Alberobello, Martina Franca, Locorotondo
Rain was hammering the slate tiles of the trullo’s roof when my eyes opened the next morning.
I threw off the bedcovers, scrambled out of bed, pulled open the heavy wooden shuttered doors, and peeked through the glass. Fat drops were pinging, staccato-like, off the patio and the pool.
I unlocked then opened the door to embrace the warm Italian air, and a bitter blast of cold—colder than I had experienced over a lifetime of Canadian winters—shot into the room. I gasped and slammed the door shut.
I glanced at the floor, where the contents of my opened suitcase flopped over the edges, exposing their unsuitability: two bathing suits, capri pants, long gauzy skirts, sleeveless tops, strappy sandals. What was lacking were thick sweaters, wool socks, hip waders, mittens, and a hot water bottle.
I pulled on the only sweater I had packed—an oversized, sickly pale green garment with a deep V-neck, which I had thrown in at the last minute—and wandered down the hall to the living room. Peering out a small window past the rain and the dissipating fog, I was alarmed at how high up on a hill we actually were. The driveway wound frighteningly into an abyss and then rose up a sharply steep, rut-infested incline. It looked impossible to scale by foot, much less car. I could not believe I had driven that road in the dark without screaming in fear.
I padded off to Mom’s room.
“Well, it’s not the best day to start a holiday, is it?” said Mom as she peeked out from under a thick layer of bedcovers.
“Has the rain stopped?”
“I’m sure it’ll clear up soon,” I said with assurance. “This is southern Italy, after all. Let’s go into town.”
She did not seem pleased by this suggestion.
“Why?” she pouted.
“Because we just arrived in Italy,” I said impatiently. “Aren’t you curious to see the area? I’ll put on the kettle.”
She didn’t say another word and gamely struggled out of bed.
As we chowed down slices of a toasted baguette and tea in the kitchen, we could hear the low rumble of distant thunder.
“What time did you want to leave?” asked Mom.
“Now,” I answered. “Is that ok?”
“Well, no,” she replied primly. “It takes me a bit of time to get moving.”
“OK, how about five minutes?”
She winced.
“A bit longer than that. What I meant is that it takes me a while to get moving. ”
“Oh, right,” I said, catching the euphemism.
“I’ll let you know,” she said, and toddled unsteadily toward the bathroom.
I waited. And waited. Her morning ablutions took longer than my teenage daughter’s. I passed the time flipping through an English-Italian phrasebook.
My absolute favorite Italian word is “andiamo!” which translates into “let’s go!” It has such energy, enthusiasm, and optimism. When I am feeling full of vigor and anticipation I will say, “Andiamo!” I just love the sound of that word. I had the feeling that I would be using it a lot on this trip, but not in a good way.
An hour later Mom emerged from her bedroom, startling me out of a nap.
“OK, I think I’m ready,” she said. “Now, where did I put my glasses?”
Four more minutes.
She located her glasses and began rummaging through her purse.
“I was sure I had some Kleenex in my purse. Oh, where is it? Would you mind grabbing me some from the bathroom?”
One minute.
“I need my puffer. Let’s see. Maybe it’s in my purse.”
She conducted a forensic audit of the contents of her purse.
“Yes, I think it’s there. Yes. There it is. I really should clean out my purse.”
Two minutes.
“Now, do you think I should bring my cane or my walker?
Well, the walker is in the car anyway, isn’t it? I’ll bring both.
What else am I forgetting?”
“That I am impatient, perhaps?” I ventured.
She paused in the middle of the room, put a finger to her lips, and stared at the floor as her brain scanned the possibilities.
Two more minutes.
She suddenly straightened up and beamed, “Well, whatever it is, it can’t be that important.”
She shuffled to the front door and continued through it out onto the patio and toward the car. This all took another three minutes.
I followed her and paused at the door to find the right key to lock up. Three more minutes.
“What’s keeping you?!” Mom hollered from the car.
Once in the car, I turned the ignition. The seat belt signal promptly began to beep.
“Seat belt,” I said to Mom.
“Oh come on,” she tutted. “We don’t need seat belts here.”
“Yes, we do.”
“But it’s so uncomfortable.”
Her body stiffened as I leaned over her, wrenched the buckle and sash from the passenger side, and drew it across her chest, theatrically snapping the buckle into its mate and adjusting it for comfort, though, according to my mother, a seat belt can never be adjusted for comfort. Years ago, she once seriously considered cutting the seat belts completely out of her car because, in addition to being a nuisance—they kept getting caught in the door, she claimed—they were not esthetically pleasing.
My mind drifted back some twenty years to when I routinely strapped my toddlers into their car seats. Their bodies never stiffened; gosh, they were such compliant and agreeable little tykes, accepting without question the necessity of seat belt use.
I loved hovering over my kids in those days, inhaling the sweet smell of their fresh-washed hair and clothing or catching the twinkle in their eyes. Occasionally they would grab my hair with their chubby, clumsy hands and pull my face close for a kiss, then erupt into shy but victorious giggles.
But this was my mother, not my children. I smelled the familiar scent of her makeup, but it was not a moment that inspired playfulness.
I can’t say I felt entirely comfortable mothering my mother. What comes naturally to me as a mother does not come naturally to me as a daughter. The emotional distance that had been allowed to grow between us over the years had seen to that.
“You don’t have to baby me, you know,” said Mom sternly.
“I’m quite capable of putting on my own seat belt, thank you very much.”
She let out a sniff of disapproval as I double-checked that the buckle was secured. Like a practiced parent, I ignored the pout.
We drove in silence toward Alberobello along rain-soaked, narrow, winding country roads and rolling landscape for about five miles. We could barely see anything through the rain-splattered windshield.
I made a left turn at what appeared to be a main thoroughfare, and within seconds the sorts of buildings that