A Very Eightblack Christmas...
Dec 19, 2011, 5:30 am
#47
FlyerTalk Evangelist
Join Date: Aug 2007
Location: UK
Posts: 10,709
Dec 19, 2011, 6:06 am
#48
Join Date: Dec 2006
Location: in a cabin
Posts: 6,522
Dec 19, 2011, 8:21 am
#49
FlyerTalk Evangelist
Join Date: Aug 2007
Location: UK
Posts: 10,709
Anyway it is Christmas time though, so there is never any room at the Hotels. They ended up in the stable!!
Dec 19, 2011, 10:01 am
#50
Join Date: Apr 2011
Location: Australia
Programs: Too many
Posts: 1,096
I want Guidos number from Modena! We are there in June and mr Jinxy already throwing tantrums about going there for him to stock up on toys ie car merchandise.
Merry Xmas from your home town. Weather is getting warmer now!
Merry Xmas from your home town. Weather is getting warmer now!
Dec 19, 2011, 1:15 pm
#53
Moderator, Trip Reports
Original Poster
Join Date: Jul 2009
Location: Denver, CO
Programs: UA GS-2MM, Marriott Ambassador
Posts: 3,715
Man, what a day.
Yesterday, I sent Guido from the place that said they organized the Ferrari factory tour an email. I wasn’t expecting a response because the web site was, well, quite frankly it looked as if Guido and his pals had consumed way too much chianti when they all sat around a table and agreed on starting a business based upon fleecing unsuspecting tourists of their Euro’s.
Anyway. We decided not to wait. Number one son said “Dad, why don’t we rent a car and drive there? I mean how hard can it be?”
Right, how hard.
Well, let me regale you of our day, dear and gentle readers.
It started out by jumping back on that damn hotel shuttle and heading back to the airport. I’d quickly gone on line and booted up Hertz.com, and managed to navigate my way through the Italian website to make a booking. I didn’t even glance at the type of car I reserved.
We head to the Hertz office. Look for the Gold counter. Or directions to it. At MXP, Hertz does away with the whole DYKWIA concept and simply prints all the Gold customers bookings for the day on a sheet of A4 paper and hangs it in the office. You need to be the bionic man to read it though.
No name on the sheet. Never mind. Head out to the carpark to look for the office where you collect the keys. Much arm waving proceeds and we are told to go back inside where we belong and start from the beginning. Which we do. Or did. I forget which.
So, back inside a very nice lady says yes, they do have a reservation. But they are struggling with availability and would I like something different.
Whenever a car rental agent says this to you, it’s sort of like your doctor saying “Would you like your diagnosis to be Herpes. Or Chlamydia?”
Or something like this.
My son, sensing another meltdown asks the woman if they have any convertibles.
“Are you nuts?” I say
“Dad, we’re in Italy. It’s a nice day…live a little” he says as if he’s talking to his own child
“I’ll give you “live a little”” I threaten
“We’re not getting a convertible. It’s 32-degrees outside. Or zero for everyone else”
The woman, now mildly amused by all this father and son banter looks towards my son and says “we have a Peugeot 308CC, would you like that?”
“What the hell is a 308CC?” I quip
“Dad, it’s a good car” he says authoritatively
He tells the friendly Hertz woman that we’ll take it. So we do.
The nice lady barks down the phone at some poor man and tells us to go and have a coffee as the car needs to be cleaned and prepared. I start to wonder what all that means, but I’m too preoccupied with how we’re going to get from where we are at Malpensa Airport to the Red Car Factory at Maranello.
The helpful lady even offers to program the address into the GPS. How nice, I say to myself.
So, a second attempt at collecting the keys from the Hertz Mafia outside is more successful. Except when the man realizes that we are renting the 308CC, he turns to the other males in the office, points at me, points at the paperwork, blows the dust off the keys as he retrieves them from the bottom drawer and I think, if I’m not mistaken, says in Italian, that I must have a very small salume sausage. Howls of laughter by all around. Except me.
Or something like that.
My son meanwhile is out the door and off towards the location of the car.
Then I see it.
It’s a damn convertible. And it’s one of the ugliest looking cars I have ever laid eyes on. It looks like a squashed frog. Small human is grinning from ear to ear and wants to drive the 150-miles with the roof down. I say, that’s ok, you won’t feel the wind in your hair as you’ll be jammed in the trunk.
Too late to turn back. Too late to complain. Too late to do much of anything. Except get in and drive. I’m thankful I’m in Italy and no one back at home can see me. As a precaution, I put my sunglasses on and adorn a baseball cap.
I tell my son that next time he has a brain-wave, that he might want to keep it to himself.
Truth be told though, it wasn’t a bad car to drive. For something so terrifyingly ugly. So, we head out of town, surrounded by a beautiful day and no real time pressure to get to where we are going.
I turn to my son to begin a road-trip conversation but bugger me, he’s already got his headphones on, his iPad thing fired up and ensconced in the watching of some stupid movie.
I bang him on the head with the soft part of my clenched fist and tell him that we didn’t fly half way around the goddam world for him to watch his silly machine. He tells me that driving bores him and to let him know when we are there.
“Don’t you want to see the Italian scenery?” I quip
“No, not really” he says matter of factly
“Why not?”
“Seen one country-side, seen em all”, he replies
I hang my head in despair, telling myself that I have failed miserably at parenting. But then again, that should be obvious by now.
If you haven’t driven in Italy, you need to know one thing. They drive as if their underpants are on fire. That’s the only way to describe it. And forget about leaving a safe distance between the car in front. Most cars will be so close to your rear end (as in bumper), that you’ll be able to tell what colour the drivers eyes are.
Except you wont. Because the driver who’s sitting 2-inches from you is waving both arms, talking on the phone, talking to his passenger and drinking an espresso. All at the same time.
You can see them swearing at you in Italian. Which I actually love.
I’ll tell you why…
If you live in Australia and tell someone to get lost, one of two things will happen. They will reciprocate with the same insult. Or they will belt you. Maybe both. But that will be the end of it. After it’s all over, they most likely will invite you to the pub to have a beer.
In Italy however, they take swearing and insults to another level entirely. Not only do they insult you, but they rope in your sister, your father, your mother, your grandparents. And your second cousin. Who isn’t really your second cousin at all, but never mind.
In fact, your whole damn village is included in this verbal tirade. Then they insult your religion. And to top it all off, they excitedly come to an oral climax by somehow managing to involve the Pope. And a small rodent.
Nothing will tip an Italian over the edge more than hurling abuse at the Pope. Even if he is German.
Anyway, where were we?
Right, driving. To Maranello. I remember.
I pride myself on my sense of direction. Most males do. But let me tell you, finding the Ferrari factory without a GPS is like trying to find water in the desert. Ok, the drive down the A1 Autostrade is easy enough. But towards the end, you’re practically driving through people’s back-yards to get there. Round-a-bout after flaming round-a-bout.
I was losing the will to live. Again
But then we saw it. We were both like excited school kids. Which one of us actually is.
Because we had been driving since the crack of dawn, we decided to find a place to park and look for a restaurant. Which wasn’t hard at all. Apparently we parked right outside some Ferrari named school. And across the road was one of the best little Italian eating houses I have ever experienced.
It was simply molto bene.
After we ate our body weight in pasta and pizza, we headed for one of several Ferrari merchandise stores littered all over Maranello. It was like a temple for the car freaks. Only suitable if you have Ferrari in your DNA. Or you are an 11-year old boy. With a sucker for a father.
Maranello on a Monday, the week before Christmas, isn’t exactly hopping. The retail staff are just thankful to have a visitor. Especially tourists. We fossick through all the crap that has been sent to Italy in a 20-foot container from Ningbo which has fortuitously had a Ferrari logo emblazoned to the side. Prices were eye-watering.
Then the child sees it. The in-store poster for the "Drive-A Ferrari "experience.
“Dad, lets do that…” he excitedly says
“Do what?”
“Drive a Ferrari”
“I can’t afford it” I protest
“Yes you can” he insists
“No I can’t”
“How much is it?” which is always the first mistake of negotiating with children.
I look at the sign and read the numbers.
He proceeds to tell me that it’s all ok, the prices are in Euros. Currency conversion means nothing to a child who thinks ATM’s are machines which dispense free money. All the time. On any day.
Amazingly, he then scans the convenient chart and finds the only car suitable for 3-people. Something called a California.
So guess who won?
Let me save you the trouble of waiting for another post. And besides, the effects of the bottle of Morellino Di Scansano which I bought downstairs at the restaurant is starting to take effect.
Alberto, the “co-pilot” who came with us on our drive around Maranello was a hoot.
We jump in the car, he fires up the in-car camera and turns to me and says…(in an Italian accent)
“We have a 30-minute. We need to ‘urry ok? Please drive a like a you stole it”.
So I did. And I have the DVD to prove it. It was the best fun I have had with my clothes on for a long, long time.
The drive home though was another matter. But as I told you, the red is starting to impact my ability to see. And would you believe I stupidly agreed to jump on a work conference call at 2am…
As if…
A domani….
Yesterday, I sent Guido from the place that said they organized the Ferrari factory tour an email. I wasn’t expecting a response because the web site was, well, quite frankly it looked as if Guido and his pals had consumed way too much chianti when they all sat around a table and agreed on starting a business based upon fleecing unsuspecting tourists of their Euro’s.
Anyway. We decided not to wait. Number one son said “Dad, why don’t we rent a car and drive there? I mean how hard can it be?”
Right, how hard.
Well, let me regale you of our day, dear and gentle readers.
It started out by jumping back on that damn hotel shuttle and heading back to the airport. I’d quickly gone on line and booted up Hertz.com, and managed to navigate my way through the Italian website to make a booking. I didn’t even glance at the type of car I reserved.
We head to the Hertz office. Look for the Gold counter. Or directions to it. At MXP, Hertz does away with the whole DYKWIA concept and simply prints all the Gold customers bookings for the day on a sheet of A4 paper and hangs it in the office. You need to be the bionic man to read it though.
No name on the sheet. Never mind. Head out to the carpark to look for the office where you collect the keys. Much arm waving proceeds and we are told to go back inside where we belong and start from the beginning. Which we do. Or did. I forget which.
So, back inside a very nice lady says yes, they do have a reservation. But they are struggling with availability and would I like something different.
Whenever a car rental agent says this to you, it’s sort of like your doctor saying “Would you like your diagnosis to be Herpes. Or Chlamydia?”
Or something like this.
My son, sensing another meltdown asks the woman if they have any convertibles.
“Are you nuts?” I say
“Dad, we’re in Italy. It’s a nice day…live a little” he says as if he’s talking to his own child
“I’ll give you “live a little”” I threaten
“We’re not getting a convertible. It’s 32-degrees outside. Or zero for everyone else”
The woman, now mildly amused by all this father and son banter looks towards my son and says “we have a Peugeot 308CC, would you like that?”
“What the hell is a 308CC?” I quip
“Dad, it’s a good car” he says authoritatively
He tells the friendly Hertz woman that we’ll take it. So we do.
The nice lady barks down the phone at some poor man and tells us to go and have a coffee as the car needs to be cleaned and prepared. I start to wonder what all that means, but I’m too preoccupied with how we’re going to get from where we are at Malpensa Airport to the Red Car Factory at Maranello.
The helpful lady even offers to program the address into the GPS. How nice, I say to myself.
So, a second attempt at collecting the keys from the Hertz Mafia outside is more successful. Except when the man realizes that we are renting the 308CC, he turns to the other males in the office, points at me, points at the paperwork, blows the dust off the keys as he retrieves them from the bottom drawer and I think, if I’m not mistaken, says in Italian, that I must have a very small salume sausage. Howls of laughter by all around. Except me.
Or something like that.
My son meanwhile is out the door and off towards the location of the car.
Then I see it.
It’s a damn convertible. And it’s one of the ugliest looking cars I have ever laid eyes on. It looks like a squashed frog. Small human is grinning from ear to ear and wants to drive the 150-miles with the roof down. I say, that’s ok, you won’t feel the wind in your hair as you’ll be jammed in the trunk.
Too late to turn back. Too late to complain. Too late to do much of anything. Except get in and drive. I’m thankful I’m in Italy and no one back at home can see me. As a precaution, I put my sunglasses on and adorn a baseball cap.
I tell my son that next time he has a brain-wave, that he might want to keep it to himself.
Truth be told though, it wasn’t a bad car to drive. For something so terrifyingly ugly. So, we head out of town, surrounded by a beautiful day and no real time pressure to get to where we are going.
I turn to my son to begin a road-trip conversation but bugger me, he’s already got his headphones on, his iPad thing fired up and ensconced in the watching of some stupid movie.
I bang him on the head with the soft part of my clenched fist and tell him that we didn’t fly half way around the goddam world for him to watch his silly machine. He tells me that driving bores him and to let him know when we are there.
“Don’t you want to see the Italian scenery?” I quip
“No, not really” he says matter of factly
“Why not?”
“Seen one country-side, seen em all”, he replies
I hang my head in despair, telling myself that I have failed miserably at parenting. But then again, that should be obvious by now.
If you haven’t driven in Italy, you need to know one thing. They drive as if their underpants are on fire. That’s the only way to describe it. And forget about leaving a safe distance between the car in front. Most cars will be so close to your rear end (as in bumper), that you’ll be able to tell what colour the drivers eyes are.
Except you wont. Because the driver who’s sitting 2-inches from you is waving both arms, talking on the phone, talking to his passenger and drinking an espresso. All at the same time.
You can see them swearing at you in Italian. Which I actually love.
I’ll tell you why…
If you live in Australia and tell someone to get lost, one of two things will happen. They will reciprocate with the same insult. Or they will belt you. Maybe both. But that will be the end of it. After it’s all over, they most likely will invite you to the pub to have a beer.
In Italy however, they take swearing and insults to another level entirely. Not only do they insult you, but they rope in your sister, your father, your mother, your grandparents. And your second cousin. Who isn’t really your second cousin at all, but never mind.
In fact, your whole damn village is included in this verbal tirade. Then they insult your religion. And to top it all off, they excitedly come to an oral climax by somehow managing to involve the Pope. And a small rodent.
Nothing will tip an Italian over the edge more than hurling abuse at the Pope. Even if he is German.
Anyway, where were we?
Right, driving. To Maranello. I remember.
I pride myself on my sense of direction. Most males do. But let me tell you, finding the Ferrari factory without a GPS is like trying to find water in the desert. Ok, the drive down the A1 Autostrade is easy enough. But towards the end, you’re practically driving through people’s back-yards to get there. Round-a-bout after flaming round-a-bout.
I was losing the will to live. Again
But then we saw it. We were both like excited school kids. Which one of us actually is.
Because we had been driving since the crack of dawn, we decided to find a place to park and look for a restaurant. Which wasn’t hard at all. Apparently we parked right outside some Ferrari named school. And across the road was one of the best little Italian eating houses I have ever experienced.
It was simply molto bene.
After we ate our body weight in pasta and pizza, we headed for one of several Ferrari merchandise stores littered all over Maranello. It was like a temple for the car freaks. Only suitable if you have Ferrari in your DNA. Or you are an 11-year old boy. With a sucker for a father.
Maranello on a Monday, the week before Christmas, isn’t exactly hopping. The retail staff are just thankful to have a visitor. Especially tourists. We fossick through all the crap that has been sent to Italy in a 20-foot container from Ningbo which has fortuitously had a Ferrari logo emblazoned to the side. Prices were eye-watering.
Then the child sees it. The in-store poster for the "Drive-A Ferrari "experience.
“Dad, lets do that…” he excitedly says
“Do what?”
“Drive a Ferrari”
“I can’t afford it” I protest
“Yes you can” he insists
“No I can’t”
“How much is it?” which is always the first mistake of negotiating with children.
I look at the sign and read the numbers.
He proceeds to tell me that it’s all ok, the prices are in Euros. Currency conversion means nothing to a child who thinks ATM’s are machines which dispense free money. All the time. On any day.
Amazingly, he then scans the convenient chart and finds the only car suitable for 3-people. Something called a California.
So guess who won?
Let me save you the trouble of waiting for another post. And besides, the effects of the bottle of Morellino Di Scansano which I bought downstairs at the restaurant is starting to take effect.
Alberto, the “co-pilot” who came with us on our drive around Maranello was a hoot.
We jump in the car, he fires up the in-car camera and turns to me and says…(in an Italian accent)
“We have a 30-minute. We need to ‘urry ok? Please drive a like a you stole it”.
So I did. And I have the DVD to prove it. It was the best fun I have had with my clothes on for a long, long time.
The drive home though was another matter. But as I told you, the red is starting to impact my ability to see. And would you believe I stupidly agreed to jump on a work conference call at 2am…
As if…
A domani….
Last edited by eightblack; Dec 19, 2011 at 1:24 pm Reason: Typos. But you know the reason...
Dec 19, 2011, 2:27 pm
#55
Moderator, Trip Reports
Original Poster
Join Date: Jul 2009
Location: Denver, CO
Programs: UA GS-2MM, Marriott Ambassador
Posts: 3,715
Thanks to Yahillwe for signposting this on the BA website, otherwise I wouldn't have found this gem of a TR (so far!!).
Happy Christmas to Eightblack and family (my brother-in-law is an Italian lawyer based in Rome if things get really bad!) and to Yahillwe and family (let me know when you'd like the next London drinks to be!).
Happy Christmas to Eightblack and family (my brother-in-law is an Italian lawyer based in Rome if things get really bad!) and to Yahillwe and family (let me know when you'd like the next London drinks to be!).
Please stop writing trip reports and making everyone else look bad. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Flyertalkers Everywhere
Love these reports. I think everyone who's ever thought of writing a trip report aspires to write theirs like yours. I'm still stuck aspiring to keep the alcohol intake below the point where I forget all the funny anecdotes of my trips. I tried to take notes on my last trip...legibility was an issue. I blame the CX FAs in F. Sometimes an empty glass does not need to be refilled.*
*That is a lie.
Sincerely,
Flyertalkers Everywhere
Love these reports. I think everyone who's ever thought of writing a trip report aspires to write theirs like yours. I'm still stuck aspiring to keep the alcohol intake below the point where I forget all the funny anecdotes of my trips. I tried to take notes on my last trip...legibility was an issue. I blame the CX FAs in F. Sometimes an empty glass does not need to be refilled.*
*That is a lie.
Richard who??? I am much better looking. Sort of wind-swept and interesting. With a touch of mold....
- it is you who dominates this forum and I feel very privileged to be in such company. And Merry Christmas to you too. I raise my glass of egg-nog to you (with more nog than egg...)
I am always stressed out...but drinking helps.
kileysmom, thank you for the kind words. Can you introduce me to Kiley?
Thanks Euan, I barely can string 2 words together, let alone work out how to post pictures. And besides, the only pictures I would want to post would see me banned within seconds...
Dec 19, 2011, 3:25 pm
#58
Join Date: Jan 2011
Location: Europe
Posts: 1,503
"Then there's the guy in 1A. A silver haired man of his years who has slept in the upright position for the entire flight. Not eaten a thing. Alcohol has not passed his lips. Every time I walk past him, there he is, vertical in his seat. Hasn't moved an inch. Maybe he died during the flight and the crew are simply too polite to interrupt him. I have no idea."
Dec 19, 2011, 5:21 pm
#60
Join Date: Mar 2010
Location: PIT
Programs: OZ Diamond, UA Gold
Posts: 9,926
I have literally rolled on the floor laughing at some points. Kinda hard to explain to my parents though.
Yet another amazing TR by the one and only eightblack. ^
Yet another amazing TR by the one and only eightblack. ^
Last edited by dinoscool3; Dec 20, 2011 at 4:37 pm