You know that epiphany when you first go home with your boyfriend, and you realize that all of his idiosyncrasies are genetic? Like how both he and his mom start every new topic with “That reminds me…” (No, it doesn’t). Or how he and his dad never put down their fork when telling a story so they’re always this close to stabbing grandma in the eye (Bob and weave, grandma, bob and weave). You whisper to your boyfriend, “Oh, that’s where you get it from!” and you buckle up for the ride or you slowly back out of the room.

That same type of realization happens when a Jersey girl drives in Italy. All of a sudden, NJ’s quick lane changing, unproductive horn blowing, and impatient tailgating make sense. Everyone from northern Jersey is culturally Italian-American. My family is proudly Polish from Brooklyn, but like everyone else in our adopted homestate, we’re fluent in “Ital-ish” (“pro-sczoot” for prosciutto, “muzz-a-rell” for mozzarella, and “capish” for, well, capish), speak with our hands like we’re conducting an orchestra, have more non-verbal ways to curse you out than you have verbal, and our impatience for slow and indecisive drivers  borders on psychopathic. Italian immigrants clearly succeeded in their secret plot to culturally occupy Jersey by lulling us into delicious food comas.

Like most things Italian, driving isn’t about speed, but rather attitude.

Italians don’t seem to do anything they enjoy too quickly, whether it’s driving, eating, drinking, or kicking out corrupt prime ministers. They actually tend to follow the speed limit; 90 percent of the time the Formula 1 wannabes zooming by are Swiss or German. But add an extra 20 minutes to your drive time if you get behind the Dutch on a twisty road; they inexplicably lose ability to navigate a turn unless they’re on a bicycle or ice skates.

So, while there’s no need for crazy speed, god help you -– because the Pope can’t –-  if you don’t drive the speed limit exactly. Drive just one kilometer below the speed limit and the Italian driver behind you will be grinding on your car like you’re in that SNL Night at the Roxbury sketch. They must interpret the “no tailgating” signs as mere suggestions and the lane dividing lines on the road as to me “stay in your lane-ish.”

Despite the tailgating and lane drifting, not once in two weeks of driving did I see a major accident on the highway. But even more suspiciously, I didn’t see even one accident. Perhaps the Italian driving test includes precision accident avoidance skills on par with professional test drivers. Or perhaps accidents are so common that there is an uber-efficient clean-up system, which would explain the frequent and inexplicable traffic jams: You’re whizzing along at 130 km, and then boom! Traffic is crawling at a snail’s pace for a few kilometers, and then the road just opens up again. No explanation, no debris, no cones, no dismember salumi or broken wheels of cheese on the side of the road. 

A few other quirky observations

Rest stops: Read my ode to the Italian Autogrill

Tunnels: Italian highway infrastructure is impressive, most likely to ensure that they can efficiently transport  wine, olive oil, cheese, and cured meats. Massive tunnel after tunnel barrel through rock hard mountains. (Insert a sexual innuendo about why Italians love boring drills through big mounds.)

Deer: Italians must have a fear of killing Bambi (that movie’s dying mother deer scene did scar a whole generation). Deer hazard signs were everywhere, even in middle of industrial areas, and sometimes with oddly specific distances, like “2.9 km.” I never saw one deer.

Epidemic of gelato driving: In Genoa, a flashing road sign — the type that usually alerts drivers about traffic jams or road closures —  warned: “It’s very hot outside, so don’t drink soda, eat gelato, or consume alcohol while driving.” Or the signs warned that because it was so hot, drivers should consume alcohol and gelato. Either translation is odd and endearing.

Verbal abuse at tollbooths: The most terrifying aspect of driving in Italy involves their automatic tollbooths. After you pay, a recorded female voice screams “Arrivederci!” at you in a voice shockingly louder than the recorded voice used to ask you to pay. Here’s a video of her yelling.

Pending collapse of the EU thanks to tollbooths: I hypothesize that the European Union will collapse not because the UK constantly threatens to leave, or because the Syrian  immigration crisis will bring an end to passport-free travel. No, it’s demise will caused by the inability of residents from each country to use another country’s tollbooth.

The Italian tollbooth is self-explanatory: Put in your ticket, put in your credit card, remove your credit card, be verbally abused, and drive away. A 20 second transaction, no Italian required, not breaking the Enigma Code. But other EU drivers seem completely flabbergasted and take an inexplicably long time to complete the transaction, especially the Dutch. If you see “NL” on the license plate in front of you, it’s a perfect time to work on the NY Times crossword or call your long-winded aunt because you aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

Remember to “high-five” the driver in front of you if he actually does figure out how to pay the toll.  This sign is clearly directing drivers to do give the driver in front of you a high-five when they finally mastering paying the toll.

Deter car break-ins with a trash pile. Getting rental car insurance in Italy is like trying to get a mortgage when your credit score is 300: probably not, but if you do, be ready to pay. The AmEx phone rep will laugh when you ask if their normally stellar rental car insurance coverage includes Italy. The rental agency charges an extra 250 Euro if you also want glass insurance, also known as “Your car will definitely be broken into” insurance. If you decline the glass insurance, deter thieves by cultivating a trash pile on the floor of backseat of water bottles, Autogrill wrappers, and napkins. Thieves will be convinced that nothing of value could be in such a sad, pathetic car.