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Macchina, the Italian word for car, translates simply to "machine".

The 2001 Fiat Punto, bestowed upon me by the good people at the Company, is quite a machine indeed. Such superfluous equipment as air conditioning, radio, power windows/locks, tachometer and rear seats were all eschewed in an effort to shave precious grams, not to mention a few tenths of a second off my 0 to 60 time.

I twist the Punto's key and the engine erupts to life like Mount Vesuvius above the unsuspecting inhabitants of Pompeii. The 1.9-litre inline four sends a staccato burst of acoustic energy hammering off the pastel-coloured stucco buildings and promptly settles into a flat, hollow idle. Hundreds of birds evacuate the nearby trees. Small animals scurry for cover. It's as if I've unleashed a panther. I shift the car into first, and with a quick chirp of the tires, I'm off.

I row through the gears - snick, vvrrooomm, snick, vvrroooooomm - each time spinning the engine close to its 6000 rpm redline. Cars, closely parked in single file, line each side of the narrow road leaving me barely enough room to squeeze through. The immediate adjacent buildings rise high above the street and out of my field of vision, blocking out the late afternoon sun and giving the impression that I'm driving through a deep gorge.

The velocity I'm travelling at has become...unreasonable. A scenario involving a car door opening into my path and the potential side effects enters my mind, but I quickly shove it to the gutter (coincidentally, this is where most of my thoughts reside). The uneven cobblestone surface works in cahoots with the Punto's puny 14" wheels to a produce a ride quality akin to that of a giant paint mixer. Teeth-rattling tremors reverberate through the car's chassis making my vision fuzzy. The view through my windshield begins to resemble a kaleidoscope thanks to this heinous vibration combined with the alternating pastel buildings that zip by. Suddenly my passenger side view mirror is wrenched clean off the car, but I don't let this minor annoyance phase me.

I glance into my rear view mirror. If the Alfa Romeo behind me was following any closer, he'd be inside my car. When driving in Italy it is absolutely imperative that you can see the whites of the eyes of the person you're following through their rear view mirror. I've adopted this technique quite keenly, however I suggest keeping your left foot constantly hovering over the clutch ready for the inevitability of an abrupt stop.

The roundabout at the end of the road is approaching at an alarming speed. I resist the urge to brake for just a moment longer before I plunge my foot on the decelamatrix and brace for the Gs and fast heel-toe work that would soon follow. The tires wail in protest, struggling to maintain grip on the slippery surface as I circumnavigate the traffic circle. An orchestra of car horns fill my ears and my grin grows wider.

After making a complete revolution of the isola rotazionale I exit and come to a stop at a red light. I've come to rest too far forward to see the traffic light, but there's no need for concern - the instant red switches to green the car(s) behind me will kindly notify me of the change with liberal helpings of horn.

If there's one thing (trust me, it's the only thing) Italians are in a hurry to do, it's drive. I suspect that it may have to do with caffeine consumption. After two or three espressos, nothing seems to be going at any satisfactory pace. It's as if the rest of the world has slowed down and you're moving at some sort of hyper speed. I bet with enough espresso, time would come to a standstill and you'd be travelling at the speed of light. The speed of espresso, maybe.

Back to the stoplight. A car pulls astride the left side of my car. Then another on my right. May I remind you that this is a single lane street, ferchrisakes. Our destination beyond the intersection is another single lane road, but in this case there is definitely only room for a single car to pass unscathed. I see their game. This is some sort of bizarre version of Chicken where the loser has the choice of bulldozing into a parked car or a brick wall. The light turns green, horns blare from behind and I do my best to keep up with my neighbours, however Italian shifting prowess is unmatched and I concede first and second place.

Another quick aside:

Italians are aware of the existence of an invention called a "crosswalk" and this miraculous invention facilitates safe passage to pedestrians who wish to cross a street without being savagely rundown. Unfortunately, here in Italy, the crosswalk has been relegated to the realm of bedtime stories and mythical pagan Gods. Despite this, with a little cunning and ample courage it is possible to reach the other side of the road with everything you left the curb with. However, there is one caveat - it is imperative that you do not under any circumstance run. Without exception, there is no running in Italy. Running exhibits fear in the heart of the pedestrian, which Italian driver's will quickly use to their own maniacal ends.

I exit into a large piazza and am greeted with chaos. There is a sea of cars flowing in and out of each other in a complex choreography that I fail to understand. Reckless and wild they pour through the turns, they deftly manoeuvre and muscle for rank. I can't find any marked lanes and no signs are in sight, but I try my best to keep with the general flow of traffic. With some luck I manage to negotiate the turmoil and make it to my final destination - a specialty liquor store.

Absinthe. I knew it was just a matter of time before I got into this rotten stuff. This bitter concoction, spawned from the narcotic wormwood, is completely legal here. The colour of this stuff is green - a moderate yellow green that is greener and lighter than average moss green, yellower and less strong than average pea green, yet yellower and duller than apple green. The hallucinogenic effects of this 90 proof poison have been well documented. I figure I'll save it for cases of emergency or when called upon to partake in acts of extreme debauchery and depravity in the company of Albertan Convicts and East Coast Swine.

It's late now and the oil black pavement slips effortlessly beneath the Punto. The autostrade is suddenly barren and I finally have some time to think. I focus on making my clutch work smoother and more graceful, to refine the art of the shift. Mind and machine striving to become one. In Italy, the most seemingly unimportant items have been paid an inordinate amount of attention to detail. It inspires one to strive to make everything you do, even the simplest, most insignificant operation, well... artful.

I press my foot on the gas and my peripheral blurs. I'm not sure where I'm headed, but I am doing so with an unexplained urgency. Frightened to death about missing something, anything, some potential road to bliss, maybe. Road signs whiz by, but I can't decipher them at this speed. The headlights from the car I thought I had passed ages ago have crept up behind me are in my eyes.

I flip up the rear view mirror and head for the hills.

---

This past weekend I travelled 6 hours by train to Modena. A truly beautiful city, Modena is located in the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy, between Bologna and Parma. Parma is famous for its Parmesan cheese, however I'm not sure if Bologna can claim fame for the invention of baloney. By the way, try Parmesan cheese on pears; it's delizioso. But I digress - my true intentions for making the 480 km journey lay an additional 20 km south in the quaint town of Maranello.

Maranello has been the home of Ferrari since 1945. You may have heard of Ferrari before. Ferrari is in the business of emotion. That and making money hand over fist. I spent 4 hours in the Galleria Ferrari and managed to take over 200 pictures of motors, vintage and new cars as well as last year's Formula 1 car, driven by Mr. M. Schumacher, himself.

For those who don't know, Michael Schumacher is a driving machine designed by the Germans for use in Formula 1 racing. Schumacher has been piloting Italian-made machines for a few years now and has won an unprecedented 6 world championships in a row.

Every once in awhile I would catch myself making loud engine sounds to myself, oblivious to everything but the automotive excellence before me. I was asked twice by staff to keep it down. If Ferrari ever becomes perverted by the likes of GM, we may forget what perfection looked and sounded like.

I also visited the Ferrari Store which little did I know is a ruthless trap filled with Ferrari paraphernalia such as Ferrari Monopoly, clothes, books, and F1 collectibles, that fans like myself are helpless to resist. I nearly bought a used piston and connecting rod for the bargain price of €500 (about 800 bucks, hey at least it was titanium). Anyway, I whittled the picture set down to a more manageable 29 photos for your viewing pleasure. If you would like to see more pics just let me know, I'll send you the whole shebang.