My first trip to Europe was nearly over. My head was full of historical facts, trivia and hundreds of mental images of everything I had seen during my two-week stay. It was time to return to my "real life" where client projects, meetings, packing, moving and Wal-Mart awaited me. I regretted not having planned for a longer stay but time and money rather than desire had dictated those terms.
After the harrowing airport experience I had upon my arrival in Europe, I was dreading the return trip and Running Man (RM) knew it. He had a brilliant idea. I would bypass the first leg of my journey in Trieste and board my plane in Rome. Of course, that required a nine-hour drive from Slovenia, then he would have an additional nine hours added to his drive back to France. But RM, wanting to make my life easier despite making his more difficult, insisted. After all, he told me, I wanted to see Tuscany so I could at least see it as we drove through it.
It took us longer than anticipated to pack up the car so we started our long drive to Rome a little later than planned. RM had made reservations at a hotel near the airport. We'd check in then go somewhere close for some great pasta before turning in early to get some sleep before a 4:30 a.m., wake-up call.
As we drove toward Rome, RM was in his element. His years as a professional tour guide, his ability to remember a plethora of facts, figures and dates and his unquestionable gift of gab would make the trip pass quickly. The weather, however, would not.
Just past Venice, it started to rain. By Florence, it was pouring so hard that traffic on the motorway was crawling, heavy with truckers. I couldn't see much of Tuscany through the downpour and it would be dark long before we reached Rome. Those trips would have to wait for another day.
We made a few stops to go to the bathroom, refuel, get a bite to eat for lunch. No McDonald's or D.Q.s here. When you found a place to eat, it was a self-service major buffet.We were also stopping because I had a mission -- to take home a bottle of Prosecco for my brother and sister-in-law's first anniversary as a gift for their hospitality before and after my trip.
Getting off the motorway in Italy isn't like taking an exit off the Interstate in the U.S. When you exit, you first pay a toll then find yourself on a road that leads in only one direction. Finding a place to turn around and get back on the motorway is, well, a challenge. What can be a 10-minute detour from the Interstate in the States might be a 25-minute ordeal in Europe.
It was dark and still raining when we happened upon a wine and dessert bar in some little village somewhere in Italy. It was packed with people who apparently had nothing else to do but eat and drink and we were in a hurry. I selected a bottle of prosecco which the proprietor wrapped and bagged beautifully. The Italians really do have style. We hit the motorway again.
By the time we reached the outskirts of Rome, it was 11:30 at night. The only thing I could see were the lights atop the city's seven hills. RM was tired of driving. I was tired of sitting in the car, and we were both sad about my impending departure. I kept telling myself I would feel better once we got to the hotel, had a nice glass of wine and a little something to eat. The plan for a long, relaxing meal had been washed way hours ago.
To find the hotel, RM had plugged in the address on his French-speaking TomTom. He called her, "Natasha" and Natasha was completely and utterly lost. Apparently, there were some new roads in Rome that hadn't yet made it into her programming. I learned quickly how to say, "Make a u-turn at your first opportunity" in French. RM isn't one of those guys who will drive and drive rather than ask for directions. In fact, he stopped not once, not twice but four times to ask for directions. He received four completely different sets of directions and none of them took us to the hotel.
Europe likes it roundabouts -- those circles where four streets meet and you wait for your turn to enter the two-lane circle and drive around it at a high rate of speed, looking for street names on signs that point you in the right direction. In theory, it should be quite clear which of the four streets you take from the roundabout. In Italy, that wasn't the case. By the time we'd driven around and around and around the same roundabout for the fifth time, I think we were both ready to cry. RM called the hotel again to tell them where we were and to ask them how to get there. This wasn't his first attempt with this strategy; we just hoped it would be successful this time. Finally, after 1:30 in the morning, we found the tiny hotel with a tiny sign facing a tiny street somewhere near the airport in Rome. The tiny little plane in Trieste was starting to look really, really good to me.
Exhausted and hungry, we asked about food. They didn't have a restaurant and nothing was open at this time of night. Fine, no food. Thank goodness we had our own bottle of wine we'd brought from Slovenia. There was also one of those "honor bars" in the room with one can of beer, a bottle of water, two candy bars and a small can of Pringles. Yep, those potato chips stacked in a can. RM and I burst into laughter. You see, a good friend of mine, whom RM had met in the States, had been on the team that invented Pringles. It was, of course, a photo opportunity.
Tired, wet and looking like hell, we posed with the can and smiles on our faces.
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