The Last Journey Of An Hero of Italian Motoring

Behold, the Fiat 500. Not the modern one that’s all airbags and Bluetooth and makes you feel like a fashion blogger. No, this is the real thing. The original. The glorious, underpowered, unapologetically tinny Italian shoebox. And look at it now—strapped to the back of a truck like a pensioner wheeled out of the bingo hall for the last time. Rusted. Flat-tyred. Beaten. Magnificent.

I spotted it being hauled away through a southern Italian town, and frankly, I nearly wept. This was once the car that got a nation moving. The people’s Ferrari. The automotive embodiment of an espresso shot. And now? A hunk of oxidised metal destined for the scrapyard or, worse, a themed wine bar.

Photographically, I went full frontal—like a mugshot, because let’s face it, this little bastard’s done its time. Shallow depth of field to keep the background out of the way—nobody cares about modern hatchbacks or scooter-riddled chaos. The focus is right where it belongs: on those doleful headlights and the badge still clinging on like a boxer refusing to go down.

The exposure? Natural light. Sharp enough to show every scratch, every speck of flaked paint, every insult time has hurled at it. It’s not pretty. But then, neither was the 500. It was brilliant. It had character. And you could park it in a cupboard.

So this is it. The end of the road for a legend that never really had the horsepower to get up to speed in the first place. A farewell to a proper car. Not safe. Not fast. But better than anything that came after it.

Goodbye, old friend. You were daft, slow, and utterly perfect.