Sant'Agata Bolognese

The television in the hotel's breakfast area was tuned to the news. No knowledge of Italian was needed to interpret the images: Libyan rebels had breached Qaddafi's compound. Footage of the gaudy and opulent trappings flashed by, including a mural inexplicably depicting a familiar Silicon Valley name (nVidia) [huh?] and ... a yellow Lamborghini. How ironic.

Courtesy of the free wi-fi at the hotel, I scouted out a place to recharge my SIM card and embarked on the next leg of my journey. What looked straightforward on the map was much less so once I was behind the wheel, piloting through a warren of narrow streets with few signs. Lost again in the urban fringe of Milano, I found a parking space near a busy café, and bravely took my place in line at an adjacent shop.

Buon giorno ... ricarica ... Wind ... venti ... per favore?

I successfully traded 20€ for two scratch-off cards to restore service to my SIM card.

The second time I dialed in and listened to the pre-recorded message, it started to make sense. First, some sort of advertisement for services. Next, a typical phone tree, where option sei sounded like the way to change the language. From there, option due switched to English.

Wind started sending me SMS messages. In Italian, of course. It would still be a while before my data service went live; eventually I puzzled out that one of the SMS messages asked me to text a message back to confirm my service activation, and that I needed to restart the phone.

Being somewhat anxious about soloing my way around Italy for the first few days, I had brought along point-to-point Google Maps directions (just in case). Back on the autostrade, I stopped at a service area for a sandwich that was a world apart from anything you would find along, say, the New Jersey Turnpike.

Having missed the appropriate exit [Modena Sud], I was forced to continue most of the way to Bologna before I could turn back. Rather than checking into the hotel first, it seemed most prudent to head directly to my next destination. This would allow ample time to find it, as I predicted (correctly) that I would get lost in the process.

A few more observations about driving in Italy: If there are no lines painted on the road, drivers will squeeze as many cars into the space as possible. Doing 70 kph on rural one-lane roads signed for 50 kph, drivers sped past me and zigzagged around the oncoming farm machinery. On the outskirts of town, I saw my first electronic speed sign, which might seem surprising for a town as small as Sant'Agata Bolognese.

Or not surprising at all, if you understand that this is the home of Lamborghini.

I had plenty of time to wander through the museum before my escort arrived. After stowing my bag in a locker (no photos, of course!), the doors to the courtyard were thrown open and my personal tour of the factory was underway.

New cars, in every color, filled the courtyard. Inside, I was guided along every station on both manufacturing lines (Gallardo and Aventador). Engines being built, lowered into a car, and tested. A windshield lowered carefully into place by two men, and then withdrawn to correct some small problem. Test stations. Final inspection. A separate area, where the cowhides are marked so that no flawed section will be used. Leather being guided by hand and eye through an ordinary sewing machine to add the razor-straight lines that flank each seam.

If you have seen the finished product up close, it all makes sense. Passion, and attention to detail, in abundance.