As I mentioned in the last post, my wife and I were headed off last week for a “bucket list” vacation to the Tuscan region of Italy.  It truly was one of the best weeks of our lives, and I hope to relay some sense of our adventure to you in the coming weeks.  I’ll focus on one day of our trip in each post, and I hope you’ll come along for the ride.

Day 1:  Getting There is Part of the Adventure

We left Dulles on a Friday evening, settling in for a seven hour flight to Brussels, followed by a 90 minute flight to Florence.  Here are just a few of my observations about the experience and/or the state of today’s air travel:

• I still love to “people watch” at an airport. So many different people – all with a different reason for traveling “to and fro”.  Some are going home, some are off on business – I’m fascinated by the potential stories.
• Sometimes, I’m a little apprehensive about flying (especially as I grow older), but I was confident for these flights for two reasons.

1. I saw a nun checking in for our flight. What could possibly go wrong with a nun on board?
2. I had on my “Batman” underwear. Nothing bad happens to me while wearing my “Batman” underwear.

• Why do I always get the furthest gate at the airport? “C-3” sounds deceptively close, right?    I swear I could hear the ocean from the terminal following our forced march out to the departing gate.
• I am amazed at how much air travel has deteriorated over the years. Flying used to be a treat, an enjoyable mode of transportation people would dress up for – or at least not look like they just finished their last ten reps at the gym and then raced to the jetway in a sweaty heap.
• Economy class on a trans-Atlantic flight just plain stinks. Nine people across, with rows so narrow I could easily braid the hair of the person two seats in front of me.
• Why does everyone feel the need to bring as much carry-on luggage as is humanly possible? I swear I don’t know how these overhead compartments remain closed during a flight.  That’s a lot of trust for a fifty cent hinge.
• Airline food has also taken a turn for the worse in recent years, yet we all greedily tucked into our free meals like prisoners on a chain gang. We were also served a wine so harsh and with such long legs that I swear it came in third at last year’s Boston marathon. Yeeesh.
• Traveling west to east is always the hardest (jet lag-wise). I tried to sleep on the plane, but sleep did not come.  There would be no night for us until later, as it is now morning as we catch up with the sun over Europe.  Bring on the coffee.
• There was no typical “Section 1”, “Section 2”, etc. boarding process in Brussels. Just one announcement and then a free-for-all to get on the plane, but – this being Europe, it somehow works itself out.
• I haven’t gotten out of a plane directly onto the tarmac that often in my life (Hagerstown’s regional airport being a standout exception), but now add Florence to the list. You’d think “Florence – probably a big airport”, but you’d be mistaken.  It is a small regional hub.  I felt like we had flown into Harrisburg, PA.

After getting our bags and bearings, it was off to get our rental car.  The place was a zoo, and all the rental car companies were issuing their cars from the same small building, so the lines were out the door.  I was “upgraded” to the next level of car (due to shortages), and instead of getting a tiny, Italian car I was presented with a six-speed, manual transmission, Ford Focus station wagon.  It looked like a Mennonite hearse.  I punched the coordinates for our destination into the dashboard GPS (at which time I also accidentally turned on the radio – and then couldn’t figure out how to turn it off), and with the annoying sounds of Italian top-40 radio blaring in the background, we slid into Italian traffic and headed south towards Tuscany.

You may have heard a lot of bad things about Italian drivers.  They recklessly speed, change lanes, ride the bumper of the car in front of them, flash their headlights, pass on blind curves and hills, and other infractions.

It’s all true.

It was quite a trip navigating out of Florence.  Add in the fact that I was re-learning how to drive a stick shift and the next two hours were definitely a full day’s worth of adventure (and we were approaching the 30-hour mark of being awake).

As we finally got off of the highway and onto the talked-about winding back roads of central Italy, the scenery became more and more impressive.  Every hill was dotted with the orange, terra-cotta roof tiles of small towns, lone villas, or outbuildings.  Tall cypress tress stood as sentinels along roads that snaked back and forth along the hillsides.  Long rows of grape vines neatly divided the slopes, and groves of gnarled olive trees covered the valleys.  Every turn of the road revealed another picture-postcard view.  It was overwhelming.

We finally pulled into the tiny medieval town of Castelmuzio, our home base for the next week.  I placed a phone call to Isabella, our host and proprietor of our lodgings, and she assured us that someone would be over straight away to get us settled.

 

In about fifteen minutes, a white, range rover-type vehicle pulled up and out popped one of the most endearing souls I have ever met.

Her name was Carlotta.  Born and raised in Tuscany, she assists Isabella at the Agriturismo (a farm with rooms for rent) and the apartment where we were staying.  Hair pulled back and with a smile as wide as the valley we were gazing at behind her, Carlotta greeted us like old friends, got us situated in our apartment, and took some time to get to know us.

She told us about the apartment, she told us about the town, and she told us about herself – all in perfectly Italian-accented English – with various Italian phrases thrown in (“Mama Mia!”, “Benne”,”Ay – Madonna!” , etc.).  She is the kind of person one instantly likes – a person one feels like they’ve known all their lives.

Carlotta was the icing on the cake for an apartment that exceeded even my wildest dreams.

Housed in a three-story building, the outside baked a beautiful tan from literally centuries in the sun, an arched double-door opened to a descending staircase.  An upstairs apartment occupied the upper floor, but our home-away-from-home was downstairs.  At the base of the stairs was a door that led to a secluded outdoor patio.  The outer perimeter was lined with craggy stone walls and blooming vines that clung to its exterior surface.  Assorted herb pots dotted the patio, which was covered with tiny pea gravel that gently crunched underfoot.  The thing we noticed right away was the silence.  It is deathly quiet, save for the occasional chirping of birds.

Back in the landing, a small glass door opens into a sunken kitchen and dining room area.  The far wall arches over the stove and sink, and an old wooden table is filled with a bounty of fresh vegetables, dried meats, cheeses, bread, nuts, baked goods, and wine.  The fridge is stocked with fresh eggs, water, beer, and yogurt.  There’s also coffee and tea for the mornings.

In the adjoining room, a luxurious four-poster bed awaits, its comforter holding a pair of freshly-pressed bathrobes, slippers, dried flowers, and chocolates.  An antique armoire will hold all of our clothes and luggage.  The bathroom is fully appointed with large, thirsty towels, soaps, shampoos, and more dried flowers (there are even fresh daisy blooms in the toilet).

Homemade guidebooks filled with day-treks, driving directions, and local restaurant reviews are here for our use during the week.  They’ve even provided us with a cell phone to use, should we need it.  All I can say is “wow.”  This level of service and commitment comes around once or twice in a lifetime.  We intend to enjoy every minute of it – after a well-earned rest (as we’ve now been up for over 36 hours).

After a brief four-hour nap, we both awoke at midnight.  We donned our bathrobes and slippers, opened a bottle of wine, and sat on the patio, relishing each other’s company.  Leigh and I talked in whispers, not wanting to wake our neighbors as we sipped wine under the stars.  The stillness of the late night was only broken by the rhythmic snoring of someone a few houses away.

It was a heck of a first day.

 

NEXT WEEK:  Day 2 – Orientation at the Agriturismo and our First Wine Tasting