July 2013
I was feeling good. I'd left my boyfriend back in England, he didn't have the guts to jack in is job like I did. So I just took off with my backpack and had managed to get all the way to Italy, hitching alone, like loads of other girls. I felt liberated . . . and rather smug.
I was as brown as a berry and the sun had bleached my hair even blonder. I sat by the shady, tree-lined road and took a swig from my water bottle. I thought of Paul, stuck in a hot London office, and smiled. I heard an engine, stuck out my thumb and . . . wow . . . an Alfa Romeo . . . and red.
I got in and was over the moon to find he was going all the way to Naples. He was middle-aged and obviously religious. I stared at the rosary dangling down, pictures of the pope and a saturation of saints. He didn't stop talking from the moment I entered the car, he also drove rather fast. We'd only just left his village when he started singing Opera at the top of his voice. I was a bit rattled by his lack of concentration . . . but what could I do? I was starting to get very bad vibes.
Suddenly, he fumbled in his pocket to show me a photo of his children, whilst steering with his elbow. My eyes were drawn to the old stone bridge, which we were meant to go under, but I knew that we were going into. Time seemed to slow, I was frozen, petrified. He looked up, too late, as we hit the side of the bridge.
I became aware of locals surrounding us, their sing-song voices full of sympathy for the driver. I was invisible. I was not one of them, so I didn't count. My neck hurt, but I got out of the car and walked away. I looked back at this close, Italian community talking and gesticulating, they hadn't even noticed I'd gone.
I crossed the road and stuck out my thumb. I was going home.