Readers' World: Rome is a beautiful city with terrible drivers

Sunday Times reader Roland Darroll and his beloved Beetle were fierce competitors in one of Italy's traditional contact sports - driving

According to her birth certificate, Jennifer came into this world on April 4 1969 as a "Volkswagen sedan (Beetle), blue, 1600 cc".

We bought her 11 years later as the family vehicle for Antoinette and me. The fun started when we were transferred to Rome. We flew while Jennifer enjoyed a sea cruise.

Despite bureaucratic complications and a flat battery, one working day was all it took to successfully conclude a search-and-rescue mission at the shunting yards.

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In the contact sport that is driving in Rome, Jennifer had two distinct advantages: her genteelly dilapidated condition and her bumpers front and rear. They were fierce, sturdy things, equally suitable for nudging, scraping or even hooking. For them, we were often to be duly thankful.

Mild disaster struck fairly soon, right outside the office. About to do my last turn to the left, I indicated my intention. In Rome this is not necessarily sufficient. I mistakenly left space for another car to try slipping past before I changed course.

"Don't turn," warned the ever-alert Antoinette, "there's a car coming on our left."

Too late. With scornful impatience, our pursuer charged past. Jennifer's front bumper gored a sideswipe gash she must have been proud of.

The signora who was driving screeched to a halt, flinging her door open as she did so. She flew out, screeching too, hands and arms flailing. "Cretino! What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

I showed her Jennifer's still-winking left indicator and the large, yellow compulsory-left-turn arrow painted in the lane she had traversed.

Realising Jennifer had outmanoeuvred her, the lady turned on her high heel, flounced back into her seat and roared off in disgust.

Jennifer's second encounter was in the pouring rain going up the Via Veneto. The traffic was doorhandle-to-doorhandle and the "whoever-gets-in-front-first-wins" principle was in full swing.

As we approached a narrowing chink in the phalanx of vehicles, a threatening Fiat Berlina guided by two furrow-browed gentlemen made in an oblique thrust worthy of a knight on a chessboard. Jennifer held her ground.

In a scene reminiscent of the chariot race in Ben Hur, a gentle grinding sound could be heard for several metres. The Berlina, just visible out of the corner of my eye, disappeared behind the watery sheen rushing over the passenger window.

Jennifer proceeded calmly through the gap, but that was not the end of it. The Berlina drew alongside once more, the driver's window lowered. Muffled shouting could be heard.

Antoinette wound her window down. The rain splattered in with a vengeance, but we felt obliged to defend Jennifer's honour.

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"I want your name and address!" the driver was shouting.

"And our car?" I shouted back. "You're driving on that side. You should have seen what was happening."

The argument continued for two or three blocks until eventually rain washed out play.

Another argument Jennifer evoked was about who had had the most accidents at the wheel, Antoinette or me. After my driving history had been held against me, I struck back. "What about your accident on the Via Flaminia?"

"That was no accident. I did it on purpose," snorted Antoinette.

She had been irritated by a man in front of her who continually switched lanes just when Antoinette wished to do so. Seeing the offending car dart in front of her for the nth time, Antoinette directed Jennifer to attack. Jennifer ran up its rear with her formidable front bumper, much to the horror of Cedric, a guest of ours at the time.

Antoinette and the other driver did their verbal duel standing at the confluence of the two cars, while Cedric white-knuckled the passenger-seat handgrip.

The Italian poured scorn on the hapless Cedric. "Your man doesn't even have the courage to defend his own driving and sends his woman out for him instead!"

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Antoinette's riposte was sharp and delicious, "And you don't even have the sense to realise that the steering wheel is not on his side of the car!"

With that she flounced back to the wheel and drove off, fully expecting a summons to arrive. Nothing did.

On one occasion, Antoinette was trying to swing out of her parking spot at the supermarket and Jennifer didn't seem to respond that well to the usual flat-footed accelerator thrust. In the rearview mirror, Antoinette spotted a Fiat 500 hitching a ride on Jennifer's back bumper.

A quick shoe shuffle with a little reverse and the clinch was broken, leaving the Fiat in a new parking spot but improving Jennifer's performance considerably.

The time eventually arrived for us to depart from Rome in circumstances that made it impractical for Jennifer to come along. That final morning, the mechanic who had worked on her over the years came to collect her for scrap.

We bade our farewells and waved sadly until she slowly sailed out of view, proudly flaunting the marks of her various encounters while her perky exhausts gave us the "up yours".

We retired to the nearest bar and ordered two espressos "corrected" with grappa. Moist-eyed, Antoinette and I raised our cups in solemn tribute to our Jennifer, the meanest little Beetle in the West.

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