We arrive in Rome to the Ryanair fanfare that really means “You’re twenty-four miles away from your destination,” and not “You’ve arrived on time”.

I have pre-booked the coach from Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino which will take us to Termini Station in the city centre which is just as well because there are wildcat train strikes and taxi drivers have joined in unexpectedly.

It’s charcoal dark by the time we arrive at Termini and painted sex workers are beginning to ply their trade. Hectic hustle and bustle of unloading cases segues into other coach passengers melting away into the darkness and, when it’s our turn, I try to ask the driver how we’ll get to the hotel near the Vatican but he shrugs and suddenly doesn’t speak any English. My Italian is inadequate for unrehearsed conversations. 

It looks too far to walk at night from my tourist map opened up under a streetlight and it’s in the days before smartphones and Google maps.

I am swithering about trying to get a room at the seedy hotel on the same street when a small man appears and asks, “Are you looking for a taxi? I can take you.”

I could take him in a fight, I think, so let him put our cases into the boot and we buckle up in the back of his tiny car.

Any feeling of relief disappears quickly when a huge, thin man squashes himself into the front passenger seat and childproof locks click down.

Trapped!

I grab my teenage daughter’s hand as she gives me the side eye. I want to remain calm for her sake, but my hands are clammy and there’s an acidic burn in my throat. My head throbs.

The driver and his partner chat away in their own language, and I stare out of the window trying to get my bearings. It suddenly twigs for the driver as he catches my eye in his rearview mirror and he starts to tell us where we are, pointing out the Colosseum, and “That way to the Trevi Fountain. You’ll get nice gelato there.” Il Vittoriano, Monumento looms like an old fashioned typewriter in the distance, the men laugh.

He drives too quickly through the cacophony of city streets. He seems to be an expert at driving too close, too quickly and weaving in and out of lanes without signalling. Horns scream and shriek and brake lights burst and spark in front of us. We seem to be washed by red light inside the car, faces eerily devilish.

I weigh up whether it would be preferable to die in a road accident or murdered in a strange city.

Finally I see a landmark close to the hotel – the rotunda, Castel Sant’Angelo – that I had been looking out for. Hadrian’s mausoleum looming above us might signal that this car ride isn’t as dangerous as it seems.

Miraculously, we arrive at the drop off point for hotel reception. I give the driver a twenty Euro note over and above his asking price.

The driver’s just been a chancer trying to earn extra during a strike, not a murderer or slave trader in cahoots with his lumbering friend.

€20’s a small price to pay, I figure.