Toni from Tennessee writes in with her Italian Travel Tale, and we invite you to share your own:

We arrived in Catania, Sicily without any euros, figuring my uncle could take us to a bank later. (What idiots!) We rented a car and happily got on the auto strata, headed for Torre Faro, Messina. What a glorious drive!

Well, no one had told us it was a toll road, for crying out loud. When we saw the toll booths up ahead we pulled over by the side of the road and stared with our mouths hanging open.

After several minutes of silence I rather boldly exited the car and walked up to one of the booths. A car pulled up with a young woman driver so I asked her – in my thirty-some year old Italian – what to do. She showed me how to push a button so that a card came out. And that’s what we did. We got the card and continued happily on our way. And then we had to exit. Which meant paying the toll. Without euros.

I had read that you could use your credit card in those things, but none of ours worked, no matter what way I put it in. And each time we tried to insert the card a voice came back in rapid-fire Italian, practically screaming at us. We backed out and went into a booth with a live person. (You have to visualize this to appreciate it. My husband and I can drive a stick, but this was a diesel and took some getting used to. He stalled out every few feet. Imagine pulling into the toll booth and stalling, backing out and stalling, and going into another – and stalling. It was a riot.)

The woman called her supervisor who came out and again in broken Italian I explained that we were stupid Americans (honestly, I said that) who didn’t know any better and that my uncle had failed to tell us about the toll.

The man asked for our passports and documents and filled out a form. He had us sign it, warning me very sternly that if we didn’t pay the three euros in three days (three stinking euros, can you believe it?) we would be sorry. He really said that.

It wasn’t until we were on our way again that I read the paper to my husband. They threatened to look for us in Yeadon, Pennsylvania if we didn’t cough up the money in three days. Yeadon is where my husband was born, as noted on his passport. He hasn’t lived in Pennsylvania since 1970.

My uncle insisted he would take care of the three euros, but I have my doubts about that. Each time we saw a policeman after that, from Sicily to Cassino to Rome, we were sure the authorities were out to get us. But that won’t happen to you because you’ll know to bring a few euros with you. Right?