Andrew Clark stands beside his rental Jeep Renegade overlooking the Italian countryside.The Globe and Mail
Looking across the Chiana Valley, which lies below the Tuscan town of Cortona, toward the Apennines, I reflect on the rental car parked outside our villa. I used to hate that car. I took an irrational, instant dislike to it the moment I was handed the keys at the counter at the airport in Rome but somehow, we’ve come to an understanding.
Looking back, my animosity may have been triggered by the experience of picking it up.
While the woman who handled my booking was polite, she terrified me. That’s what rental agents do. They terrify renters who decline insurance. That’s what I had done when asked if I wanted to take their insurance. I’d said no and that my credit card covered such things.
This was not welcome information. Her eyes narrowed and she metamorphosized from car rental employee to foreboding Sibyl, a stern prophetess using a warning.
“So, if it is stolen? You will be totally responsible.” Her Roman accent gave the word “totally” a melodic charm. She paused, then, “Any damage? It will be your responsibility. You should photograph the vehicle thoroughly; in case there is already damage. You will need to sign.”
I was wracked by dread. Though I was certain my credit card covered such liabilities, she had shaken my confidence. This happens every time I rent a car and turn down the coverage. The agent describes a nightmare scenario and my place in the centre. I was submerged in doubt and close to taking any and all insurance on offer.
“So, you will turn it down. Are you sure?”
My resolve returned.
“That’s fine,” I told her and immediately began to ruminate on the decision.
I was already rattled because the Citroen C3 hatchback I had reserved was not available. Instead, she offered me a Jeep Renegade SUV. This was not good. I’d driven a Jeep Renegade in May through Northern Italy and down to Naples. I had not enjoyed it. I found it too square, too big, too much and here I was being offered another one. Yet I was in a hurry, jet-lagged and still shaken from turning down the rental company insurance, so I reluctantly grabbed the keys.
Out among the rentals, I found it – a bright red Renegade. I took pictures of the scraped and scarred exterior. I knew this was important because when I dropped off my Renegade at the Naples airport the attendant had found a dent and asked to see a photo of it (I’d taken one).
Driving a Jeep Renegade through the streets of Naples had not been a pleasant experience. We’d gotten lost and found ourselves on a road taking us to Naples’ notorious Scampia neighbourhood (immortalized in the book Gomorra). I did not wish to visit Scampia, which in the past was one of Europe’s most notorious drug-trafficking hubs, even if, as my Neapolitan friend told me, “You will be fine. They will not harm you unless they have a reason to harm you.” Then, as if to make certain, “And they have no reason to harm you.” Fortunately, I was able to get back on course, ultimately dropping off the Jeep. I’d hoped that was the last I’d see of a Renegade.
Andrew Clark stands beside his rental Jeep Renegade on a street in Italy.The Globe and Mail
So, standing beside my red Renegade on this trip, I found myself seeing red. I got in and drove north to Cortona. All the while, I cursed my Renegade. For two more days after we arrived, I muttered and cursed.
On the third morning, I went out to the red Jeep and felt a sense of guilt and urgency. Something had to be done about this automotive relationship. I was loathing a rental car for no real reason, and it was ruining the driving. I started the red Jeep, drove it up the mountain past Cortona and turned off the GPS. The Jeep and I were going to get lost. We were going to find our way out and this shared experience would hopefully cure my aversion.
Getting lost on narrow Italian mountain roads is a humbling experience. There is nothing much to see and you are never sure if the road will suddenly come to a dead end. We got lost. We climbed and climbed and finally, as if the Renegade and I had reached a consensus, we turned around and traced our way back. It took awhile. There were times I thought I would need to resort to the GPS but I resisted the temptation. We made it back.
When we arrived at the villa, I had a new appreciation for my red, rental Renegade. The four-wheel drive had been a benefit. Its size made transporting larger groups easier. The red was kind of festive. I liked the features, it handled nicely. I no longer loathed my rental.
When I entered the kitchen, my brother asked where I’d been.
“I took the Jeep out to get lost,” I told him. “We needed to go through something together.”
He tilted his head upward, as if hoping he could find some trace of logic or rationalism somewhere on the ceiling.
“Whatever works,” he said.
“Oh, it worked,” I said. “We have an understanding.”
The writer was a guest of ITA Airways. Content was not subject to approval.