[CONTINUING STORIES, by LeAnn] – If the boot fits…

As I pulled up to the entrance of Il Cassero, the usual clamor of activity in the cafes all but ceased.  In my peripheral, I could see them watching me as I stepped from my little Fiat Punto to open the gate.  I wrestled with the lock for a moment, hoping it wouldn’t be as stubborn as it usually was.  Simple eye-hand coordination seemed to have left me and I chided myself for experiencing something akin to stage fright. 

 

I had been in Tuscany three days, but apparently the curiosity factor had not decreased in the least.  The blue-eyed blonde from America was still the featured attraction.  The old castle where I was staying was at the main entrance of a little village, called Lucignano.  The setting was much like any village in Tuscany you might come across…tables of the older men chatting and playing cards most of the day…the younger men commandeering their own tables for socializing at lunch time and after a day’s work. 

 

It was obvious that the women and children were either not welcome to participate in this daily “boys club” ritual or they just weren’t interested (I suspected it was a little of both.)  The women could be seen coming and going by, but very rarely ever stopping to utter a word to the men.  It was very much the routine day after day.  On Sundays, I’d often see women, arm-in-arm, chatting convivially as they strolled along.  During the week, they were often quite busy on one errand or another; usually, with fresh produce in hand for the next meal of the day.  

 

The routine of the much older women of the village seemed to me to entail plodding along the side of the road frighteningly close to passing traffic. I eventually concluded they were most often walking to or from the little cemetery just outside of town.  There is hardly room for one vehicle, let alone two on the narrow country roads surrounding the village.  Further, they often have a stone wall or embankment on one side and a drop off down to the olive groves on the other.  I never got over worrying about them, but at the same time couldn’t help but be amused by their tenacity.  It was as if after all their years on the planet, they felt they had earned the right-of-way and everyone had better accommodate them.

 

Once parked safely out of view within the walls of the castle’s garden, I took my time unloading my treasures from my latest outing, reflecting again on my surroundings.  The ancient stone architecture, soaked in almost a thousand years of history, seemed to me a surreal backdrop to the mundane activities happening within the walls of this little village.  I have the same feeling whenever I’m in the Roman ruins or in any of the ancient cities here.  It always feels to me like we have been placed on some elaborate set and our contemporary clothing and modern conveniences seem garish and out of place by comparison.     

 

As I inhaled a wonderful blend of rosemary, basil and lemon thyme, I once again felt fortunate to have found this idyllic place.  Of the hundreds of prospects I had found on the internet, I had narrowed it down to ten contenders.  Many fell, I must admit, in a rather superficial qualifying standard I devised concerning their decision to not only own white plastic lawn furniture, but to post pictures highlighting that fact on their website.  In my defense, though, doesn’t placing white plastic against this gorgeous backdrop of nature and architecture seem a bit sacrilegious?  In any case, it was just one month from my departure date and I still hadn’t confirmed a reservation.  I was to be staying, for six weeks on my own (a first and a milestone, of sorts) and I was looking for a sign to drop out of the sky saying, “This is the place.” 

 

I owned many books on Tuscany and I decided to peruse them looking for a bit of information that would help me with my decision.  It was then that I came across a book I had been given with the promising title, “The Most Beautiful Villages of Tuscany.”  I closed my eyes and said to myself, “If any of the ten places I’ve been considering are mentioned in this book, that’s where I’ll stay.”  The book literally fell open to “Lucignano” and my decision was made.

 

I knew I had made the right choice the moment I walked up the steps of Il Cassero that first day.  My host, Luigi, was a lively little man who immediately embraced me and made me feel at home.  We had barely said our hellos when he launched into the story about how he had been in a terrible car accident several years earlier.  It had left him partially paralyzed on his entire left side rendering his hand almost useless.  He walked with a limp, almost dragging his left leg along.  And his eyesight and speech had suffered, as well.  Despite all these encumbrances, he was good-natured and very affable.  I guessed his age to be about seventy, but his near death experience may well have tainted my perception.  He had taught himself English and as long as I listened carefully, we communicated quite well.  “The doctors say I will not survive.  They say Luigi will never wake up.  But they don’t know, Luigi strong…like bull.”  With that, he laughed and flexed his bicep. 

 

As he guided me up the steps to my “apartamento,” he continued to tell me about himself.  I learned that “Il Cassero” had been in his family for several generations.  His father had been an attorney and his grandfather a doctor.   I was intrigued by his stories, but was also taking in every detail as we walked.  Wide stone steps, the edges worn smooth by centuries of use, lead up to my apartment on the third floor.  At each flight, another light switch operated the sconces and chandeliers on that floor.  Although it was midday, the interior halls were completely dark.  Shafts of light from the only window at each landing did little to illuminate our way.  I made a mental note of each switch, realizing that I’d soon be navigating this somewhat eerie maze on my own. 

 

When we arrived at the door to what was to be my new home for the coming weeks, I felt as giddy as a little girl.  I couldn’t wait to see if the pictures on the website had done it justice.  The fact that this was my first solo trip somehow enhanced every part of the experience. Luigi’s shaking hands worked the locks.  He had a method of using his good hand to insert the key and turn, then used his lifeless hand and shoulder to push.  The door opened into the kitchen.  It was as charming as the photos had promised.   Typical rustic Italian décor with stone floors, white plastered walls and very minimal furnishings. 

 

I was looking down the hall and could see the end of a wrought iron bed in the other room, but Luigi was drawing my attention to the view from the kitchen.  “Il torre,” he announced, pushing open a paned glass window to reveal a large tower.  Luigi explained that the Medici family had it built in the 1300’s and the underground tunnels leading from it were used to escape in times of war.   He continued explaining that part of the tower had collapsed during an earthquake, but it would be open “next year.”   I was disappointed to hear that I wouldn’t be able to investigate the interior of the tower, but felt fortunate to have it as part of my view nonetheless.

 

Luigi was eager to show me the new pool they had just finished on property they owned a short distance from the village, so I quickly changed and met him down in the garden.  The pool was located in a secluded spot, tucked away on a little dirt road behind impressive iron gates.  The grounds were lined with cypress and pine and planted with lavender and rosemary.  The pristine water surrounded by beautiful rustic stonework was set viewing the rolling hills with the lush fields and olive groves in the foreground.  It was an ideal location for a pool and Luigi beamed with pride when I told him he had selected the perfect site.

 

We were greeted by a friend of the family introduced as “Alfredo” an elderly, white-haired gentleman with a jolly disposition.  He spoke very little English and with my limited Italian, our attempts at conversation ended with little more than, “My name is…”  “It is a beautiful pool.”   We laughed and he shrugged his shoulders, when we found it impossible to communicate anything else.  I found myself smiling a lot, trying to make up for everything I wanted to say, but couldn’t.  

 

Judging from his attire (white dress pants and shirt complete with a hat and cane); he had apparently just come to pass the time and admire the pool.  I motioned to him that I was going in and taking a deep breath, dove in to swim the length of the pool underwater.  I was immediately lost in my own world, enjoying the refreshing coolness and admiring the immaculate condition of the pool.  As I came up, breaking the surface to take a breath, I was startled to find myself face-to-face with Alfredo who was leaning over the edge exclaiming, “Beautiful! Bellissima!”  And clapping enthusiastically, “You are a beautiful fish!”   

 

I hadn’t been given this many accolades over my swimming abilities since I was six years old and I found myself a little shy about all the attention.  Still, it seemed to be providing him so much joy, I felt obligated to continue for his sake.  After several more laps, each ending with thunderous applause from my one-man audience, I decided I had provided adequate entertainment for one afternoon and I would lay out for awhile.  The first of many days I would enjoy there.

 

Luigi was my guardian angel throughout my trip, attending to my every need.  Although it was three flights of stairs and a long hallway from where he resided to my apartment, he frequently made his way to my door to check on me.  I learned early on not to mention wanting anything; for if I did, he was immediately off to retrieve it for me.  We talked one day about me being a designer and suddenly he was chattering about something I couldn’t quite make out, as he hurriedly headed out the door.  I was saying, “Okay.  Okay.”  And, “Si.  Si.”  But I wasn’t quite sure what I had agreed to. 

 

Several minutes went by and then I could hear his distinct limp coming back down the hall.  There he was at my door, out of breath but with a big smile on his face, handing me half a dozen or so Architectural Digest magazines.  I found out later he had stolen them from his wife, Antonella, who (I also found out later), was not overly pleased, to say the least.

 

Antonella was a very interesting character.  I would not have been surprised to learn that someone had hired her and placed her there to play the part of the stereotypical Italian mama.  She very much ruled the roost at Il Cassero.  While it was evident that Luigi ran the lodging business, Antonella definitely ran Luigi.

 

One night, I was eating dinner in the garden amongst the roses and geraniums with some other guests I had befriended.  It was a beautiful setting under the stars with the sounds of friendly chatter coming from the village just over the garden walls.  We were languishing over a wonderful “Vino della Casa” that we had purchased from one of the local restaurants for a mere 4 euro, after having enjoyed a feast of homemade gnocci pasta with white truffle sauce and several varieties of Pecorino cheese we had purchased earlier in Pienza. 

 

Our conversation had run from politics to world issues to philosophy and it was just about this time that Luigi stepped out to check on us.  I asked him to join us and he said with large gestures (everything was said with very large gestures), “No, no.  I don’t want to intrude.  I just want to make sure my guests are happy.  If my guests are happy, then Luigi is happy.” 

 

I offered him a glass of wine and he turned to look towards the open door of his house behind him.  ‘Oh, no.  No.  I shouldn’t.   Too much wine today.”  I said, “Are you sure?  Just a little glass?”  “Oh, okay.  Just a little glass,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder again and then took it from my hand. 

 

Just as he was about to take a sip, a piercing, “GIGI!” came shattering through the air from somewhere inside the house.  Luigi jumped, startled like the rest of us.  Then he muttered something defiant under his breath that I couldn’t quite make out.  “Gigi is in trouble,” he said with a nervous laugh and a shrug.   Then in one gulp, he swigged down the rest of his wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and wasted no time in getting back in the house, waving back over his head, “Ciao” and “Buonanotte” as he went.

 

The following evening, I had settled myself in the garden with a glass of a favorite Brunello and my journal.  The warm night air was heavily perfumed with pine and jasmine and the rosemary I had plucked and stuck behind my ear, “For memory,” Luigi had told me.  The hum of a hundred voices engaged in convivial conversation just outside the wall blending with the chirping of the crickets, was soothing rather than distracting.  Now and again, a breeze would gently stir the trees and I found myself reflecting on what a perfect moment it was. 

 

Somewhere beyond my reverie, I heard, “Bella.  Ciao, Bella.”  At first I thought someone was calling Luigi’s dog, Bella; a white, long-haired breed of unknown origins who often took unauthorized jaunts through the village whenever someone had forgotten to fasten the lock on the gates.  Then, seeing two figures at the gate gesturing towards me, I set aside my writing and somewhat hesitantly went over to see what they wanted. 

 

It was two young men I had seen speaking to Luigi earlier.  As our conversation ensued, I found I spoke just enough Italian to get myself in trouble.  I would say a couple of sentences (of a total of four that I knew) at which point they would switch from charades and speaking slowly to a quick litany of sentences and elaborate gestures.  I would understand a word or two, but had to stop them to ascertain whether I was on the right track or not.  We continued in this manner for some time.  Finally, I understood that they wanted to ask Luigi to join them for dinner the following evening and I promised them I would relay the message.

 

I spent the next morning happily engrossed in a book at poolside.  Occasionally, I would take a dip in the pool to cool off.  It occurred to me that I had never been so proficient at doing absolutely nothing and, more so, that I could do it without any remorse whatsoever.  I would be staying in Lucignano for the entire six weeks I was in Italy.  I had decided I didn’t want to be a tourist this trip.  I determined I would immerse myself in the lifestyle here to see if it fit. 

 

I had wondered though, while amidst the seemingly non-stop hustle and bustle of my Los Angeles life, just how long it would take me to adjust to the routine of a place where business all but ceases each day as family and friends bond over their midday meal.  However, it is for this very reason that I admire Italians so.  They excel in many areas, while never losing their ability to “stop and smell the roses.”  Even though it had only been a few days, I felt right at home.  So far, so good.

 

 

 

If the boot fits…(Parte Due)

 

 

Giovanni finishes rubbing oil on my back and moves his way down each leg, whispering something about giving me a foot massage, or at least I think that’s what he said.  It was all in Italian, of course.  I nod and smile, assured by his tone that whatever he is proposing, I will enjoy.  The sun is warm on my face and closing my eyes, I can hear the gentle lapping of the pool and the bees droning softly nearby in the lavender…  

 

Suddenly, I am awake with a start as I sense a shadow passing across me.  My book crashes to the ground and I am abruptly back from my dream world.  Still slightly disoriented, I realize I am topless and hurriedly wrap a towel around me.  Within the same fraction of a second, I realize I needn’t have worried.   There isn’t a soul in sight. 

 

There are, however, very ominous clouds moving rapidly across the sky.  So fast, it is unreal; like the time-lapsed footage of storms they show on the weather channel.  I rush to gather up my belongings and run to the car, just as the first few rain drops make their descent.  The drive to Il Cassero takes just a few minutes, but by the time I reach the gates, it is already a full-blown storm.  The thunder and lightening is coming so remarkably close together, I wonder if it is even wise to get out of the car.

 

The usually thriving cafes are deserted and, thankfully, I am able to unlatch and swing open the gates quite quickly.  Back in the car, I zip into the garden and into the nearest parking spot.  Just as I’m headed back to close the gates, a duo of lightening and thunder strike almost simultaneously, sending me running in the other direction towards the house.  Once safely inside, I breathe a sigh of relief, only to realize the electricity has been knocked out. 

 

I am standing in the entry of Il Cassero debating whether to bother Luigi and Antonella whose door is to the left, while also looking cautiously at the dark stairway leading down before me to the “cave.” (Kah-veh, as Luigi pronounces it.)

 

On the initial tour of the property, he had motioned towards the stairs telling me that during the war, Il Cassero was occupied by the Germans.  The “cave” has tunnels leading from it to the watch tower (Il Torre) and beyond, leading out of the city.  So, although the Germans were the most recent to make use of these facilities; the tower and its tunnels have seen hundreds of years of activity prior to that.  While interesting, it was a historical factoid I could have done without on my first solo, sleeping-all-alone-in-an-ancient-castle vacation.  

 

If I understood Luigi’s broken English correctly, they found several skulls down in the tunnels.  He also told me that his father had the tunnels blocked after the family dog headed in one day and never came out.  Somehow, that part struck me the most.  I could just see the little guy heading off to investigate with his tail a-wagging.  I consoled myself with the notion that he somehow found the exit at the edge of town and had elected to stay with a nice family who took him in.  (They have a lovely farm.)

 

My heart was pounding now.  I had succeeded in spooking myself. Was there someone standing on the landing down there?  I was about to knock on Luigi’s door when the lights flickered on.  With a last glance down to the cellar (just to make sure nobody was poised there ready to bound up the steps after me), I sprinted up the three flights of stairs and down the hall to my apartment door.

 

Just as I put my key in the lock, the lights flickered and went off again.  I was in a completely black hallway.  Heart racing, I opened the door and dashed inside, closing and locking it behind me in one motion.  Without a pause, I ran and opened up the wooden shutters on the kitchen window, stumbling over the table and chairs on my way.  Still unnerved, I began opening cupboards looking for my matches and candles.  The frequent lightening bursts allowed me to see, albeit intermittently.  One by one, I lit the candles and placed them strategically around until I deemed the dark corners to be sufficiently exposed. 

 

I pulled a blanket around my shoulders and watched the storm out my bedroom window.  Ensconced in my little place, I felt quite secure and could finally relax a bit.  These thick old stone walls had seen many a storm and seemed unperturbed by all the goings on out there.  Now that I was safe and sound inside, the heart-pounding moments prior seemed more like an enjoyable little adventure; a little reprieve from all the days of sun, really.  True, it would be nice to have a “Giovanni” here in the candlelight with me, but aside from that, I felt a certain exhilaration and sense of accomplishment for “braving” this alone.   

 

I silently blessed myself for having bought several varieties of candles when I initially “set up house.”  True to form, I admit I purchased them for the ambience over dinner, not with a power outage in mind.  I should have thought to prepare for this type of occurrence, though.  It wasn’t the first such encounter I had experienced with Mother Nature in this country.

 

 

If the boot fits…(part III) -or- Plan a Little, Wing it A Lot

 

I snuggled further into the blanket and chuckled as I thought back to my first trip to Italy.  Actually, it was the first trip here for all of us -me, my daughter Alex and my mom, Anita.  Somehow, life had worked out this way…The three of us -representing three generations- would share this European adventure together.

 

 “Gita” as we affectionately call my mom, gets the “Best Travel Companion” award as far as Alex and I are concerned.  She is fun, funny and flexible.  She has a silly sense of humor that we all share.  It can best be described as a mix of “The Far Side” and “Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy,” with generous doses of Ellen DeGeneres and Seinfeld.  There’s also an additional smidgen of craziness that she (and we) seem to have inherited from her aunts, Melba and Bertie.  (These were very bright women, mind you, but with random, and therefore, hilarious displays of air-headedness.)

 

One aspect of this silly sense of humor we all have is that we tend to personify anything and everything.  For a long time, I thought everyone did this because it was so common in our household.  I grew up with a mom who developed characters and a storyline for virtually every situation.  She was always narrating what the family cat was thinking…his agenda for the day; his thoughts on world politics and personal preferences in hair-care products.  And cars and other miscellaneous inanimate objects in our family had such a personality bestowed on them it was almost traumatic for us kids when it came time to sell them. 

 

Along the same vein, we also have an inclination to create humorous possible endings or “next scenes” as we go throughout our day.  It definitely falls into the category of “you had to be there to appreciate it” type of humor and even then, if you aren’t accustomed to it, you can be left behind.  The “uninitiated” have stood by with a quizzical look on their face or a raised eyebrow when we launch into our silly “So…” adlibs.  But, eventually, we always win them over.  It doesn’t take much time spent with us before the nay-sayers are offering up their own contributions: 

 

“…So… I grab that roll of paper towels, bop the guy on the head and keep on walking.” -A guy friend of mine said this as we passed a couple arguing in a grocery store aisle one day.  I chuckled at his comment -another convert!

 

The house we had rented for this, our first trip to Italy, was described on the website as a “large ancient farmhouse, recently renovated.”  It was located near San Leo Bastia on the border of Umbria and Tuscany.  Access to it, we were informed by the manager, was via a mountain road running near Cortona.  (Strangely enough, we would never make our way to the heart of Cortona this trip–Quite obviously, we were visiting Tuscany in the Pre-Francis Mayes era.)

 

We were only three days in and had already been through quite the exhausting adventure.  The only thing that was keeping me awake and alert was navigating the challenging mountain roads –a seemingly endless string of switch-back after switch-back whilst also maintaining a look-out for on-coming vehicles; each requiring me to move over precariously close to the drop-off to the right of us (with nary a guard rail in sight, I might add.)

 

Shifting down for yet another steep incline, I silently blessed my Idaho upbringing where my first driving experience was in a stick-shift.  It was my dad who was brave enough to teach me to drive in our powder-blue Ford Mustang. (I thought I was so cool.) At that time, they granted a daytime driver’s license at the tender age of 14 so we started practicing out on country roads a few months before.   The idea was that those who farmed for a living needed their children to help out with the family business sooner rather than later.  Luckily, you didn’t have to live on a farm, though.  We “city folk” (population 805) were allowed to obtain ours early, too. 

 

I glanced in the rearview mirror at my mom and she smiled and asked me again if I was holding up okay.  Alex, only fourteen at this time, was up in front with me, map and directions in-hand reading road signs and ready to warn me when the next turn was coming up.  Her language skills had already proven to be invaluable and I was grateful to have her as my “wing-man.”  Alex’s fifth grade teacher had been Italian and introduced her students to her culture as part of the curriculum.  “Mrs. Bergen” was young and cute and an outstanding teacher.  All her students seemed to adore her; but she and Alex had an extra special bond.  It was then that Alex began her obsession with and immersion in the Italian language.  Every chance she got, she picked up another book or another set of language tapes.  She even tried (for awhile) to hold class at our house with me and my younger sister, her Aunt Darla, as her students.  For an 11 year old, she was quite the professional teacher with elaborate lesson plans, Xeroxed worksheets of her own making and a big whiteboard where she diagramed sentences.  On more than one occasion, Darla and I were reprimanded for not finishing our homework or giggling in class.  I was really wishing now I had taken my studies a little more seriously.

 

It was Alex and I who had planned this 21 day trip—our first exploration of Italy and France.  And by planned, I mean we booked a one week stay at a farmhouse in Umbria and we had a general idea of what we wanted to do the remaining 14 days we would be in Europe.  We thought it would be a good idea to take a direct flight from Los Angeles to Paris and from there, take a train from Paris into Florence, saving sightseeing in Paris for when we came back through to catch our flight home.    

 

It was a hot muggy afternoon when we arrived at Charles de Gaulle.  The flight had been a bit of a challenge, particularly for me.  I was working non-stop to finish up design projects so I could “relax and enjoy the trip more” and had literally not slept for 24 hours before I boarded the plane.  (A very wise plan…  Yes, I know.)  To top it off, because we had booked our flight relatively late in the game, we were seated in the very last row.  Obviously not our first choice, but tolerable, we thought…that is until we realized our seats did not recline.  I don’t remember much from that flight; however, I’m sure the other passengers remember me.  I must have provided comic relief to every person seated nearby or waiting in line for the restrooms.  I was the woman with her head nodding and bobbing, probably open-mouthed and drooling, too.  -Yes, quite the pretty picture to be sure.  

 

Still, we were all excited to be in Paris which revived us a bit and we made our way out to the front of the airport to hail a taxi.  We didn’t have a hotel reservation for that night nor did we have our train tickets.  We just knew we wanted to travel on the train during the day so we could see the countryside.  After some consideration, we finally ended up at a relatively modest hotel near the airport.  (Frankly, I was too tired to go much further than that.)  The plan was to get some food and get some rest…oh, and call and book our train tickets for the following morning, of course.

 

We weren’t completely in the dark about things.  Alex and I had actually researched quite a bit via the internet before our trip.  We knew the train schedules, the fees and the type of train we wanted to be on.  What we didn’t know, but learned when we phoned from our hotel room, was that we would not be able to purchase our tickets over the phone as the website had indicated.  Instead, we would need to purchase them in person at the Gare de Lyon train station, -some 30 km from where we were staying.

 

Upon hearing this, I wanted to cry.  My body had already gone into shut-down mode when greeted by the plump white hotel pillows.  They were calling to me now from across the room.  It was all I could do not to collapse into them, but I knew I couldn’t let down my mom and Alex.  We had to secure our tickets that night for the early morning train or tomorrow would be a wasted day.

 

The taxi driver whom the hotel had phoned for us arrived promptly.  He seemed harmless  enough, but I was all prepared to be stern with him about our plans.  We had been warned (read in some guide book somewhere) to be wary of Parisian taxi drivers who were supposedly notorious for conning Americans out of large sums of money. The guide book said to ask up-front for an estimate and I did.  Armed with this information, I still had absolutely no idea whether it was even remotely accurate.  Mind you, this was pre-euro days, so converting dollars to francs and kilometers to miles while also considering and accounting for the possibility of Parisian traffic delays…well, that was beyond my sleep-deprived brain’s capabilities. We would just have to trust him and hope for the best.

 

It was rush hour in Paris and very congested on every street.   It did take us some time to get downtown and the train station was a zoo.  An array of cars parked every which way with drivers waiting and jostling for a position.   We asked our driver to please wait for us (not at all sure if he would) and hurried into the station to buy our tickets.  Here we were met with yet another challenge.   Alex’s Italian was great, but her French was very limited (as was mine and Gita’s.)  So what should have been a quick left turn and another left into the purchasing office, became a series of misguided attempts to figure out where we should be.  We were all over that station like three rats in a maze with Alex in the lead.  The commentating from above would have sounded something like, “That’s a girl.  Now you’ve got it.  You are getting closer…getting closer!  Yes!  There! Turn there!  I think they have it.  Oh, no.  They turned the other way.  Ohhh!  So close!”

 

After seeing much of the train station that evening, we did, eventually, make our way to the purchasing office.  As it turned out, literally a mere moment before it closed for the day.  Fortunately, we ended up at the window of a very nice young man who spoke English quite well, so we took the opportunity to bombard him with questions, asking his advice on many aspects of train travel.  Finally, with our passes in hand, we thanked him profusely for his kindness and made our way back outside to see if our taxi driver had indeed waited for us.  At first, we didn’t see him, but then from across the sea of cars, there he was smiling and waving to us like an old friend.  We jumped in and fell back against the seats, relieved to have accomplished our goal.

 

As we pulled away, he asked us if we would like to see a little of the city.  I thought, “Uh oh.  Here we go.  This is where all the extra charges come in.”  But I realized that wasn’t my take on the situation, it was the warning we had read in the guidebook talking again.  I had a good feeling about him –although I knew nothing more at this point than his name (“Servano”) and that he apparently enjoys humming a (very high) little tune as he drives.

 

Pausing for a blink of contemplation, I nodded, “Yes.  We would enjoy driving by a few places before we head back.  You choose.”   Servano, in his broken and heavily accented English pointed out the Arc de Triomphe, and the famous tree-lined avenue, Champs Elysee.  We saw the Siene river and, of course, the Eiffel Tower.  We didn’t want to get out, but our newly appointed tour guide was insisting that we take a quick photo.  We had already failed at several attempts to convey that we would be back in Paris later in our trip and could take photos then.   For some reason, this wasn’t translating. Before we knew it, he had zipped around the square and stopped in the middle of traffic where Alex tumbled out and I snapped a shot of her with the Eiffel Tower in the background.  In a heartbeat, she was diving back in on top of us and we were once again dodging through the throng of Parisian drivers with Alex laughing and struggling to find her seat belt once again.

 

That night in the hub of Paris was unlike any traffic I have ever been in.  Our little driver (I’m tempted to insert here, “so lively and quick”) was deftly moving through it while somehow also managing to tell us about his family as he did (he was very proud of his daughter.)  All the while, his head was moving constantly back and forth, looking left and right, right and left…virtually non-stop as he wove his way through the lines of traffic. We miraculously skimmed by one car after another as he and the other drivers creatively wove through and around each other, negotiating and compromising, relenting then pressing for space.   I’ve lived in Los Angeles for years and driven in many different challenging situations in many cities, but I vowed then and there never to take on Paris.  There appeared to be some sort of unspoken pact and understanding between these drivers.  A novice would surely be swallowed up here, never to see the light of day again.

 

On our way back, we asked Servano to stop somewhere so we could pick up a bite to eat.  We were famished at this point and were relieved when he found a place just off the freeway, not too far from our hotel.  It turned out to be a quaint little Italian restaurant and we ordered a couple of pizzas to take back to our room. We had already asked Servano if we could hire him to pick us up in the morning.  Although he wasn’t planning to work tomorrow, he had agreed to take us.  I tipped him quite generously and we headed up to our room where I ate a couple of bites of pizza, took a shower –my first sampling of the veritable potpourri of European plumbing yet to be experienced–and promptly passed out.

 

The next morning, we wanted to be sure to allow enough time to make it to the train station during the morning rush hour traffic, so we dressed quickly and hurried downstairs to catch our ride, but Servano was no where in sight.  Ten minutes later and there was still no sign of him.  I was watching the minutes ticking by on the lobby clock, debating whether to phone a new driver or not.  Was there even time to get someone here?  Now it was 20 minutes beyond our agreed time.  The idea that we might now miss our train after all we had gone through to get our tickets!… Just as we were turning towards the phone, Servano came bursting through the lobby doors.  His hair was standing up all over his head and his eyes were bloodshot, but he was smiling and apologizing and picking up our luggage as he explained:

 

“I go to my friend’s house.  People from my country arrive to visit.  We no see for very long time.  Stay up very late talking.”
 

I remembered he had said today was normally his day off and I’m sure he would have preferred to just roll over and ignore his alarm clock. How fortunate for us that he was a man of his word. 

 

Again, we made the “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” through downtown Paris to the front of the busy train station.  I had a wave of emotion come over me as I realized we would (most likely) never cross paths again with this kind soul who had taken such good care of us and who had given us a peek into his life…his hopes and dreams for his family.  We only had time for a quick good-bye and we were off, leaving him smiling and waving behind us.  As I walked away, I thought about the author of the guidebook and wished him the gift of his own “Servano” the next time he visits Paris.  

 

The train trip was everything we had hoped for and then some.  We were seated in plush seats around a table with a perfect view of the countryside out our large picture window.  Our lunch consisted of simple ham sandwiches on baguettes and we all agreed they were hands down the best sandwiches we had ever eaten.  This was due in large part, I’m sure, to our sense of accomplishment and contentment we felt after all it had taken to get to that point.  However, that aside, it was a surprising fact that train and train station sandwiches consistently ranked as some of the best sandwiches we ate throughout our trip.

So here we were, rested and finally able to just relax and enjoy being together.  Gazing out at the rolling hills passing by, I sighed and smiled as I took another sip of delicious coffee.  –“No wonder they travel by train here so much.  This is the life!” 

 

 

 

 

 

If the boot fits…(Part IV)-or- “Dov’é Firenze?!”

Ahhh…Florence! As our train pulled to a stop that afternoon, our anticipation mounted.  According to every guidebook and many friends’ accounts, we were about to experience one of the most beautiful cities in Italia…Firenze.

We had read that there were a number of rental car companies in the area near the train station.  Our plan was to spend the night in Florence and pick up a rental car in the morning so we could see the countryside in the light of day as we made our way to the farmhouse we had rented in Umbria.  Our one-week rental there started the following day.

Optimistic souls that we were, we bypassed the tourist help desk and made our way out of the train station, setting out on foot to explore the surrounding neighborhood to find a hotel for the night.  Our heavy luggage in tow quickly became an issue (three females, three weeks of travel…) as we made our way over the cobblestone streets surrounding the station.  Daylight left us all too soon and not only was it not especially pretty, I dare say, it seemed a bit sketchy. Where was the beautiful city we had heard so much about?  -Eh, dov’è?!

We made several expanding loops around the neighborhood, -laboring with our heavy suitcases while desperately trying not to look like the forlorn, unsophisticated tourists that we truly were.  We stopped in at each hotel we came across, only to learn that no rooms were left.  No vacancies – “Completo.”  It appeared that every hotel in the area was completely booked for the night.  We hadn’t thought of that possibility.  Maybe our concept of footloose and fancy-free “Let’s wing it…It’s-more-of-an-adventure.” travel wasn’t such a great idea after all.  Mostly, I was concerned about my mom.  Alex and I had signed up for this, but she had come on our invitation and was probably wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into.

 Eventually, we concluded we would need assistance.  Maybe the tourist help desk was not such a bad idea after all.  Defeated, we made our way back to the train station and took our place at the end of the line; a line that was still out the office door and well down the train station hall.

 

As we crept along ever-so-slowly, we were still concerned whether this was even the best course of action.  By now, it was quite late and there were many people still ahead of us.  Would there even be any rooms left after we waited this long?

 

It’s hard now to imagine a world without Internet cafes and cell phones, but they were much less commonplace at this time.  As far as cell phones go, it was still rare to have them in the states, let alone traveling abroad. (If you did have one, they were about the size of a briefcase.)  Further, the public phone systems in France and Italy were daunting.  It seemed each one worked different from the last, always requiring a code that we needed to know, but somehow always managed to get wrong.  Still, as we stood waiting in line we began to wonder if maybe one of us should try to find a phone and see if we could get through to a couple of places listed in our guidebook.  Maybe try the area near the Ponte Vecchio?  

 

Finally, a small group of German tourists were allowed inside the office doors and we perked up a bit.  We were next.  Everything was going to be okay.  A few more minutes passed and an agent came out of the office.  He at once looked apologetic, but resolute as he addressed us in a mix of Italian and English. “Stiamo Chiudendo. -We are closing for the evening. Mi dispiace. -I am sorry, but that is all.”

 

Our hearts sinking, we were turning to walk away when he put his hand on my shoulder. “Signorina. Miss. We will help you. You will be the last three.” and he motioned for us to step inside.

 

I swear I truly felt pangs in my heart for our fellow line-dwellers who were now left to their own devices.  That being said, my empathy was quickly overridden by the sheer joy we experienced at finally being inside those office doors.  At that point, all pride was gone and I did not care one little bit that our desperate, beleaguered appearance was probably why he couldn’t turn us away.  If given the same set of circumstances again, I would not hesitate to shove Alex in front of him with her big puppy dog eyes.  

 

Not to mention, it doesn’t hurt to be female when you need assistance.  That’s one thing we learned soon enough in Italy, -chivalry there is alive and well as far as we experienced.  Every time we turned around there was another male offering to help us.   Although we’re a family of stubborn, inordinately strong women by nature, I admit it was nice to know we could put our feminine wiles to use if needs be.  

 

After a few minutes of looking through index cards, followed by a couple of phone calls, he assigned us to a hotel not too far from the train station.  Once again, with luggage in tow but with our optimism renewed, we set out.

 

The front desk area (a small hallway of a room) was abuzz with people checking in.  We soon put together that the man there (who spoke a bit of English), was operating things under the direction of his loud Italian “mamma” at the other end of the desk. -A plump women with a perpetual scowl, her gray hair pulled back in a bun, she wore a floral dress and apron, more in keeping with images of the stereotypical Italian mamma in a Tuscan kitchen than the proprietor of a hotel in the middle of a bustling city.

Maybe she thought so, too, I speculated. Maybe she’d be in a better mood if she were in a cozy kitchen in the countryside…

 

“Adesso!  Vai!” -Now she was reprimanding him even more loudly.  It was in Italian…something about the fax.  Loosely translated, it sounded something like…

“The fax is not working! You gave me the wrong number! Listen! Listen to me. What number did you write down?! Go! Go!  Get the number.  Give it to me again. Hurry! I am waiting. I need the number!  Now! Go!”

He was grumbling under his breath, but still doing his best to keep up with her commands. He must have been in his late thirties or early forties, but he appeared to have resigned himself to no other life save performing his mother’s biddings.

 

Once we were over our initial shock, it really was more comical than anything.  I mean there was absolutely no pretending here.  No polite conversation….No “Welcome to our hotel.” or “How was your trip?” They had many people to accommodate and apparently not enough help to do it and everything (at least according to “Mamma”) was going wrong.

 

He hardly acknowledged us as he gave us our key and fired off directions to our room.  This was something new in and of itself.  We three blondes had been the center of attention everywhere we had been so far.  Every male in the country seemed to be aware of us save this guy who actually seemed more perturbed by our existence than anything.

 

The hotel wasn’t a huge building though, so we found our way easily enough and within a few minutes we were standing in front of our room door still chuckling at what had just transpired.  I worked the skeleton key and we stepped inside to a substantial sized room with at least 20′ high ceilings. Quite a surprise considering the overall size of the hotel or the fact that we had just ridden up -one at a time- on what must be the smallest elevator known to man. 

 

The room was minimally furnished with three single beds lined up in a row along one wall and a tile floor with a few old rugs scattered about.  Two large windows looked over the street below.  While it wasn’t the most opulent of accommodations, it was clean and the architecture of the room made up for the sparse bedding and rather unfortunate furniture choices someone had made.

 

The restaurant we selected for dinner was not too far from the hotel, as it turned out, although we felt lucky to have stumbled across it at all.  It was tucked away down a dimly lit walkway and flight of stairs and did not look too promising until we pulled back the heavy wooden doors.  Inside we were pleasantly suprised to find a warmly lit room with white linens and roses in delicately stemmed vases adorning the tables.  We looked at each other, realizing we were about to experience our first authentic Italian meal since we arrived, -Things were about to get serious!

 

For our aperitif, we decided to start with a bottle of spumante we enjoyed with a variety of breads and local olives and olive oil.  I could have made a meal of this alone, but we were only getting started.  The next course was a delicious pureed vegetable soup (a somewhat uncommon preparation there, I’m told), followed by a simple pasta comprised of mushroom ravioli with a very light cream sauce.  By this point, I was also enjoying a glass of the house wine; -a chianti recommended by our friendly (and very attentive) waiter.  For our main course, we had “Bistecca alla Fiorentina” that literally fell off from the bone, followed by a salad of various Tuscan beans.  We didn’t think we could eat another bite until an elaborate cheese tray was carted before us.  I selected a pecorino and a goat cheese and nibbled on these and figs while Alex and Gita shared a bowl of fruit and a small tiramisu.  All in all, it was the perfect meal and we commented how lucky we felt having discovered such a place on our first night.

 

It was near midnight when we finished and we were the last to leave the restaurant.  Our waiter, Carmine (a man who -despite the encumbrance of overly formal attire- seemed to have taken it upon himself to perpetuate the ideal in hospitality for which Italy is known), hugged us exuberantly and made us promise we would come back again one day. 

 

Normally, a nice walk would have been in order after such a feast, but our travel adventures thus far were dictating a good night’s rest.  This, coupled with the fact that we still weren’t sure about the neighborhood (whether it was wise for three females to be walking around this late at night), so we decided to head back to the hotel where we quickly settled in for the night.  

 

I must have fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The next thing I knew, the old-fashioned phone on the nightstand next to my head was ringing loudly. The room was still dark and it took me a moment to decide to answer it. Who would be calling us in the middle of the night? I picked up the over-sized receiver tentatively, “Hello?”

 

Someone immediately began yelling at me in Italian. I realized it was our charming desk clerk and I pieced together that he was telling me our check-out time had passed. “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. Okay. Okay.” and I hung up the phone. 

I explained to Alex and my mom what had just happened and Gita groped around and found her watch. She said she thought the time said 11 am, but we couldn’t believe it. It was still dark-as-night in our room and all of us had been in such a sound sleep. Gita is the type of person who rarely sleeps past six, so even if Al and I had slept in, she surely wouldn’t have… -We just couldn’t wrap our heads around the idea that we could have slept so soundly for so long.

I stumbled across the room, pulled back the drapes and opened the wooden shutters…sunlight and street noise spilled into the room. A minute, maybe two had gone by while we digested this when the phone rang again-

“Get out! Get out now!” he shouted, this time in English. That was enough to set us in motion. We hurried about, dressing and packing as fast as we possibly could.

We were still laughing about the experience over breakfast in a little bar near the hotel. After our repast comprised of an immensely satisfying coffee and pastries, we were full of energy and ready to tackle towing our luggage once again across the cobblestone streets. It was time we found the rental car companies we knew were in the area.

In the light of day, the alleyways seemed much less ominous than the night before. The narrow streets were full of other pedestrians now; and Vespas, bicycles, delivery trucks and various miniature automobiles were zipping past us. We realized we wouldn’t be seeing the famously beautiful aspects of Firenze in this particular neighborhood, but we did discover a number of architecturally interesting buildings and quaint cafes with tables spilling out onto the sidewalks. For now, it was enough to be immersed in the every day happenings of this city and absorb the sights, sounds and smells of another culture. -Everything was new and interesting.

After some walking and meandering about, we eventually found the street we were looking for only to find that every rental car office was either closed and/or had signs up saying they had no cars available.

We had read about (yet still not fully comprehended it would seem) the way businesses are run in Italy…specifically how they close for at least 2 hours midday and how they may elect to not be open at all on certain days. We were still in L.A. mode where a person can get virtually anything, any time, -day or night.  No. I’m sure we hadn’t fully embraced this Italian concept or we probably wouldn’t have dared hope to find a rental car agency open on a Saturday around 1 pm in the afternoon.

We had tried every place on the street. What were we going to do now? We stood there on the sidewalk for a moment looking at our guidebook map and discussing ideas when we looked up and noticed an open rental office across the street.  Had it appeared out of nowhere?!  We had just been up and down this street several times.  How could we have missed it?  To this day, we talk about how it seemed to have magically appeared out of thin air.

Incredibly, not only did the rental agency owner speak fluent English (he was born in New York but had been in Florence for 20 years), he was extraordinarily kind, -taking time to give us some helpful pointers and recommending what we should see and do and some restaurants we should try.

As it turned out, he only had one car left, but it was just the size we needed and he gave us a more-than-reasonable price. Once again, sheer joy was the only way to describe what we felt as we drove out of the parking structure and made our way out of the city.

It had been a veritable roller coaster ride since we arrived in France less than 48 hours ago. How many times in that short span had it looked like something wouldn’t work out and how many times had everything miraculously come together for us?

Although it was quite the initiation, we all agreed we wouldn’t have had it any other way. The basic necessities…the food we ate and the places we rested our heads at night became celebrations. We didn’t take the little luxuries or comforts for granted. They were hard-won rewards and we never slept better or relished our food more than we did those first few days in Europe.

 

If the boot fits…(Part V) -or- “Call of the Wild”

 

Driving through the Tuscan countryside was thrilling; -One beautiful vista after another…from the tree-covered hills to the patchwork of fields, -The regal cypress trees adding their signature Italian panache to the scene.  It was an endless stack of picture postcards…impossible to settle on a favorite, as each one just seemed to surpass the last.

The views out our picture window on the train from Paris to Florence had given us one perspective, but having our own car and the freedom to explore at our own pace was truly wonderful. As we continued to make our way to the farmhouse we had rented in Umbria, we stopped to take in the local ambience whenever the impulse struck us:  -A quaint little village for gelato; an abandoned farmhouse overrun with wildflowers…an outdoor market with an array of local fare.

For me, the most intriguing aspect of this country is the history ensconced in the architecture; whether it’s a simple farmhouse or the most elaborate cathedral.   I love seeing the ancient stone structures jutting up proudly against the horizon as you drive through the countryside.   And there is nothing better than venturing off the “beaten path” to discover the remains of an old abandoned structure or (if you are really lucky) maybe even an entire hamlet.  I can just feel the creative energy of the ages in Italy; -It emanates from the stones.

After hours in the car exploring and making our way through Tuscany to Umbria, we were more-than-ready to see our home for the week. While our plane, train and automobile adventures had been fun thus far, nothing was sounding better to us at this point than the peace and quiet of our country farmhouse and the opportunity to just “be” for one whole week with no luggage in-tow and nothing to worry about. 

We had been weaving our way up and over this seemingly endless mountain pass for the last hour and a half and were just coming out of the last of the switchbacks when we caught a glimpse of the valley below.  Alex was reading the instructions from the manager again. We were to find a specific bar in San Leo Bastia and use their phone to call the owners.  Someone would meet us there with the key. 

As it turned out, San Leo Bastia was comprised of just two bars and one other rather non-descript building, so this was not a difficult task and in no time we had placed the call to the owner.  While we waited for him to arrive, we wandered into a little room attached to the bar, -a petite general store of sorts. We found it quite charming that they had just one loaf of crusty home-made bread for sale that the woman cut a portion from for us as we indicated how much we would like.  It felt as though we had stepped back in time about a hundred years.

We didn’t have to wait long and soon we had our key in hand along with the remaining directions to our house.  It was up a hill we could see in the distance, about 4 kilometers to the north.  It would require a bit of a drive up more winding roads, but nothing compared to the tenuous mountain pass we had just endured.  The opportunity to stretch our legs combined with the prospect of getting to see our new abode had revived us and renewed our enthusiasm and so we didn’t waste any time in heading out.  By now, the shadows of evening were creeping across the valley and I realized it would have been much more difficult to find our way on these back country roads after dark had we arrived any later.  I silently thanked our good fortune for having made it to San Leo Bastia when we had. 

As we wound our way up the hill, we realized more and more just how secluded the property had to be.  We would enjoy very few neighbors during our stay; that was for sure.  Branching off here and there were smaller dirt roads from the one we were on and every-so-often we would catch a glimpse of a house tucked back in the trees.  Mostly though, we were met with densely tree covered hills with intermittent views of farmland stretching across the valley down below.

About halfway up, we passed a cluster of old houses so close to the road Alex could have reached her arm out the car window and run her hand along the stone as we passed.  I slowed down to a crawl for fear that any moment someone would open up their front door and step into our path or that a small child might come running after a ball.  An older woman was standing near the road with her laundry basket full of linens; most likely just bringing them in from a day in the mountain air and sunshine.  She waited for us to pass, looking intently into the car as though taking in every detail of us for later identification.

Finally, we spied the sign on the fence we were looking for.  Turning left, I coasted down the gravel drive and pulled to a stop in front of what would be our house for the next seven days:  “Casa Corgiano.”  Sitting dramatically alone atop the hill with the setting sun behind it, the 500 year old farmhouse did not disappoint.  We alit from the car to take it all in. 

Comprised of stone, the house had been only partially renovated, leaving much of the original aspects of the structure intact.  It was common for the animals to be housed under the living area of the home and this area was still as it would have been back in the day. There were carriage doors on the ground level where the horses would have been guided in and several different stalls for various other animals the owners would have brought in for the night or harbored there during inclement weather.

Once inside, we were thrilled to see they had retained much of the authentic materials throughout…the large stone fireplaces and old stone floors and walls. The windows were new, but done well with wooden panes that opened in and solid wood shutters that opened out and fastened to the exterior with large hand-forged hooks and rings.

We were on the top floor and had a total of 4 bedrooms available to us including a tower room, a large living/dining room area, a relatively small kitchen and 2 bathrooms. On the entrance level, just off the main foyer, there was a large kitchen we could have used, but we determined it was much more convenient to stay contained on just one floor.  There was also a finished apartment on the far end that was locked and closed off from us, though no one would be there during our stay.  We had already been informed that the house and grounds were ours alone for the entire week.

There was more to explore; -One whole side of the house had not been renovated and looked as though it had gone untouched for hundreds of years…it was crumbling and in ruin and I looked forward to walking through whatever part of it I could get to.  Some of it looked accessible, but other parts were boarded up with old wooden planks nailed across the door frame.  I peered through the cracks of one such doorway, but it was too dark to make out anything except the outline of what appeared to be an old hutch.  I determined any further explorations would have to wait.  It was getting late and we decided to get settled in for the night.

After a delicious light supper of bread, olive oil and fresh sweet tomatoes, we were unpacking and deciding where we would sleep.  Alex and I elected to take the room with two twin beds so we could give Gita the most grand of the bedrooms down the hall from us with the queen size bed.

The room we were in had a crib and other items stored in it and so I moved these out and into a bedroom we wouldn’t be using. We found extra blankets and pillows stored in an interesting old armoire at the far end of another hall. We lit candles and thoroughly enjoyed taking our time putting our belongings away and making each space “our own.”

Once we decided to turn in for the night, Alex read for a few minutes, but then was sound asleep in no time.  I, however, took a bit longer to drift off.  As thrilled as I was to be in this ancient house, I have to admit, I was also a little spooked.

There was a hole in the wall right over the top of my headboard and as I turned off the table lamp, I thought of it again.  I had pointed it out to Alex earlier and joked that maybe we would see an eye peering back at us.  Although I was now in bed well below where someone could see me, the idea of someone being on the other side of the wall in the unfinished portion of the house, seemed suddenly quite feasible.  I silently debated this point for some time.

Finally, still chiding myself for being so ridiculous, -I gave up. The inane side of me won. I got out of bed, found a piece of paper…rolled it up…and plugged up the hole.

There! That will show “him” –(that slasher/ghost/ne’er-do-well of whatever variety.)

I scoffed at myself, fully realizing how ludicrous it was, but also knowing it made me feel better somehow.  I suppose it falls into the same category as keeping all your body parts under the covers when you were a child.  No hanging your hands over the side either.  As long as you keep everything within the confines of the bed and particularly if you keep them covered up, you’ll be fine.

Back in bed, I listened to the creaks and moans of the old house and the wind causing branches to gently scratch the windows now and again.  I continued devising plausible explanations for each new sound until –eventually- I did drift off to sleep. (Making sure all body parts were well within the confines of the bed and under the covers, of course.)

Suddenly, I was awake with a start. What in the world was that noise? Was I dreaming?  I held my breath and listened intently, wondering if I had imagined it or not.  Just then, it came again, “Aaaarrrgghhh.”

Someone or some thing was moaning.  It was awful.  Like a wolf baying at the moon, yet it sounded throatier or more guttural and it wasn’t coming from outside. It was definitely inside the house. I reached over and nudged Alex. “Alex. Are you awake? Did you hear that?”

“What? Huh?…NO.” Then it came again and Alex’s eyes flew open. We both stayed still waiting to see if it would come again.

“Aarroooohhh.” There it was again! Alex looked at me, her eyes large as saucers.

“Let’s go get Gita!”  I whispered and started moving towards the door. –Whatever this was, I wanted us to be together.

Alex hesitated, afraid to move, but then quickly bolted from her bed as I started towards the door, motioning for her to follow.

There, we found ourselves confronted by the pitch-black hallway.  I quickly scanned for dark forms in the opposite direction; –then we made a run for it…sprinting on tip-toe as fast as we could go across the cold stone floors down the hall to Gita’s room.

Just inside her bedroom door, the awful noise came again, “Aarroooohhh!” and just as quickly, I realized it was coming from her!  My heart stopped.

 “Mommy?!” I exclaimed rushing to her side.

“Oh.  Was that me?” she said, sitting up and looking at both us sheepishly. Then with an embarrassed little chuckle, she cleared her throat and struggled to explain to us what she had been dreaming. “I…I… was dreaming I was a dog…but it was also something to do with an alarm clock.   I think I was worried I would sleep in and not wake you up in the morning.”

I was still shaken, but also laughing with relief.  Before we had gone to bed, we had talked about what we wanted to do in the morning saying we should get up fairly early so we could get more groceries back in San Leo and have the rest of the day to explore.  Gita was the only one with a watch and there was no clock in the house, so Alex and I had teased her saying it was her job to make sure we all didn’t sleep in late like we just had that morning in Florence.

As we talked, we all confessed that we had felt a bit jittery before going to bed.   We didn’t want to say anything for fear of making anyone else nervous.    

“By the way, -What was with the, ‘Mommy?!” Alex asked me, laughing.

“What?” I said. Then I heard it replay in my head and realized I had, indeed said “Mommy” when I rushed to her side thinking something dreadful was happening to her.  I have always called her “Mom” for as long as I can remember. I probably hadn’t said “Mommy” since I was a toddler.  It was an interesting revelation.

The next morning over breakfast Gita swore us to secrecy, laughing heartily with us, but still flushing from embarrassment that her daughter and grand-daughter had come rushing in to find her “howling at the moon.”  Driving out to explore for the day, all it took was for Alex to make a little whimpering dog noise under her breath to set us laughing to the point of tears again.  –Good times.

It was amazing to realize that we had only been in Europe three days and we had already experienced so much; -particularly unexpected was the wide range of emotions we had covered in such a short period of time.  I felt like I had gone through everything from the depths of complete exhaustion and frustration to the heights of elated joy and back again; –Even a dose of night terror with a bit of childhood regression thrown in for good measure.  My stomach hurt from laughing at yet another round of Alex imitating Gita’s “night calls” and I wondered what surprises the remaining 18 days might have in store for us.