Although our one year stay in Montanare was a dozen years ago, certain physical reminders take me right back . Today, as I leave my native-soil garage, this yellow For Sale sign places me in a dark parking lot outside Perugia, awaiting the arrival of a mystery man named Pedro. As an American, trying to sell someone else’s car I’d been driving for a year, at nearly any sum a willing buyer would give, the idea seemed impossible. Uprooting your life, moving to a small village of 200, none of which speak your native language, has a way of making nearly everything seem attainable. Chef Russo (the rightful car owner) made the terms clear upon taking our 2000 Euros 12 months prior. Come March 2005, when we had to close the door on our year at Tuscany Fantasy Camp, he did not want his son’s throw away car back on his farm property. It was up to Jill and I to find a buyer. With a tired suspension, well worn tires, and a small electrical problem that irregularly produced a small bit of white smoke from the steering wheel, I needed to sell this little German starter car in one week. After several hang ups from a free, on-line classified listing, a man who identified himself as Pedro offered me 900 Euros in a pitch black parking lot, just outside of the city wall of Perugia. If an American can sell a car he does not own to a man from Angola who is going to ship it to Africa and get four times more than he paid, anything is possible.