I’m not sure if it’s the proper usage, but that’s how Google Translate described my first day in Italy.
“A blur.”
Jet travel is hell on your sense of time and space. Especially so this trip, when we had a 7-hour layover in Chicago before a 9-hour flight, then 3 hours of rental car bureaucracy followed by a 2 ½ hour drive. Then, what the hell, let’s go to a festival until near midnight!
We had a choice of trying to make a connection from our Columbia-Chicago hop flight to our main flight to Italy in 40 minutes or in 7 hours. At my age, terminal sprints can be terminal, so we chose to wait it out, but bought a day-pass to American’s comfortable Admiral’s Club. Lots of great food and comfortable chairs, but it was a less-than-perfect prep for a long “night” in an airline seat.
The flight was as expected – marginal comfort, marginal food, very marginal sleep. But our plane actually arrived a half-hour early and amazingly, we breezed through Italian customs.
Not that our luck counted for anything at the rental car counter. We had reserved a car for noon and the saleswoman-clerk said that unless we wanted to upgrade to a bigger car (hint, hint), that’s when we were going to get it.
But we are retirees and know what to do with time on our hands. Eat. And fortunately, the Rome airport had a pizza parlor to weep for.
But eventually we were packed into our cute little Fiat Panda, following Google Maps north to a town that barely shows on any map.
I don’t know why I was surprised, but the trip up the coast from Rome looked almost exactly like driving the inland route off the California coast – golden-dry grass dotted with sturdy trees (stone pines rather than live oaks) and low stucco buildings. California’s Mediterranean climate really is just that.
But like California, Italy gets greener as you go north and more so as you gain altitude. Boccheggiano is just 38 kilometers (24 miles) from the sea but quickly rises 675 meters (2,215 feet). Once you leave the coast highway, it makes that climb on twisted roads that scream for a sportscar. For obvious reasons, “Panda” is not a sportscar name.
Entering Boccheggiano was breathtaking for us even without the altitude. It’s gorgeous. And there to meet us was daughter Gillian, her husband Will, daughter Evelyn and her friend Nata. It had been Gillian’s dream to buy an Italian house, a dream she easily roped us into. Gillian, Cecile and Evelyn went to Tuscany last summer and discovered Boccheggiano and an enthusiastic realtor named Giulio Martini. The rest is quickly becoming history.
Gillian and family had been in Italy about two weeks and would share a few days with us before returning to Oregon. They were excitedly ready to show us all the Italian wonders they had discovered.
It had been about 40 hours since we rolled out of bed in Columbia. But, as Gillian pointed out, the Medieval festival in nearby Massa Marittima happens only twice a year. So, we bundled into our tiny cars, swished over the winding roads and arrived in time to pack the courtyard as people have been doing annually for hundreds of years.
La vita è molto bella.
“A blur.”
Jet travel is hell on your sense of time and space. Especially so this trip, when we had a 7-hour layover in Chicago before a 9-hour flight, then 3 hours of rental car bureaucracy followed by a 2 ½ hour drive. Then, what the hell, let’s go to a festival until near midnight!
The flight was as expected – marginal comfort, marginal food, very marginal sleep. But our plane actually arrived a half-hour early and amazingly, we breezed through Italian customs.
Not that our luck counted for anything at the rental car counter. We had reserved a car for noon and the saleswoman-clerk said that unless we wanted to upgrade to a bigger car (hint, hint), that’s when we were going to get it.
But we are retirees and know what to do with time on our hands. Eat. And fortunately, the Rome airport had a pizza parlor to weep for.
But eventually we were packed into our cute little Fiat Panda, following Google Maps north to a town that barely shows on any map.
I don’t know why I was surprised, but the trip up the coast from Rome looked almost exactly like driving the inland route off the California coast – golden-dry grass dotted with sturdy trees (stone pines rather than live oaks) and low stucco buildings. California’s Mediterranean climate really is just that.
But like California, Italy gets greener as you go north and more so as you gain altitude. Boccheggiano is just 38 kilometers (24 miles) from the sea but quickly rises 675 meters (2,215 feet). Once you leave the coast highway, it makes that climb on twisted roads that scream for a sportscar. For obvious reasons, “Panda” is not a sportscar name.
Entering Boccheggiano was breathtaking for us even without the altitude. It’s gorgeous. And there to meet us was daughter Gillian, her husband Will, daughter Evelyn and her friend Nata. It had been Gillian’s dream to buy an Italian house, a dream she easily roped us into. Gillian, Cecile and Evelyn went to Tuscany last summer and discovered Boccheggiano and an enthusiastic realtor named Giulio Martini. The rest is quickly becoming history.
Gillian and family had been in Italy about two weeks and would share a few days with us before returning to Oregon. They were excitedly ready to show us all the Italian wonders they had discovered.
It had been about 40 hours since we rolled out of bed in Columbia. But, as Gillian pointed out, the Medieval festival in nearby Massa Marittima happens only twice a year. So, we bundled into our tiny cars, swished over the winding roads and arrived in time to pack the courtyard as people have been doing annually for hundreds of years.
The Balestro del Girifalco features a crossbow competition between historical neighborhoods. Before the amazing archers, however, each district stages an incredible performance of flag-tossing ancient pageantry. It’s sort of a Renaissance breakdance slam.
By 11 p.m., the day had truly become a blur. Trying to navigate those twisting roads in the dark woke me up just enough to get home, have something to eat and collapse. With a smile on my face.
By 11 p.m., the day had truly become a blur. Trying to navigate those twisting roads in the dark woke me up just enough to get home, have something to eat and collapse. With a smile on my face.
La vita è molto bella.
No comments:
Post a Comment