder, while oncoming autos approached in my lane. At one point, I closed my eyes and hoped I would not crash.

Driving had been my biggest fear traveling solo to Sicily. I have terrible navigation skills, I cannot parallel park, and don’t like driving. I had confident-sounding GPS, roadside assistance, and if I damaged the car, I’d pay, at most, 1200€. Nothing to worry about, I kept telling myself, eyes glued to the road. Just do what everyone else is doing.

So I drove on the shoulder. I careened around corners. I sped much faster than a reasonable person should given the road conditions and the warnings of radio-controlled speed monitors. An hour later I pulled into the gates of my peaceful agriturismo, Baglio Occhipinti.

The next day I drove ten minutes, an easy four turns on three roads, for my appointment at COS Vittoria, where Giusto and Joanna showed me how they make their amazing biodynamic wines. Giusto invited me to lunch with him, an offer I would never refuse, even though it meant I would have to follow him to the restaurant.

For a half-hour I kept my eyes on Giusto’s Fiat 500 as we drove up the mountain to Ristorante Majore in Chiaramonte Gulfi. I sped around switchbacks and slowed down for stop signs until we reached the city piazza where, as luck would have it, we pulled into two adjoining parking spots.

 The next day, Google maps had me turn very sharply left and up into what I thought was a gravel driveway. I had been on a normal two-lane road. “You are on the best route,” she told me as if sensing my skepticism. I was headed to an appointment with another winery, Valle dell’ Acate, and not wanting to be late, I turned. I reached the top of the hill and was surrounded by fields. The day before, Giusto and I had taken a farm road out of his winery, but his was level. This road was bouldered, rutted, pot-holed, and in many spots, missing. I bumbled along slowly and heard the unmistakable sound of my car undercarriage scraping rocks.

After one nasty stretch, I looked at the GPS. Several kilometers to go. I considered turning around but there was no place to do so without ending up entangled in grapevines, and I did not think I could get back without damaging the car. I calculated how long it would take roadside assistance to find me.

I saw a car approaching in the rearview mirror behind the dust my Audi was kicking up. Oh good, I thought, if my car gets stuck, they can help me, the road was too narrow for them to pass. Instead, he tailgated and honked furiously. I crept to an area I could pull over and he shot past me.

Finally, white-knuckled and bone-jarred, I arrived. Oddly, there was no sign for the winery. I looked behind me and saw that it faced the other way. Google maps had sent me the back way.

The next day I got lost trying to find my Airbnb in Agrigento. I parked illegally in a piazza until my kind host arrived to fetch me. I then spent one hour trying to find the parking lot 500 meters from my Airbnb. I maneuvered though the market, navigated one-ways in a warren of narrow chaotic lanes, and remembered Sicily’s famous painted carts. These roads were once mule and donkey cart paths.

The next day, I parked illegally three times, getting the hang of Sicily’s rhythm, and optimistic that on a holiday weekend I would not get a ticket. I headed north for Erice, never so relieved to drive the autostrada, a four-lane highway.

I ascended steep switchbacks to Erice, grateful the Europcar lady upsold me to an automatic transmission. I got lost despite directions from my host, Massimo who came to find me. I would follow him through the tiny lanes of Erice to a legal parking spot. Thankfully, the Audi had distance sensors that emitted beeps from all directions in a variety of tones as I wended my way though improbably tight corners and narrow streets.

My joy at successfully parking on the left side of the street turned to dismay when I opened my door and it hit the curb. Crunch. Massimo winced. I looked down, two tiny scratches in the paint. I mentally noted to try covering them up with my Sharpie marker.

The car had twelve miles of fuel remaining when I returned it at the Palermo airport. I never had to put gas in it, my fuel option choice ended up being a good one. I took pictures of the car, in case they charged me for damage. The two camouflaged scratches were imperceptible. I never had to parallel park. And now that I’ve driven in Sicily, I can do just about anything.