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Illustration by Drew Shannon
When it comes to renting cars in Italy, I often feel like Goldilocks, searching for one that’s just right. They are always either too big or too small, turning a peaceful stay under the Tuscan sun into moments of sheer panic and stress.
My crash course in the importance of car size began 10 years ago. It was a sweltering August afternoon in Rome when the car rental agent at Leonardo da Vinci Airport cheerfully announced we were getting a free upgrade: a BMW X5 from the luxury fleet.
Merging onto the autostrada heading north, Graham, my husband, felt his confidence surge behind the wheel. The SUV’s 375 horsepower made it easy to claim the fast lane, leaving slower drivers in his wake.
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But what felt just right on the superhighway quickly turned into too much car for too little space once we reached Montepulciano, our hilltop town in southern Tuscany. The ancient archway at the edge of the walled town – once a fortified gate – is two metres wide, while our SUV measured 1.97 metres across. Every time we approached, Graham would have to fold in the mirrors and carefully inch forward, determined to preserve both the gate’s medieval dignity and the car’s flawless paintwork.
After that, we set our sights on an Alfa Romeo Giulia sedan. If anyone understands how to size a car for Italy’s driving challenges, we reasoned, it would be this Italian marque with decades of automotive expertise. At 4.6 metres long and 1.86 metres wide, she seemed perfect – substantial enough to hold her own on the autostrada, yet compact enough to thread medieval alleys. For a while, she was just right.
Our neighbour later told us what happened. It was a quiet afternoon after the weekly Thursday market when Maria and her 88-year-old friend Gabriella went rolling past our parked car in their Škoda Citigo, managing to shear off our driver’s-side mirror. Without missing a beat, they calmly got out, collected the broken pieces and drove away.
One year, Graham couldn’t join me because of work obligations. I was eager to downsize and test the iconic Fiat 500. I loved its specs – just 3.57 metres long and 1.63 metres wide. In town, it glided through ancient archways, nestled into snug parking spaces and racked up Instagram likes with its retro charm.
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Then I got a last-minute invitation to head north to Udine, near the border with Slovenia, to celebrate my aunt’s 75th birthday. What should have been a five-hour drive stretched to seven. On the autostrada, my adorable Cinquecento struggled to keep up. I clung to the right lane, white-knuckled, as transport trucks thundered by or tailgated. At one point, completely drained, I pulled over for a nap.
Back to thinking bigger. The next year, we sized up to the broad-shouldered Fiat 500L. By now, I had developed an eagle eye for measurements. Just by looking at her, I knew she was 4.27 metres long and 1.80 metres wide.
Those initial positive feelings? Fleeting the afternoon Suor Emma, a young nun, shyly asked if she could use it to practise parking for her driving test. The rental agreement only allowed me to drive, but how could I say no to that beatific smile? She misjudged the car’s length and lurched forward, crashing into a 16th-century wrought-iron gate guarding one of the town’s most prestigious wine cellars. While Suor Emma went to retake her driving test, we went back to the drawing board.
Maybe it was divine retribution. Maybe it was a spell cast by the Italian automotive gods for daring to drive a French car on their turf. Whatever it was, the Citroën C3 we rented the following year – 3.9 metres long, 1.74 metres wide with mirrors – wasn’t meant to be, either.
Fine, it had carried my friend and me to and from a perfect beach day. But returning late that Sunday afternoon, when families had already claimed the best parking spots after their long lunches, only one space remained on our narrow street, next to a low brick wall – a tight squeeze. This time, I miscalculated and clipped the fender of a parked Volkswagen Golf. Unlike Maria and Gabriella, who calmly collected their debris and drove off, I found myself surrounded by a group of smartphone-wielding millennials who had just stepped out of the cantina and caught the whole thing on video.
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Easter 2025. The Città Eterna welcomed us back – and so did another friendly rental agent at Fiumicino airport. After 10 years on Italian roads, our checklist was the same, except this time we had friends and their luggage along for the ride and were taking them around Tuscany. Suddenly, ample trunk space jumped into the top three criteria.
Standing there as the agent scrolled through the options generated from our online form, I gave a firm “No, grazie” to the first offer, a Dacia Duster crossover, based on hard-earned experience. Graham turned down the second, a Volkswagen Polo, because it couldn’t handle all our luggage, let alone provide enough comfort for our guests. The third option, an MG3, was a compromise, the agent said with a knowing smile. We smiled back – and in the very next breath asked for full accident coverage on the rental.
It took 10 years of driving the Autostrada del Sole, squeezing through ancient archways and collecting a few bumps and scratches along the way to learn that the notion of just right is a product of young Goldilocks’ vivid imagination – the sort of thing found only in fairytales.
Silvana Saccomani lives in Victoria.
