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When you cross the border from France into Italy everything changes. The steep hillsides become greener, hill top towns are a more intense terracotta hue and church spires are taller, more defiant. The Mediterranean Sea is still there, sparkling and restless to the south. The coastal motorway weaves its way through numerous tunnels, cut through the mountains. The road is clear, the sun is shining, an easy drive south-east to Tuscany lies ahead.
I order a cappuccino and a brioche and marvel at the bill — just Euros 2. Ahead of me on the autostrada there is a massive transporter, fully loaded with cars. Each car is covered in a plastic cocoon of grey plastic. As I get closer I realise the cars are actually Maseratis.
In fact there are two fully loaded transporters carrying a total of fourteen Maseratis. I wonder what the collective noun for a group of Maseratis is — a clutch of Maseratis? A gaggle of Maseratis? The idea never really got off the ground — the Maserati folks were convinced that they could charge tens of thousands of euros to prospective drivers — I begged to differ.
They were not interested in hearing my opinion. It was highly entertaining. I still like the cars though — and I did own a Maserati at one point. We sold it when the warranty was due to expire. Even when the car was brand new things kept falling off. I pass the turning for Santa Margerita Ligure and Portofino to the right.