In 1977, Mr. Nicholas Scotti, of San Francisco, USA, decided he would like to travel back to his homeland of Italy to visit family he hadn't seen in years.
All went well on the flight until the plane made a fuel stop at Kennedy Airport. Nicky, thinking he was 'home' in Rome, disembarked.
During his correspondences with his nephews, Mr. Scotti had heard about the horrendous traffic that drivers in Rome were forced to endure, and, since they had not been at the airport to meet him, Nick simply assumed they had got caught in gridlock and spent the next two days touring the city on his own, trying to track down his family.
Things had indeed changed. All the ancient Roman landmarks Scotti remembered had disappeared. None of the buildings looked familiar. (Modernization!) Everyone spoke English with a distinct American accent. (Those Americans were everywhere!) On top of that, all the street signs were in English. (Surely for the benefit of the Americans who were everywhere!)
Mr. Scotti spoke very little English himself, though, and, as chance would have it, the first policeman he spoke to in order to gain directions to the bus depot just happened to be from Naples and spoke fluent Italian, sending Nicky merrily on his way.
Twelve hours later, still riding the bus in an attempt to find his 'neighbourhood', the driver finally handed Mr. Scotti over to another New York policeman. Nicky was truly astounded that one of Rome's 'best' couldn't even speak to him in his native tongue. An interpreter was brought in, and, even when he was told he was in New York City, Mr. Scotti wouldn't believe it. He insisted that the police help him find his family.
The police finally decided to send Nicky back to San Francisco, and, en route to the airport, they raced through the traffic with sirens blaring in order that Mr. Scotti could catch the next plane. "See?" said Nicky to the interpreter. "I know I'm in Italy. That's how they drive!"
