I'm Just A Girl Who Loves Fancy Cars and Definitely Knows How To Drive Them

A couple of years ago, I decided to treat myself to a luxury vacation in Italy. I found a villa about an hour outside of Rome and began looking for a car to rent. Not just any car—something sleek, something new, something convertible. I ended up at a rental company near the airport, where I rented an Audi/BMW/something-or-other that screamed “This is a mistake.”

The moment I got to the car, I rolled the top down immediately. Midnight? Hour-long drive ahead? Didn’t matter—I needed the full open-air convertible experience. Plus, the fresh air seemed like a solid way to keep me alert. But I quickly realized I’d need more than fresh air, because I was parked in a Roman parking garage sandwiched between what appeared to be a brand-new Mercedes and...was that a Porsche? Perfect.

Okay, no problem. I’m a good driver. A cautious driver. I figured I’d just ease my way out of this parking spot, no sweat. Except there was literally no other way out than with what I’m proud to call a 16-point turn (yes, I counted).

The man at the counter watched me closely with wide eyes and a fist covering his mouth. I think we both let out a breath of relief once I had I cleared it. I inched forward, trying to shake off the adrenaline. I made it all of...20 feet. That’s when I arrived at my next challenge: a tight U-turn to descend to the next level of this multi-floor nightmare. Naturally, they’d parked a fleet of luxury cars along the curve. Just as I started my careful maneuvering, the attendant began yelling and gesturing wildly. It took me a moment to realize I was going the wrong way—up instead of down.

Worse yet, it wasn't just the U turn that was lined up with luxury cars. It was the entire floor. And I needed to make a full 180 turn.

Now, you might be thinking, why not just reverse? And to that, I say: I’m just a girl. A very tired, very stressed girl.

The tires let out a low, tortured screech with every adjustment. I couldn’t even count how many turns it took this time—there was no point.

A bead of sweat dropped down my temple. The attendant now had a friend, and both were now clutching their heads in dramatic despair, showing their jagged teeth as they clenched their jaws. Apparently they were close enough to see what was going on but not close enough to help.

After 25 minutes, and several additional 10+ point turns, I finally hit the streets of Rome. The car was miraculously undamaged, the attendants were probably scarred for life, and I? I was a woman reborn. A survivor. A conqueror of Roman parking garages. I left with a sense of victory and a wonderful reminder that I can do anything I set my mind to.