PHOTOS: KIMM SAATVEDT & MAX EMANUELSON / TEXT: CHRISTER LUNDEM
If you're a man of a certain age, you've likely dreamed of embarking on a very special road trip. However, it's easy to succumb to the temptation of embracing comfort and sticking to the familiar and safe. But if your name is Kimm Saatvedt, you have an equally impulsive friend (yours truly), lack self-control, and see discomfort as a sign that you're truly alive, such a journey is no problem.
| Choosing the safe over the exciting is simple. But for me, the decision was clear: What do you say when a friend suggests driving a 40-year-old Fiat from Italy to Norway? "Yes, of course." FIAT PANDA  |  A 1983 Fiat Panda has a tiny 965cc engine boasting a whopping 48 hp—barely more than a high-end lawnmower in a Piedmontese villa. This masterpiece was designed by none other than Giorgetto Giugiaro and Aldo Mantovani. The little, adorable car has become the trendsetter’s go-to vehicle in Southern Europe, replacing Fiat's 500 as the ultimate symbol of Italian tradition. Prices have recently skyrocketed. So, there was no time left to wait for the "right" moment or overthink the purchase. We had to have an original Panda. |
At a small dealership near Pisa, appropriately named “My Dream Automobile,” we found our car: a first-series Panda 4x4 in the only acceptable color, Verde Alpi. Its enchanting matte green shade evokes anything but a sun-bleached camping chair. The car’s exterior exuded perfection, and the ribbed vinyl seats seemed to be plucked straight from a designer apartment in Milan. Primitive, simple, and uncomfortable—just how we like it.
The journey begins
On March 12, 2024, two aging gentlemen board a KLM flight at Oslo Airport Gardermoen. Destination: Galileo Galilei International Airport near Pisa. It all seemed straightforward, but two layovers changed that. The first, at Schiphol Airport, went smoothly enough, but an overbooked connecting flight left us grounded for two extra hours.
Our cultural pilgrimage came to an abrupt halt at Frankfurt Airport. The plane bound for Pisa was already airborne as we descended to German soil. What followed was an endless back-and-forth between departure halls 1 and 2—not worth boring you with here. Suffice it to say, we will never fly with KLM again. Their arrogance and lack of service rivaled that of an underfed, exhausted waiter in Paris. Finally, a kind soul from Lufthansa took pity on us and secured us a flight to Pisa the next day. The journey, initially derailed, was back on track.
On March 12, 2024, two aging gentlemen board a KLM flight at Oslo Airport Gardermoen. Destination: Galileo Galilei International Airport near Pisa. It all seemed straightforward, but two layovers changed that. The first, at Schiphol Airport, went smoothly enough, but an overbooked connecting flight left us grounded for two extra hours.
Our cultural pilgrimage came to an abrupt halt at Frankfurt Airport. The plane bound for Pisa was already airborne as we descended to German soil. What followed was an endless back-and-forth between departure halls 1 and 2—not worth boring you with here. Suffice it to say, we will never fly with KLM again. Their arrogance and lack of service rivaled that of an underfed, exhausted waiter in Paris. Finally, a kind soul from Lufthansa took pity on us and secured us a flight to Pisa the next day. The journey, initially derailed, was back on track.
| La bella macchina The Italian sun shone as if ordered, offering an early taste of spring. Jackets were promptly stashed in our suitcases. In the parking lot, Marco greeted us—a man in his forties resembling a Norwegian mountain guide. His wild, curly black hair, blue windbreaker, jeans, and mandatory hiking boots completed the image. Naturally, this “mountain guide” drove a 4x4: a dark blue V6 Mitsubishi Pajero that left both Kimm and me impressed. Marco drove as expected of an Italian. The hefty SUV zigzagged between lanes as if lives depended on it. Whether it goes faster at the rev limiter, we don’t know, but the Italian temperament was on full display. We later learned Marco was an Italian karting champion. |  |
Minutes later, the terrain monster screeched into a backyard in a quiet Collesalvetti suburb. Two gray heads peeked out from a veranda, and a gentleman well past retirement age emerged from a black void in the building. In the backyard stood classic Italian cars in various stages of decay, occupied by the local stray cats. The cars were likely restoration projects, but time wasn’t on this man’s side. Without speaking a word of English, he enthusiastically unveiled a familiar silhouette hidden under a blue tarp. We stood speechless for a few seconds, soaking in the authentic Italian perfection. We wanted to pat it on the roof and kiss its hood in wild excitement.
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“La bella macchina,” the old man said, and we clapped as he clapped. The car wasn’t quite ready for the trip, so we had lunch with Marco. Turns out Marco wasn’t just into “guiding.” He seemed to know everyone in town. His real business was selling new trucks, with over a hundred classic cars as a side hobby. Skeptical, we imagined he’d added an extra zero to his claim, but after visiting four warehouses crammed with cars, we realized Italians take their hobbies differently. Or at least Marco does.
The day waned, and the car had to prove its mettle on the first stretch. Would it survive the opening miles without issues? Marco was optimistic; we were less so.
Where were the plates? Two pieces of cardboard was fetched. Seriously? Driving across Europe without plates and a cardboard “license” taped inside the windows? Marco assured us it would suffice. We skeptically agreed, securing the cardboard with tape on the right side of the rear and front window.
The day waned, and the car had to prove its mettle on the first stretch. Would it survive the opening miles without issues? Marco was optimistic; we were less so.
Where were the plates? Two pieces of cardboard was fetched. Seriously? Driving across Europe without plates and a cardboard “license” taped inside the windows? Marco assured us it would suffice. We skeptically agreed, securing the cardboard with tape on the right side of the rear and front window.
 | Heading home Kimm settled behind the wheel with a smile. Finally, he’d acquired a piece of Italian heritage. Inside the Fiat, the smell of warm vinyl mingled with a hint of burnt oil—real car smells. All it lacked was the aroma of cigarette smoke for a perfect time warp. On the small roads around Collesalvetti, the car ran like a charm, but to reach Norway before summer, the Autostrada was unavoidable. Our first planned stop was Sanremo, not the most direct route home but a chance to savor the Riviera. The little car struggled to accelerate. Could it really be this slow? It barely hit 80 km/h before plateauing. Trucks overtook us from all sides—this didn’t feel right. |
We stopped at the first gas station outside Savona. The hood went up, revealing the throttle wasn’t opening fully. Some brute force with pliers and a spanner later, the accelerator gained an extra centimeter of travel. The difference was immediate. The car zipped along, hitting 100, 110, and 120 km/h with ease.
We reached Sanremo by sunset, the Mediterranean greeting us. After parking the Panda, we headed to the city center for a seafood feast, washed down with refreshing Vermentino. Sanremo charmed us with its unique blend of understated elegance and vintage appeal. A satisfying end to an exhilarating day.
We reached Sanremo by sunset, the Mediterranean greeting us. After parking the Panda, we headed to the city center for a seafood feast, washed down with refreshing Vermentino. Sanremo charmed us with its unique blend of understated elegance and vintage appeal. A satisfying end to an exhilarating day.
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It smells like gasoline
After four cups of Americano and a breakfast far too sweet for Nordic palates, we stroll back to where the Panda was parked. There’s a faint smell of gasoline, but we chalk it up to an overzealous refueling session the previous day. With the windows down, we assume the odor will dissipate. Driving the Panda is undeniably cool. We keep the windows open and wave our arms like the locals. The car is running better now—it seems to have accepted its new owners. The winding mountain roads feel tailor-made for the Panda. But the smell persists. What started as a hint of petroleum now feels like sitting in the middle of a gas can. We press on regardless.
After four cups of Americano and a breakfast far too sweet for Nordic palates, we stroll back to where the Panda was parked. There’s a faint smell of gasoline, but we chalk it up to an overzealous refueling session the previous day. With the windows down, we assume the odor will dissipate. Driving the Panda is undeniably cool. We keep the windows open and wave our arms like the locals. The car is running better now—it seems to have accepted its new owners. The winding mountain roads feel tailor-made for the Panda. But the smell persists. What started as a hint of petroleum now feels like sitting in the middle of a gas can. We press on regardless.
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We arrive at a mountain town just before lunchtime. The last stretch of the curved road is flanked by beautiful yellow mimosa blossoms. The town, considered one of Italy’s most beautiful, is a cluster of stunning stone houses with red-tiled roofs clinging to the mountainside. The view takes your breath away. Mountains and valleys stretch in mesmerizing shades of green and blue.
We’re eager to take a closer look at my friend’s apartment and park the car at the town’s entrance. Unrealistically, we hope the leak will fix itself. After some ham, cheese, and a cold beer, we forget about our technical issues. My friend’s apartment is stunning, inducing a twinge of envy, though we’re content with our own situation. After wandering among the ancient stones for a while, we’re ready to move on.
The car is still where we parked it, but there’s no doubt now: we have a problem. Gasoline is dripping. I crawl underneath and confirm we need a new fuel hose. Time is of the essence—we need to get back to town before things worsen, and more importantly, before the workshops close. It’s afternoon, and the stakes are high. The ride downhill is silent; we’re both contemplating what could happen if the leak grows. I imagine explosions and burning forests.
We stop at every workshop we find, but none have Fiat parts or the time to help. A Suzuki garage gives us the tip we need: there’s a Fiat workshop on the outskirts of town that deals with classic cars. We reach Autofficina Bodino Carlo just before closing time. They’re busy preparing support vehicles for the weekend’s cycling race and claim they have no time for us.
What they haven’t accounted for is our enthusiasm for classic Italian cars and Nordic charm. With puppy-dog eyes capable of melting the North Pole, we win them over, and the master mechanic himself dives under the car. Amid muttering about amateur workmanship and other unrecognizable Italian phrases, the fuel hose is replaced, and the car is sealed.
We park the car outside our rented house and head into town. In the end, it worked out fine—a small victory for a small car. We celebrate with a few glasses of red and white wine at a local bar, enjoy more pasta, and go to bed well-fed and content.
We’re eager to take a closer look at my friend’s apartment and park the car at the town’s entrance. Unrealistically, we hope the leak will fix itself. After some ham, cheese, and a cold beer, we forget about our technical issues. My friend’s apartment is stunning, inducing a twinge of envy, though we’re content with our own situation. After wandering among the ancient stones for a while, we’re ready to move on.
The car is still where we parked it, but there’s no doubt now: we have a problem. Gasoline is dripping. I crawl underneath and confirm we need a new fuel hose. Time is of the essence—we need to get back to town before things worsen, and more importantly, before the workshops close. It’s afternoon, and the stakes are high. The ride downhill is silent; we’re both contemplating what could happen if the leak grows. I imagine explosions and burning forests.
We stop at every workshop we find, but none have Fiat parts or the time to help. A Suzuki garage gives us the tip we need: there’s a Fiat workshop on the outskirts of town that deals with classic cars. We reach Autofficina Bodino Carlo just before closing time. They’re busy preparing support vehicles for the weekend’s cycling race and claim they have no time for us.
What they haven’t accounted for is our enthusiasm for classic Italian cars and Nordic charm. With puppy-dog eyes capable of melting the North Pole, we win them over, and the master mechanic himself dives under the car. Amid muttering about amateur workmanship and other unrecognizable Italian phrases, the fuel hose is replaced, and the car is sealed.
We park the car outside our rented house and head into town. In the end, it worked out fine—a small victory for a small car. We celebrate with a few glasses of red and white wine at a local bar, enjoy more pasta, and go to bed well-fed and content.
Complete chaos
After this mini-vacation, it’s time to head north. We have breakfast in the center of Sanremo and bid farewell to the city and the Mediterranean just before midday. The plan is to visit a friend in Turin on the way. We call him as we approach Genoa, but unfortunately, a family emergency means we have to improvise. The miles pass more easily than expected. The Panda hums happily, cruising between 110 and 130 km/h. Surprisingly, it feels comfortable. The sound in the car is reminiscent of sitting in an airplane, and the seats aren’t bad at all. We decide to drive far on this first day—can we manage 1,000 kilometers?
Every time we stop for gas, we encounter enthusiastic Italians. They share childhood memories of the Panda and want to take pictures with the car. This little Fiat creates friendships and smiles. Everyone loves it. As we pass Vercelli, we decide to test the Panda’s limits. The speedometer tops out at 145 km/h. With a factory-specified top speed of 135 km/h, this is more than acceptable. After the initial drama, the car is now running like clockwork.
After this mini-vacation, it’s time to head north. We have breakfast in the center of Sanremo and bid farewell to the city and the Mediterranean just before midday. The plan is to visit a friend in Turin on the way. We call him as we approach Genoa, but unfortunately, a family emergency means we have to improvise. The miles pass more easily than expected. The Panda hums happily, cruising between 110 and 130 km/h. Surprisingly, it feels comfortable. The sound in the car is reminiscent of sitting in an airplane, and the seats aren’t bad at all. We decide to drive far on this first day—can we manage 1,000 kilometers?
Every time we stop for gas, we encounter enthusiastic Italians. They share childhood memories of the Panda and want to take pictures with the car. This little Fiat creates friendships and smiles. Everyone loves it. As we pass Vercelli, we decide to test the Panda’s limits. The speedometer tops out at 145 km/h. With a factory-specified top speed of 135 km/h, this is more than acceptable. After the initial drama, the car is now running like clockwork.
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After hours of driving, we pass Varese and approach the Swiss border. We’ve completely forgotten about the paper license plates. What’s fine in Italy is clearly not in Switzerland. At the border, we’re stopped immediately. Never have so many customs officers gathered around a car.
This time, it’s not because of the car or our inherent charm—it’s the missing plates. Chaos ensues. The officers shake their heads, repeatedly photographing the makeshift paper tag from Pisa. "What kind of idiots drive without plates?" Even our tearful puppy-dog eyes don’t work this time. The phone lines heat up between Norwegian authorities, insurance companies, and emails flying north and south. The verdict remains: we must detour through France or Austria. The car is not allowed into Switzerland. Our hearts sink. The thought of driving an additional 700 kilometers without making progress northward is depressing. But miracles still happen. While all the customs officers are preoccupied with us, a Lithuanian truck slips through right in front of them. Suddenly, our little Panda becomes irrelevant. With an exasperated look, the chief says, "OK, one more Panda in Switzerland is our smallest problem right now!"
Saatvedt and I can’t believe our ears. Before anyone can change their minds, we jump in the car and race across the border into Switzerland. How is this even possible? It feels like winning the lottery. We scream and sing in euphoric disbelief.
This time, it’s not because of the car or our inherent charm—it’s the missing plates. Chaos ensues. The officers shake their heads, repeatedly photographing the makeshift paper tag from Pisa. "What kind of idiots drive without plates?" Even our tearful puppy-dog eyes don’t work this time. The phone lines heat up between Norwegian authorities, insurance companies, and emails flying north and south. The verdict remains: we must detour through France or Austria. The car is not allowed into Switzerland. Our hearts sink. The thought of driving an additional 700 kilometers without making progress northward is depressing. But miracles still happen. While all the customs officers are preoccupied with us, a Lithuanian truck slips through right in front of them. Suddenly, our little Panda becomes irrelevant. With an exasperated look, the chief says, "OK, one more Panda in Switzerland is our smallest problem right now!"
Saatvedt and I can’t believe our ears. Before anyone can change their minds, we jump in the car and race across the border into Switzerland. How is this even possible? It feels like winning the lottery. We scream and sing in euphoric disbelief.
| Alpine passes In Switzerland and Italy, one dreams of winding alpine passes and spectacular views. So do we. We start early to reach the passes and make headway into Germany. I’ve always wanted to see Hotel Belvédère in the Furka Pass. Who hasn’t seen the stunning images of the abandoned hotel in the Alps? Our optimism is high. Saatvedt has just bought a new drone, and we envision spectacular shots of the Panda, the hotel, and snow-capped peaks. But after two hours of driving with a couple of missteps, we reach the base of Furka, Göschenen, only to find all the passes closed due to heavy snow. Despite the calendar showing mid-March, the roads haven’t reopened. The choice is now simple. We aim to drive as far as we can—can we make it to Stuttgart before nightfall? This turns into a speed run, with a brief stop in Obfelden for the obligatory wurst with mustard. The little car never drops below 110 km/h. |  |
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After an entire day of driving, we arrive at our hotel in the Heusteigviertel district of Stuttgart. Kimm and I always have a good time together. A small «kneipe» offered a taste of the local nightlife and some well-deserved beers. There, we also had some of the best Indian food we’ve ever eaten. The next day, we head toward Hamburg. Driving on the German autobahn in a small car with limited top speed isn’t exactly thrilling, but the Panda chugged along happily. We reach our hotel in Hamburg just as the sun is setting. It feels good to stretch our legs, and after a long walk, we discover a wine bar with a friendly crowd. Among the patrons are retired sailors and locals, all curious to chat with a couple of quirky Norwegians—us. We go to bed satisfied, full, and content. Life isn’t so bad.
For the final leg of the journey, we take the Kiel ferry to Oslo. Driving through Denmark and Sweden doesn’t appeal to us at this point. A bit of rest and good food on the ferry seems much more inviting.
For the final leg of the journey, we take the Kiel ferry to Oslo. Driving through Denmark and Sweden doesn’t appeal to us at this point. A bit of rest and good food on the ferry seems much more inviting.
Back in Norway
Spring has been delayed at home. It’s still bitterly cold, with icy winds—a far cry from where the Panda came from and where we felt alive just days ago. But some things remain the same: the Panda sparks enthusiasm. Customs officers are just as excited as the Italians at the rest stops 2,500 kilometers away. A small car with a big heart, and two men who know each other even better now. A Fiat that will never be sold—or if it is, it will stay within the traveling duo. Only those who travel find new paths. This journey will stay with me forever, and it will always bring a big smile.
Forza Fiat Panda!
Spring has been delayed at home. It’s still bitterly cold, with icy winds—a far cry from where the Panda came from and where we felt alive just days ago. But some things remain the same: the Panda sparks enthusiasm. Customs officers are just as excited as the Italians at the rest stops 2,500 kilometers away. A small car with a big heart, and two men who know each other even better now. A Fiat that will never be sold—or if it is, it will stay within the traveling duo. Only those who travel find new paths. This journey will stay with me forever, and it will always bring a big smile.
Forza Fiat Panda!
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