Ciao, Porsche: The Time I Turned a German Car Show into an Italian Opera (and Tony Set Me Straight)

Let me set the scene: I’m in my editing cave, crafting a masterpiece for the Porsche Club of America, Omaha Nebraska Chapter’s car show. The footage is pure gold—shiny 911s, proud owners flexing their key fobs, and my buddy Tony, a Porsche owner with more Italian swagger than a Vespa convention, mugging for the camera. I’m in the zone, thinking this isn’t just a car show—it’s a saga. A passionate, pasta-twirling, Fellini-esque tribute to horsepower. So, I slap on an Italian soundtrack—mandolins strumming, accordions wheezing, a little “That’s Amore” as Tony’s Porsche glides into frame. I toss in subtitles like “Bellissimo, Tony!” and quips about marinara smudges on the leather seats. I’m cackling, thinking, “This is chef’s kiss perfection.” Upload it to YouTube, and go to bed calling it a triumph.

Fast forward months. The video’s been up, racking up views (okay, like 99, but still). I’m feeling smug, untouchable, a visionary. Then I’m hanging out with Tony—very Italian, very Porsche-obsessed Tony—who’s in the video, mind you. We’re chatting cars, and I casually drop, “Man, Porsche really nails that Italian flair, huh?” Tony freezes mid-sip of his espresso, his eyebrow arching like he’s about to call me a stronzo. “Italian?” he says, voice dripping with disbelief. “Porsche’s German, you cretino. Stuttgart. Ferdinand Porsche. What’s wrong with you?”

The room spins. German? German? My brain short-circuits as I replay the video in my head: the mandolins, the “ciao bellas,” the bit where I joked about Tony’s 911 being “faster than Nonna’s lasagna.” I’d spent eight hours turning a German engineering marvel into a full-blown Italian rom-com, and Tony—Tony—had to break it to me like I’d just insulted his entire bloodline.

I bolt home, Google “Porsche Italian or German” (yes, I’m that guy), and there it is: founded 1931, Stuttgart, Teutonic as a pretzel. No Tuscan villas, no secret Italian roots. I’d been so drunk on the Cinema Paradiso aesthetic that I’d ignored the facts—and Tony’s Porsche pedigree—staring me in the face. The video’s been live for months, my Italian fantasy on display for Omaha’s Porsche Club to quietly judge. I imagine them watching—corn-fed Nebraskans expecting turbocharged efficiency—scratching their heads at my mandolin-drenched fever dream.

I could’ve yanked it down, re-cut it with some Rammstein riffs and sauerkraut puns, but nah. It’s too late, and honestly, too funny. Tony’s still ribbing me—“Next time, stick to Fiats, genio”—and the Omaha Chapter hasn’t sent a hit squad yet. Maybe they think it’s a quirky homage to a car so stunning it could pass for Italian in my deluded brain. Or maybe they just pity me. Either way, I’ve learned my lesson: check the country of origin before I cue the accordions.