All Roads Led to Rome

After fate conspired to derail our Italian itinerary, a chance encounter with a charismatic man and his white van turned a desperate scramble for a train connection into an exhilarating, high-stakes road trip with seven unexpected companions.

The chaos began immediately when our ferry from Positano to Salerno was canceled an hour before departure. Thus forced a frantic scramble for a taxi, which we needed to reach the Sorrento train station, catch a local train to Naples, and then catch our fast train to Rome.

Upon reaching Sorrento, we were hit with our second blow: a national train strike. There were no trains to Naples… or to anywhere in Italy, for that matter. Frazzled and confused, we called every taxi company our Google search could find, but, to our disappointment, every single one was booked.

About an hour into our desperate search, a white Mercedes taxi van pulled up to the station, there to pick up a kind family of four. Jill rushed up to the driver as he loaded the family’s suitcases into the back, asking in her best Italian if we could pile in and head to Naples, too. Francesco agreed happily, as did the family. We threw our suitcases into the back, and jumped in the front seat.

Just as we were pulling off, another couple came running toward the van, begging to join. Francesco paused, pulled down a hidden middle seat in the front, and welcomed them with a smile.

There we were: the happy family of four in the back, a sweet newlywed couple in the middle, and Jill and I shoulder-to-shoulder in the front with our captain, Francesco. The linguistic reality of our situation settled in quickly: Francesco spoke only a little English, I spoke no Italian, Jill was brushing up on her decent Italian from her college study abroad days, and our fellow passengers were a mix of Chinese and Korean speakers. This was truly a mission based on gestures and good faith.

Ten minutes into the ride, we told Francesco we were trying to catch our connecting train in Naples to make it to Rome. "Oh, no," he said. "You won't make it to Rome by train. The fast trains are also cancelled."

Jill and I stared at each other. What in the world were we going to do?

"You're trying to get to Roma?" Francesco asked. "All of you...?" Jill turned to the passengers in the back. A look, a nod, a silent consensus. "Yes," she confirmed to Francesco, "looks like we're all trying to get to Rome."

A wide, ecstatic grin spread across Francesco's face. "I'll take you. 100 euros a person."

Jill looked at me wide-eyed. “Should we do it?” she asked me. I laughed nervously and shrugged. “I mean, what other option do we have?” I said.

Crucially, Jill quickly typed this into Google Translate, making sure the offer was understood in Korean and Chinese for our fellow passengers. Everyone conversed among themselves and then unanimously agreed. 

"Si! We're headed to Roma!" Francesco exclaimed. "Three hours to go!"

He was absolutely thrilled. For the first thirty minutes, we rode in comfortable silence with Coldplay’s Sky Full of Stars playing softly on the radio. Eventually, Francesco struck up a conversation with me in his broken English. "Pompeii," he said, pointing ahead at a massive mountain.

I followed his finger to the enormous, dark shape of Mount Vesuvius dominating the sky. He must have seen the dawning recognition on my face because he grinned, pleased. “Pompeii,” he said, pronouncing it with reverence. “Molto antico—very old!”

We were a band of train-strike castaways, and Francesco was our captain. Despite the language barrier, I wanted to know more about him. On the dash sat a dated NYC taxi replica and a pen reading, “Welcome to New York.”

“Have you visited New York City?” I asked, trying to figure out anything we had in common.

“No,” he said. “My friends did, and they brought me a gift since I love driving my taxi.”

“Tell me," I continued, navigating our English/Italian mashup, “How often do you drive to Roma?”

“Much,” he said. “I teach pizza in Sorrento. Pick up in Roma and bring to Naples, 3 a.m.” He pulled out his phone and showed me a video of him making a Neapolitan pizza, people laughing and drinking in the background.

“Oh, you’re a chef, too?” I asked. “Si, I had a restaurant in Germany. Italian.” He swiped to a picture of a quaint, blue-and-white restaurant front. “I closed it in 2020. Moved back to Sorrento and started driving again. Everyone in my family drives—my dad, my brother. They drive construction machines.”

I nodded in understanding. This wasn't just a job for him; it was a lifestyle, a generational way of living.

Just as I was about to ask more about his family, Francesco slammed on the brakes, lurching our caravan to a screeching halt at a toll booth. In front of us, a junky old car was stalled at the arm.

Francesco muttered something sharp in Italian. A few moments later, the car sputtered, accelerated through the arm, and drove ahead, leaving a huge cloud of black exhaust in its wake.

“Idiota,” Francesco muttered as he drove through the broken gate. He then paused, looked at me, and smirked. “Vesuvius,” he said, pointing at the car's black exhaust cloud and motioning a poof with his hand.

“Ah, yes! It’s like the volcano ash!” I said, laughing.

About two hours into the drive, Francesco pulled into an Autogrill, what we would consider a rest stop in America. “Ten minutes,” he announced as we all piled out. 

We watched the locals at the coffee bar inside, slamming shots of espresso. Francesco ordered a caffè doppio and knocked it back like the rest of the Italians. Jill and I, the good Americans, used the restroom and loaded up on water and snacks before rejoining the caravan.

After fueling up, we were on the road again, with one hour left to Roma. As we approached the city limits, traffic thickened, and Francesco focused harder on the road.

Suddenly, we topped a hill, and the breathtaking skyline of Rome appeared—the Basilica, the Colosseum, all in sight. Francesco deftly maneuvered his way through the narrow, winding streets, getting us closer and closer to the Roma Termini.

We were nearly there when we came to a stoplight. Wouldn’t you know, "Vesuvius" was right beside us, its black exhaust still puffing away! “Ah, Vesuvius!” Francesco exclaimed, and we all burst out laughing at the recurrence of our inside joke.

Minutes later, Francesco pulled the white van right up to the curb of the bustling Roma Termini. He immediately hopped out and began pulling our suitcases and the bags of our fellow travelers from the back of the taxi.

As the bags were unloaded, Jill handed him a big wad of cash, much more than the original €100-per-person fee. It was the least we could do for his extreme act of kindness. 

Francesco took a look at the amount, paused, and then pulled Jill into a huge hug. He quickly ran back to the driver's side and retrieved his business card, handing it to her with a genuine smile.

"Until we meet again," he said, giving a final nod before settling back into the driver's seat and melting into the Roman traffic, leaving our group of newly formed friends to finally catch their breath on the pavement of the Eternal City.