When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It's Time To Go Home by Erma Bombeck Read Free Book Online Page A

life in the slow lane, but until you've spent a few weeks in the wrong lane, you have nothing to talk about.
    It was terrifying for my husband. Every time a car approached, he came to a dead stop and closed his eyes until it passed. When he tried to turn on the lights, he released the hood. When he thought he was shifting gears with his right hand, he opened his own door. When he attempted to enter a lane of traffic, he looked for traffic the wrong way. In the entire two weeks we toured the country, we never passed another car, never put the car in reverse, never parallel parked or made a left-hand turn . . . make that right-hand turn.
    As a passenger, it was no day at the beach for me either. Each time we passed a person walking, I sucked in my breath and made a whimpering noise. When my husband asked me not to do that, I informed him I had been flogged to death by tree branches, drenched by gutter and curb water, mooned by sheep, and seen fear in the eyes of pedestrians that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
    For months after we returned home from Ireland, I had nightmares about the “roundabouts”—the Irish's answer to a samurai cloverleaf. No wonder the country boasts such religious fervor. There are probably more instant conversions to the faith on a roundabout than on death row.
    What it is is a circle with four lanes of traffic going in the same direction, with six or seven exits and entrances feeding into it. Once you enter the roundabout, cars zip in and out in front of you at blurring speeds. Everyone in the car takes a vow of silence while you are entering and exiting the roundabout. We once spent a half day on one.
    Before leaving the Italian car rental counter, I asked, “Italians do drive on the right side of the road, don't they?” For the first time, the agent smiled and said, “Of course. You will have no problem in Naples. Just be sure to put all your belongings in the trunk and out of sight, including your handbag. Scoundrels, you know.”
    It was not the first time we had heard of crime in some of the larger European cities. Handbags were reportedly ripped from your shoulders by “scoundrels” on motor scooters. Gypsy “scoundrel” children surrounded you as you walked. When they disappeared, your wallet and valuables went with them. There was talk that windows on your car were smashed as you stopped for a traffic light and your luggage was rerouted.
    We made a vow to be careful.
    The two-seater sports car we had ordered turned out to be a station wagon that was less than user-friendly. The motor didn't purr. It made human sounds in Italian. When you slammed the door, the radio went on. The reverse gear was one of the best-kept secrets since the formula for rocket fuel. Once the key was inserted in the ignition, there was no way to remove it. We circled the airport for thirty minutes before we finally stumbled onto the Via Don.
    To tell you how long it took us to find our hotel would have no meaning for anyone in hours. As a frame of reference, I will simply tell you that Susan Butcher covered 1,158 miles from Anchorage to Nome in eleven days, one hour, fifty-three minutes, and twenty-three seconds to win the Iditarod. She was in deep snow and freezing conditions on a sled being pulled by a team of dogs at the time.
    It took us five hours and thirty-three minutes to cover twenty miles to our hotel in a Fiat.
    Naples traffic isn't a condition. It's a war in progress. There are eight to ten lanes of traffic all going on an accelerated treadmill to oblivion. Red lights flash, but no one stops. Green lights flash, but no one cares. Cars cut in and out in front of you and never exit anywhere. New ones just keep feeding into the traffic. The street signs are all in (what else?) Italian, straining to the limits my entire Italian vocabulary, which consists of “antipasto” and “Joe Garagiola.”
    “How do those people survive as pedestrians?” I asked ray husband.
    “They were born right