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CCORDING to her birth certificate, Jennifer came into this world on April 4 1969 as a “Volkswagen sedan (Beetle), blue, 1 600 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-andrescue mission at the shunting yards.
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-todoorhandle and the “whoever-gets-in-frontfirst-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.
“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 travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za