Curbs in many Italian cities are quite high, perhaps dating back to the days of horse drawn carriages and less sophisticated drainage systems. The high curbs of Bologna play an important part in this story. Exhausted by the day’s experience in “Driving in Bologna I,” we made our way to our hotel, finding a parking spot in a perfect location, near the hotel and not in an isolated area. It was a small space but with a little effort the car just fit, a little close to the curb but no matter. We were happy to be rid of the car for the evening. The hotel was pleasant enough. We checked in, dropped our bags and went in search of an osteria. Over a nice carafe of house wine and a meal of the delicious cuisine of Emilia Romagna, we recapped the adventures of the day and marveled that we escaped with nothing more than the cost of a new tire and a good story.

Bright and early the next morning, we approached the car, bags in hand, and were relieved to find it intact. We loaded the trunk with our bags and climbed in prepared to continue our journey. That high curb had other ideas as it grabbed the underside of the rear fender in a death grip. By the time I got the car off the curb, there was a large piece of the wheel well dragging on the ground, its molded form impossible to bend back to its original place, leaving the car impossible to drive. A small crowd gathered offering the usual spectators’ advice, none of it useful, but the consensus was that nothing would work. The only possible solution was to somehow tie up the hanging part so it wouldn’t scrape the tire and try to find a repair shop. No rope, no stores open, no help from the spectators. But, in her luggage, my well-prepared friend had a bungee cord. Far from a perfect solution, it offered some hope. As we began manipulating the stretchable cord, one gentleman observer just grinned, shook his head and left. A bungee cord can be very useful but it is not a rope and its stretchable nature does not make for a secure lashing. But we made it work after a fashion and, with fingers crossed, slowly made our way through the quiet streets back to the only place we knew that was open and worked on cars, the tire garage.

Their expertise did not extend beyond tires, but they just happened to know two brothers who did body work, they were close and they were open. Off we went in our bungee-wrapped car looking for the place we couldn’t miss. Many wrong turns later and still no garage, we finally called for directions and, with minimal English on one end and minimal Italian on the other, finally figured out guideposts. We were looking for a garage. This was more like a junkyard behind high cement block walls. We were understandably skeptical.

The language barrier was obvious from the start. My Italian was limited, their English non-existent. They called an English speaking friend. His English was less than my Italian. He called another friend to try to help translate on the phone. That was worse. We were getting nowhere and it was getting late, near that magical mid-day hour when everything shuts down for three hours. I finally decided to go with my Italian and my hands to explain what was needed.

At first, the repair was going to take several days. They would have to order a new piece. It would be very expensive. Then, maybe it could somehow be repaired without a new piece but still expensive and not today. Suddenly, my Italian got better and I got the message across that this was a rental car, I didn’t want to spend a lot of money and the car was due for return in two days at the Milan airport. It was a French car going back to France.

At that precise moment of comprehension, the brothers looked at each other, threw their hands up into the air and cried “capiamo!” we get it. Go, eat. Come back later this afternoon. Your car will be ready. So we did what the Italians do, had a leisurely three-hour lunch and returned to find the car finished with no noticeable damage. Bravo. Now, for the bill. This is where the French/Italian rivalry really works in our favor. The brothers are not great admirers of French engineering and think their cars are poorly made. For them this was an opportunity to get the French by cutting off the offending piece, leaving the car looking like new, guessing that the absence would never be noticed. No charge for putting one over on the French.

So, about that bottle of wine, it went to the brothers. As predicted, the car repair went unnoticed and now I always carry a bungee cord.

I have since returned to the lovely, exciting city of Bologna– by train.