“Don’t snap at me,” she retorted. “Why don’t you stop at this gas station and ask directions?”
“First, it’s closed. Second, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in Italy. They speak Italian; we don’t.”
“I’m sure they understand English,” she said. “My friends told me everyone speaks English in Italy.”
“Your friends were on a seniors’ coach tour,” I reminded her. “They only visited places that get a deluge of English-speaking tourists.”
The farther we drove, the less sure I was of where we were. We followed signs to a five-star resort that was deserted except for a suspicious-looking man who was wandering the grounds. I collared him nonetheless. He spoke less English than I speak Italian, but I got the gist of what he was saying, and in short order we arrived at a road that got us on the right track.
Then we got lost again.
“There’s a place that’s open. Ask directions,” said Mom.
“No. I don’t like the look of that place.”
“Look, there’s a gas station that’s open. Just pull in there, and I’ll ask.”
“No!”
“Honestly, I’ve never met anyone so stubborn! You’re just like your father.”
“Put on your bloody seat belt.”
“I’m not going to wear it; it’s uncomfortable.”
“It’s the law, Mother. Put it on.”
“Fine. It’s on.”
“No, it isn’t. Can’t you hear that beeping noise? It tells you the seat belt is not buckled. Do it up now!”
And so it continued for many, many miles. Jet lag and exhaustion had pushed aside any semblance of civility.
We eventually found the correct turnoff and then travelled an interminable distance in silence to the town of Locoro-tondo. In a small square with four or five roads emanating from it, I stopped another lone wolf wandering the darkened streets and asked for directions. He grabbed my map and proceeded to weave uncontrollably until a whiff of alcohol invaded my senses. I snatched back the map.
“See? This is what happens when you ask strangers,” I barked at Mom.
“Why don’t you just call someone?” Mom suggested.
“On what?”
“Your cell phone.”
“I don’t have a cell phone.”
“You seem to have money for everything else, why wouldn’t you buy a cell phone?” she huffed.
I dislike cell phones—their omnipresence, their tinny rings, the tyranny of their billing plans, the lack of etiquette they encourage in their users. I am distressed by how quickly they have been gobbled up by a culture too afraid to be caught alone and silent for ten minutes. And those claims of benign electromagnetic activity? Nonsense.
It was well past midnight when we found the town hall, the prearranged rendezvous point with a property manager who would guide us to our accommodation.
Mom and I were barely on speaking terms.
“Give him hell for not meeting us at the airport,” Mom demanded as our car jerked to a stop in the parking lot and a tall man, who I assumed was the property manager, approached us. “What kind of an outfit is this, anyway?”
I had no energy left to berate anyone. Besides, it is one thing to rant like a lunatic to my mother, and quite another to do so to a complete stranger. Not that I haven’t, but I wisely bit my lip now. And a good thing: the very tall, muscular guy walking toward us looked like he was in a bad mood, too.
I rolled down the window and murmured a greeting. This man’s name was Chris, and he was a transplanted Brit. On Chris’s instructions we followed him in our car out of the dimly lit town into a black countryside of narrow, winding, bumpy roads. This went on for quite some time, long enough for me to wonder whether we were being taken somewhere to be murdered.
The road wound around low walls of stucco and stone that almost grazed our car. By North American standards our rented car would be considered a small-to-midsize vehicle, but by Italian standards it was a boat. My murder fantasy was replaced by a more practical concern: Had I read the damages clause of our car rental agreement?
The car stalled several times as we ascended a steep, curving driveway that led up to the trullo we had rented. I spit out a few expletives. Mom said nothing, but from the set of her jaw it was clear that her annoyance was inching up. It was hard to imagine two grumpier visitors to Italy.
We parked the car and struggled out of our seats.
“How do you undo this damn thing?” said Mom, yanking with mighty irritation at her seat belt.
Chris was already at the front door of the trullo, fumbling in the dark with a large ring of door keys.
“You’ll find that these are a bit of a pain,” he said with a frustrated sigh as he made several attempts at the keyhole.
Finally, one of the keys did the trick, and Chris pushed open the door.
With a flick of a light switch our mood changed. The trullo was truly gorgeous, even better than the Web site photos had indicated. Whitewashed stone interior walls soared to domed ceilings; shiny terra-cotta tiles lay on the diagonal; niches of varying sizes and shapes—some used as windows, others to store knickknacks, books, and dvds—were cut into the wall. Broad archways marked the passageways to rooms. The wood trims around the doors and window frames were stained a dark brown. The living room, in which we stood, was furnished with black leather sofas and natural pine tables and dressers. I noticed a fireplace in a small alcove off the living room.
“You can’t use that, I’m afraid,” said Chris, following my eyes. “Not sure whether it works all that well.”
Instead, he gave me a quick rundown of the heating system and the locking mechanisms of the shuttered doors, and then incredibly convoluted instructions for operating the vcr/dvd/ satellite t v console, instructions that evaporated in my jet-lagged brain. Even in an alert and rested state, I am unable to retain information when it involves mastering more than the basics of modern electronics.
He deposited a superintendent’s quantity of keys into my palm—every door in the place had two locks, and the front door had three—then he bade us good-night and disappeared into the blackness.
I watched the taillights of his little car recede down the driveway and then reappear on the opposite hill. A wave of panic shot through me when I realized that not only did I not have his phone number in case of an emergency, the trullo itself did not have a phone.
Mom had headed off to inspect the washroom facilities, and I wandered around to check out the rest of the trullo.
I found a small bedroom with twin beds off the front room, part of the original structure. The back section of the trullo, however, was a completely modern addition consisting of two bedrooms—each with a queen-sized bed, and one (which Mom had claimed) with an ensuite—a kitchen with a small laundry room, and a second bathroom, all connected by a hall. Doors opened from the bedrooms and kitchen to the rear patio and an hourglass-shaped inground pool.
I poked around the kitchen, opening cupboard doors and drawers. Provisions had thoughtfully been left for us—pasta, tomato sauce, fresh cheese, crusty Italian bread, olive oil, salad greens, tomatoes, beer. And two bottles of wine, one of which—the red—I opened and immediately drained by half.
Mom and I sank into the black leather sofas in the front room.
“Well, here’s to Italy and our adventure,” she said, jubilantly raising her glass to mine.
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