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

there on the sidewalk,” he snarled.
    As darkness approached and we were still driving around Naples, panic set in. Soon we would have to turn on the car lights, and then what would we do? We were afraid to touch anything in the car. We might even be faced with running out of gas. In that traffic, how long would it be before someone even noticed we weren't moving under our own steam, but were being pushed along with the traffic? One year? Two?
    As we sped down the wrong way on a one-way street, a bus approached. My husband swerved off into a dark alley to miss getting hit head-on. We sat there for a moment in the darkness before my husband noticed a glow of a dozen or so cigarettes behind the car. They belonged to a group of young men leaning on motorcycles. In my heart I knew they had “scoundrel” written all over their bodies.
    Angrily, my husband opened his door and said, “I'm going to tell them we're tourists and we're lost.”
    I grabbed his arm. “No matter what the outcome of this evening is,” I said, “I just wanted you to know that this is the stupidest thing you have ever done in your entire life.”
    “Look,” he said, “I don't care if they're Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper. We've got to find the hotel.”
    After a few minutes of conversation, one of the young men climbed into the front seat of the car with my husband. I was told to get in the rear seat. Another young man climbed on his bike and motioned for us to follow. Together, they delivered us to the doors of our hotel. When we tried to pay them, they refused and told us to have a nice stay in Naples . . . and be careful with our cameras and handbags. There were scoundrels about.
    I tell this story for two reasons. First, because it's the kind of story you never hear about—the nice people on your travels who are glad you have come to their country and want to show it off. Second, it marks the only time I can remember that my husband admitted to being lost.
    By the time we crawled into bed that night, we knew what we had to do. We were going to put our rental car in a garage somewhere and hire a driver to take us to Pompeii and Mount Vesuvius.
    That's when we met Frank. Frank was a concierge at the hotel who had a way of conducting business with you and painting the lobby with his eyes at the same time. We asked him if he knew of a driver who would not only be knowledgeable, but who spoke English.
    Frank shrugged. “No problem. I get you good driver who speaks English better than you do.” Frank made a phone call. We tipped him.
    If Henry Kissinger had been Italian and had a lip full of Novocain, he would have sounded like the driver Frank got for us. His name was Rocco. We asked Rocco if he had been called often by Frank to serve as a guide/driver for English-speaking tourists. He said, “Oh sure, he's my brother.”
    We had the feeling when we tipped Rocco, we tipped Frank again.
    Someone told us that Naples has the best pizza in the world. Where do you find the best pizza in Naples? You silly goose. You ask Frank. Frank said, “No problem,” he would make reservations for us that night. He made a phone call. We tipped him.
    Later that night as we walked into the restaurant, a familiar face approached us with the menus. It was Frank. He owned the restaurant and worked there on his nights off from the hotel. We left a tip for the pizza and Frank.
    We were to discover in the next few days that Frank had relatives who ran “best jewelry factory in Naples” and a brother-in-law with “best laundry” in all of Italy. I knew in my heart that in a few years, Frank would have enough in tips for a down payment on his own country.
    Watching state-of-the-art nepotism was fun, but we had to push on to the drive down the Amalfi coast. Both of us were apprehensive as we stared at the rented Fiat sitting at the curb.
    “Is it pointed in the direction of the autostrada?” asked my husband. (The autostrada is the Italian version of an