Parking in Italy

As usual, it’s one thing or another.  There is no free parking in Italy.  Honestly, even restaurants have parking pay stations.  And just finding an open spot on the street or in a parking lot is a chore as well.  I have been told that people add an extra hour to their trip plans to account for locating a parking spot. 

What an amazing time we had with Cody!! In a very short week, we saw so much! Enjoyed so much! Learned so much! Laughed so much!

On her last day with us, we all decided that we should have Sicilian pizza.  I did a little research and “Made ‘n Sicily” seemed to have accumulated the best ratings, and it’s located in the center of Scopella, about fifteen minutes from our villa. 

What a cute town!  Though very touristy, this tiny village was packed with restaurants, boutique hotels, and classy souvenir shops – far better than the average. 

It was a sunny, pleasant day, and the air was light. We opted for an outside wooden table with straight-back chairs on a shaded stone terrace.   Ah! What a great place to relax and enjoy our last hours together, and it was so very Italian. 

We had parked in an iffy location.  We knew it was iffy.  One, because there was a rarely seen open space, two, some spaces were marked for taxis and some for buses.  Our space had no markings, but we knew in our heart of hearts, a free parking space was too good to be true.  We decided to live dangerously, after all, we are in the shoulder tourist season. 

Not a good idea. 

After our pizza, which sadly was not so great, and a stroll around Scopello, we headed back to the car.  A bright pink slip of paper waved at us from the windshield.  It was printed in Italian, but we did not need to speak the language to see that the fine was 165 euros!!!  

Stan vowed he would not pay it.  Ha!  After translating all the fine print, we learned that we received the citation for parking in a space reserved for taxis, but a 30% discount would be given if we paid the fine within five days.  It required a credit card, no cash, and a visit to the local police department.  Much better, we thought; we can do that. 

I’ll give it a shot to tell the antics that ensued.  The day after Coco left, Stan and I drove to town, found the police department, and its payment window, you know, the glass window with the slot at the bottom.  A nice lady officer served as the cashier. Stan was waving the pink slip and getting out his wallet as we entered.  We all smiled.  Stan attempted to get the ticket voided or reduced by showing that our parking space was not marked for taxis. He had photos, but that went nowhere.  He handed the cashier one credit card after another; none worked.  We have money; honestly, we do, we just could not get to it.  Since then, we learned that other than hotels, restaurants, and souvenir shops, which all depend on tourism, most places require Italian credit cards with a PIN.  Ours have no PIN.  Stan handed the cashier our bank debit card with PIN, but I don’t think she even tried it.  Maybe she thought it was just another credit card.    Another officer came out to help.  I suggested we try Apple Pay.  The officer at the cash window just shook her head and waved no.  What now???  The second officer suggested we go to a tobacconist and pay there.  Many people pay for utilities, etc., at these tiny shops.  Which tobacconist?  The two ladies waved the air to indicate just any.  We walked to a tobacconist across the street.  No.  They take no payments.  We went back to the police station.  Now three officers stood at the window, shouting at each other in Italian, trying to help us figure out how to pay them.  It was finally suggested that we perform a bank transfer.  

I can do that.   They gave me the long IBAN string of numbers.  Two hours later, after trying online transfer, weaving around tiny streets, visiting banks, and tobacconists, I learned that tobacconists can no longer take payments to the police department, and an online and in-person bank transfer requires much more information than the three officers could provide me. For example, a key piece of information is the name of the bank used by the city.  We went back to the police station.  No one knew which bank.  Ok, by this time, I was getting frustrated and a touch angry. 

I asked the cashier to call her manager, or the accounting department, anyone, who could get the name of the bank.  Nope, not doing that.  At this point, I’m tired and close to jumping up and down, which I’ve been known to do occasionally.  How do I pay??  How do I pay?? 

She held up her credit card machine to indicate that it is the only method she knows.  She was nearly as frustrated as I was.  I looked at that credit card device and said, “Let me try this.”  I pulled up Apple Pay on my phone, and presto, “DONE.” 

Crap, I thought.  I suggested that earlier this morning! 

Fine paid, 30% discount received, I was relieved and glad, but still mad.  I shook a bit for the next hour or so. 

Our parking adventures may not be over yet.   

On Cody’s first full day with us, we booked a food tour in Palermo.  Once in the city, we celebrated when we saw a car leave, making a space for us in a parking lot not too far from our tour meeting point.  Whew!  We’d be just in time for the tour start time. 

We tried and tried, but could not get the parking pay station to work.  No ticket, no park.  We were getting late for our tour.  We threw up our hands and walked.  In this story, there are just two possible outcomes:  one, maybe we were lucky and maybe the lot was not monitored that day, or two, we are in deep trouble, and here we go again. 

Parking is crap, and driving in cities is terrifying, but Sicily is still such a beautiful place.