Lyn and Leon go to ...: Italian Driving and the Scot's Taxi

Writing this from the safety of leafy Camden on a quiet, overcast Monday morning. The flat is wonderful.

Yesterday began well. We left on time with 3 hours to spare and Michele, our male driver, proceeded to hurl us toward Leonardo Da Vinci airport as if he was in danger of missing mass. It was the usual performance that we had become used to seeing from pedestrian level: the double lines were for overtaking because they aren't used much, the spaces between cars were judged as if we were in the Millennium Falcon and Han Solo was steering, pedestrians crossing at pedestrian crossings were like witches hats in a training drill, and all was managed while our man, and every other driver, wrestled with a mobile phone.

We arrived at the airport to find that the Italians are infinitely more efficient at getting you out of the country than they are at allowing entry. We strolled past the endless duty-free and fashion outlets (checking sandals as we went - no luck) in search of something with egg - or salt - or butter. When you crave a Maccas or a full breakfast none is to be found. We miserably munched on something with eggplant and buffalo mozzarella and stuff on it, bought some Pringles and Lyn decided that we needed to start a fridge magnet collection. Mission accomplished - and then Alitalia called us to board exactly on time! Then, in only a half-full plane in row 23 (brilliant cos only two in the row so extra space), we readied for takeoff. And waited, and waited. Eventually more people arrived, from a connecting flight, then still more. The plane was now full of Americans. They are, I'm sure, mostly fine, courteous and generous people; but there were far too many of the pushy, discourteous, very large and downright rude type in silly hats on our plane. We took off an hour late on a two-hour flight...

Then Alitalia proceeded to add injury to humiliation by starving us. Singapore airlines would have found a way to serve drinks, two meals and coffee, but Alitalia gave us a drink and weird baked crunchy "snacks" in a pack. Mercifully, London appeared and the pilot gave us a final memory of Italian driving by slam-dunking his Boeing onto the tarmac. Then he hared around the taxiway for an eternity. (I think I saw Bus 64 pass us with Michele driving - but that may have been hysteria.)

We were doomed. Antonia would be waiting at the flat for us at 5.30. It was 4:40, and Heathrow's fabled congestion awaited us. And my mobile phone couldn't find a network.

But it was Sunday arvo and Heathrow smiled upon us. 15 minutes later we realised we were OUT! We headed for the Heathrow Express - expensive but FAST. Twenty minutes later we were at Paddington. Straight to a London taxi, where our luck wobbled...It takes about three years to learn "the Knowledge", but our driver had been 27 years on the job and clearly this is time to forget some of it. It didn't help that he was both rather deaf and a Scot. He looked up Handel Street and we were off. He wanted to talk, a lot, but found it difficult to hear our replies. We got his life story anyway. He was an ex Scots guardsman with a passion for history who had travelled extensively in Australia and NZ. He also had much to say about London's decline, the discourtesy and incompetence of other road users and the disadvantages of multiculturalism - all of which would have been more bearable if he had not kept turning around to talk to us, or to better hear us, as he drove. We arrived only 5 minutes late. Lyn immediately fled upstairs with Antonia and I was left to pay. Simple? I was like Bre'er Rabbit with the tar baby. He gave advice, he drew diagrams, he said he'd not keep me long, but then showed me maps and gave a quick vive voce on the Australian and Kiwi war memorials in Hyde Park.