GENTLEMEN

It wasn't particularly hot by Italian standards, but the Volvo just couldn't take it any longer. Gisella, our estate agent, spends a lot of her working day on the road and maintains the car well, but she had never been to this house before, and even she was struck by the steepness of the road, the heat of the day, and the remoteness of the property.

We were having a lively conversation about ballet (she is a former professional dancer with the esteemed Martha Graham dance troupe). Suddenly, the dials on the dashboard went haywire, and things began to flash. Muttering under her breath in a mixture of English and Italian, Gisella managed to haul the big metal hulk across somewhat near the side of the road. Insidious steam and smoke began whisping from under the bonnet. Something was very wrong with this car.

Amazingly, Gisella had a phone signal, and she immediately rang Casaitalia International Real Estate for help. I got out of the car and wandered over to the edge of the road, taking in the glorious views over Perugia, wavering and shimmering in the heat. I decided to make friends with this view and this road; it looked like we were going to be here awhile. I admired Gisella's energy and positive attitude. She spoke with equal confidence in English and Italian, and with great energy about a wide variety of topics, covering property, geography, art, music, dance, politics, and food. I could tell already that this was not going to be just any old property viewing.

Casaitalia International Real Estate (www.casait.it) offers premiere properties for sale throughout Italy. Many of their property listings are the stuff of dreams, of glossy magazines, and of the exclusive, privileged few. The villa we were on our way to visit was an exquisite chocolate box of a holiday villa, part of an exclusive little commune. It was beautifully frescoed and balconied, deep in the hills, with a large, sunny shared swimming pool. It looked incredible in the brochure, but we were nowhere near the house; we were half way up a very remote and dusty road, feeling the heat and trying not to worry.

A white van appeared on the horizon; I couldn't believe it. Before we could raise a hand to flag it down, the van pulled over and two electricians got out. A lot of Italian ensued. There were gestures, and smiles, and a bit of head nodding, and even more Italian. I didn't know where these men were headed but it didn't seem to matter to them; they just dropped whatever they were doing to help us. They just changed gears and helped us.

Up came the car bonnet, and one of the men gingerly covered his hand with a shirt sleeve and tested the radiator cap. He snatched his hand back quickly, took off his company jacket, and with a guffaw, began to unscrew the radiator cap with all the delicacy of a bomb disposal expert.

I plugged my ears. I don't know why. The second man hovered, and Italianated.

Gisella took sips from a large bottle of water, and rang the caretaker, who we were due to meet at the villa. She was what the English would describe as 'Grace under pressure.' She was utterly charming to the men, but without playing the helpless female role. She never lost her cool, and was always professional and on top of things. But there was such a sense of fun about her, amidst all of this chaos, and the men just adored it.

More Italian ensued. The two men peered suspiciously under the bonnet, as boiling liquid, a disturbing shade of magenta, began to erupt over the radiator and down onto the road.

 I stood there, staring, a packet of chocolate biscuits melting quietly in the palm of my hand. My husband leaned against the car, amused, just taking it all in.

By now there was a quite a lot of Italian being spoken, simultaneously, and there was  a somewhat festive air about the proceedings. The men chucked, Gisella gestured down the phone, I passed around the sticky bikkies. My husband squinted up at the midday sun.

Amazingly, yet another car appeared over the brow of the hill: it was the caretaker. Gisella smiled, and waved, and laughed, and we all greeted him with the bonhomie of a long-lost soldier. He returned our smiles, and approached the stricken vehicle with an air of authority. I could tell he was a man who was used to sorting things out. He proceeded to top up the radiator with even more water, carefully poised over the engine like a surgeon.

By now there was just so much Italian being spoken. The men were delighted with their roles as heroes, and we felt so secure and cared for, in our helpless condition, and more help was being promised down the phone. The sun was blazing, spirits were high, and I just thought: "Oh Italia! What a glorious place to be rescued in!" People here just notice, and help, and chip in. It's not a courtesy thing; it's just a sort of human nature sort of thing, a quality of caring that I don't see very often. 

We had a similar experience at the airport in Rome. We had arranged for airport assistance at Fiumencino airport, from our EasyJet flight. My husband, who has difficulty walking long distances, required a wheelchair. We were duly met by an airport attendant, a kindly, burly young man with shoulder-length corkscrew curls. We extended our limited Italian greetings and began to move down the corridor, when he suddenly excused himself, in broken English, and gestured for us to stay where we were. He moved off in the direction of the other disembarking passengers, and I began to panic. The last time we had been left by an airport attendant, in LAX, we were abandoned by the wheelchair attendant in front of a lift and he never returned. 

Determined not to be a victim again, I struggled on our way, weaving slightly under the weight of two suitcases, two carry- on bags, and the wheelchair. After a few hundred feet I looked back and saw the young airport attendant, belting towards us with an indignant look on his face. Through gestures and limited English he made us aware that he was coming back, he was planning to help us, and I had no business driving his chair!

He took great pride in his official airport uniform, and his badge, and the privelidges it gave him. We swanned past long queues of passengers, and down corridors reserved for airport staff. He greeted the Passport Control attendant like a friend, and chatted amiably (probably about the football) while handing over our passports and flight details. He asked us where we needed to go, and took us directly to the train station to meet our connection to Rome Termini. He treated my husband with such respect, and treated me rather like an insolent puppy, caught smuggling a bedroom slipper into it's dog bed.

Again, I had the sense of someone who wasn't necessarily instructed to be courteous; he just saw what needed to be done and did it, went the extra mile to do the job well.

Back to our car. We managed to cajole the car up the hill and across to the shade of the villa complex. Mr. Adolfo Giovannelli, CEO of Casaitalia, arrived in person and gave us his own car, to ensure our safe arrival back at our hotel. I'm not sure what happened to him. We left him at the villa, in the quavering heat of the afternoon sun, abandoned with our poorly car in the shade of an olive tree,  chatting amiably to the caretaker.

What a gentleman. They were all such gentlemen. In the heat, and the dust, and the annoyance of things breaking down, we were surrounded by everyday gentlemen making life just that little bit more lovely.

We didn't take the house, as it happened. It was a house for rest, and for play, and for falling off the grid for a bit. I was looking for a launchpad for my new life. But I feel we have made new friends and forged a lasting respect for the considerate citizens of Italy who we have come across on our travels.