Everyone in Italy goes on holiday August 15. Everyone, that is, except scoundrels who prey on tourists who forget that everyone goes on holiday August 15. Realizing that this is a gross overstatement, my story begins on this premise. It was August 15, I was a tourist and the scoundrels did find me.

My friend and I arrived in Bologna late morning. The city was quiet and we had no trouble finding a parking spot on the street. Bologna is one of those cities where you buy parking time at a machine and leave the time-stamped ticket in your window. This makes it easy for the traffic police to see if you have overstayed your time. It also makes it easy for the scoundrels to know how much time they have to wreak havoc. Our first concern was avoiding a fine so we bought our ticket and set off to explore the city.

Bologna is a beautiful city with wide, arched, covered walkways to protect from the weather. An August sun calls for such protection and the walkways made a mid-day stroll possible. There were very few people about and shops were closed, but our wandering finally led us to an open trattoria where we settled into a long lunch—long enough to find us rushing back to the car past our allotted time. To our great relief, there was no ticket. What we did have was a flat tire. We had been in Italy enough to know that a flat tire on August 15 is not a good thing and we also knew that the strange donut of a tire that passes for a spare these days was not a good thing. As we stood discussing our options, we were saved by a passing English-speaking gentleman. Our good fortune, he knew of a service station just two blocks away; a quick left turn and we would find it. We did not invite him into the car to show us the way. We were not that trusting. However, we were desperate so we did follow his advice and crept along the two blocks and made the left turn.

There was no station in sight. Instead, we were on a quiet, tree-lined street, mostly residential. It appeared deserted until we spotted a shoe store with the metal grating half raised and someone inside. Surely he would know of this mysterious service station. We approached the store and called the man out. Of course, we were in the right place. Two men in blue work shirts materialized, eager to help. We opened the trunk, they pulled out the jack and spare and went to work while we watched.

It is common, in Italy, to engage many people in such an event, the workers and the commentators. The shoe store owner was a lively participant, the workers friendly and engaging. A man, smartly dressed in summer white, wandered over and joined the scene. Speaking English as impeccably as he was dressed, he asked lots of questions—where we lived, how we liked Italy, what had happened to our car? It was all very spirited with everyone eager to help. Until I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye, low and by the driver’s side of the car. In four giant steps, I was around the car and screaming at the small man who had his hand inside reaching for a bag between the seats. No need to speak Italian here. My screaming was enough to stop him mid-grab. I knew enough Italian to understand his quivering excuse—un gatto sotto la machina! So, if your cat is under the car, why is your hand in the car?

The cat lover ran, the man in white mysteriously disappeared and the tire-changers began apologizing profusely citing recent problems with immigrants. The tire was quickly changed, the shoe store owner provided us with the name and address of a tire man who would be open and, quite shaken, we left. We offered to pay but they refused and continued to apologize for the bad immigrants. Was there too much apologizing? As I rethink the series of events, the apology seemed more a claim of innocence, the innocence not plausible. Consider: a sliced tire, two foreign women, a stranger who happens to know a service station that doesn’t exist but two men are conveniently on the spot to help, the English speaker arrives to engage us in conversation and the cat chaser appears with his hand in the car. There was a tire man although he did insist that we needed two new tires but our innocence was long gone so he settled for one. We planned to return to the scene of the almost-crime with a bottle of wine as a thank you, but the saga of the car continued and the wine had a different destiny.