How Lucky Am I?

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I woke up this morning and showered in yet another amazing bath with a view of the gorge. Frankie’s parents and a family friend had rented a small, stone villa and we had invited ourselves to stay in one of the guest rooms for five days of rent free Tuscan sightseeing. The house was built into the side of a hill, near the medieval walled Tuscan town of Volterra. The town was so near, if you listened closely at the top of the hour, you could hear the church bells toll. The only way to reach the house was via a long, steep, narrow, gravel driveway with hairpin turns and sheer drop-offs at each bend. Thou beautiful, just thinking of the driveway gave me vertigo.

The property was terraced, planted with a mix of olive, cyprus and cherry trees. A small creek ran down the gorge and it’s quite sounds, along with that of bees from the fruit trees and jasmine vines that coved the house, could be heard from the second story terrace off the kitchen. That same terrace had an outdoor dinning set with views down the hill and of the rolling farmland beyond. Only one other villa could be seen in the far off distance. It was as pretty as a painting.

The interior of the villa housed a small collection of eclectic art and books, Persian rugs and antiques, creating a very homey ambiance. The floors of the house were laid with beautiful old terracotta tiles, the color of root beer. They felt smooth and cool on bare feet.

The house, reflecting the garden, was laid out in a series of levels and as often as I tried, I could never remember how many steps into the room Frankie and I shared. Four. For some reason I always remembered only three. Maybe it was the wine? I had on more than a few occasions fallen down the stairs in the pitch black of night getting a drink of water or tripped coming back up from the bathroom. I was positive I would leave this place without my kneecaps.

After my shower I brushed my hair out, deciding to dry it in the summer sun. It was early June and it was that wonderful point where the weather is just starting to get really warm. Memories of cold spring mornings still fresh, making the warmth and strength of the sun all that much sweeter, magical, the summer version of the first snowfall. So, I headed outside and went for a short walk on the villa property. My mission was to climb the wooden ladder propped up in one of the larger cherry trees by the hammock and pick a bowl full of fruit for breakfast. Little lizards ran quickly out of my way. What a beautiful morning, I thought to myself. I was only out of the house but a few feet, when Guido, the owner’s grey and white stray cat, sprang out of the bushes wrapping his paws around my bare legs in a death grip.

Freeing myself of Guido, who willing left me in search of lizards, I climbed into the cherry tree and started to pick breakfast. The tree was so heavily laden with fruit; I filled the bowl in less than a minute. I climbed back down the ladder and into the hammock under the tree. As I laid back, I closed my eyes, blocking out the bright morning sun, and pushed myself with the one foot still remaining on the ground. There I swung, eating cherries out of the bowl, spitting the seeds onto the ground, a flip flop about to fall off one foot. How lucky am I? I thought. Guido, the ever present host, was not about to let me swing alone and with one flying pounce he flopped his skinny little self into the hammock to keep me company.

Hair dry, breakfast finished, I heard the call of Frankie’s mom. It was time to head out for a day of exploring.

Frankie’s parents were a really cute couple. Her mom was petite with short light hair. She was talkative and very friendly. Her dad was tall with white hair and a fashionable flair. He was almost always dressed in a well pressed linen long sleeve shirt and khakis, his leather man purse he was so proud of swung over one shoulder. He was a jovial man with a flair for the corny.

Franchesca, her parents, a family friend and I all packed into a European “midsized” rental car that more closely resembled something stolen from Logo Land than an American sedan, and headed out in search of the walled city of Lucca. Each group had our trusty Rick Steves’ Italy guide book in hand.

Ahh, Rick Steves, the messiah of European travel to the American upper middle class. Throughout Italy and the rest of Europe, affluent American’s could be seen carrying Rick’s books. Passing by you could hear them quoting passages “Rick says….” unable to quantify their own European experience without the view of an “expert traveler”. I couldn’t stand the guy. His friendly Midwestern approach drove me nuts. I know I am alone in this dislike. And as much as it killed me to be seen in the presence of one of his books, I had to admit as much as I hated to, he still had one of the best and most comprehensive guides on Italy.

After braving the death defying villa driveway and more than a few near misses in Volterra, to include a near collision with a Priest leading a funeral procession to the cemetery (No, I am not making that one up. You should have seen the looks!), Frankie’s mother was no longer in love with Italy. A nervous passenger under the best of circumstances, Italy and more frankly the crazy family friend driving, was more than enough to do her in. The woman made getting in a car with a blind man behind the wheel seem like a better option.

Clinging with both hands on the seatbelt and sitting next to me and Frankie in the back, Mrs. K had her eyes closed tight. When she did open them it was usually just in time to witness one of our extraordinarily crappy driver’s near misses. So there is someone that drives worse than my father, I thought to myself as I saw Frankie motion my way. What? was the look I shot her.

Frankie, trying to calm her mother, looked at me and firmly whispered “Talk!....Distract her!”

Sure, now you want me to talk. All the teasing about my gift of gab….that I can talk to a brick wall, better than a book on tape, and now you want me to talk. Well it’s not that simple sister. It is a skill. It is a gift. It…is an art.

Just then her mother took a deep breath in “Oh my God!” She said, looking as if she was about to cry.

My mind was blank. I could think of nothing to say. Oh Hell! “So Mrs. K did Frankie really fail Italian?”

“What?” She turned away from the car window towards me with an annoyed expression, clearly confused. She shook her head and released her grip on the seatbelt to wave her hands in an animated way as if to physically stress no! “Italian was her major!” She said with exasperation, looking at me like I was an idiot.

Frankie rolled her eyes at me.

Hey, no complaining about the quality of the distraction!

Arriving in Lucca happy to be alive, and now surely labeled idiot in Mrs. K’s mind (all for the good of the cause I guess), we quickly headed for lunch in an amazing boutique hotel courtyard. Thanks to Mr. K’s generosity I had a fabulous lunch of prawns with pumpkin purée, spinach ravioli with gorgonzola cream sauce and wonderful white wine.

After lunch we all agreed to head off, each group in our own direction, meeting back at the main city square in an hour. Lucca was huge. I had no idea such a large city could be walled. It was like a medieval version of New York. Even more amazing to me was how alive with fashionable shops the city was. Not known for my practicality of footwear, I had worn a cute pair of mules that had at this point dug several large gashes into my feet with accompanying blisters to match. In my defense, I had spent the last month in Africa in hiking boots and dirt. Back in the land of fashion, I wanted to look cute. Can you really blame a girl? Of course now, feet swollen, I could walk no farther. Luckily we were in Italy, shoe capital of Europe. Ducking to a small shop off the square, Frankie quickly picked out a pair of sensible walking sandals and handing them to me with a stern expression, instructed me to buy them.

Back at the car it was time to tempt fate and the gods’ good graces and head home. I couldn’t help but say a small prayer for our safety.

Arriving back at the villa all passengers practically leapt from the vehicle not waiting for a complete stop. Once back in our room Frankie came up to me. “Please take me out back and shoot me if I ever become like that woman!” she said referring to the family friend who had driven us.

“Don’t worry you can count on me to do the job!” I replied.

“After that drive, I need some wine. Anyone want to join me?” Frankie’s dad called out from the kitchen. We could hear the popping of corks.

Wine? Frankie and I looked at each other and than bolted like children to candy into the kitchen. After that drive I could drink a whole tub of this stuff, I thought, as the smooth red liquid ran over my tongue and down my throat.

After dinner and some reading in the lounge I headed outside to make a call back to the States. The parking terrace under the pine tree was the only place in the gorge I was able to get reception on my cell and even then only if I didn’t move, not even an inch.

I took my wine glass with me and wondered out into the garden. I was breathless at what I saw…it was a wonderland. The moon was up and full, casting a blue white light over everything. Hundreds of fireflies danced in and around the cyprus trees and olive groves looking like little fairies. The crickets were singing. The air was warm.

I decided not to make my call and instead walk down to the same hammock under the cheery tree where I had begun my morning.

As I walked along the path, the strong smell of jasmine in warm air surrounded me. I stopped, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. How I love the smell of jasmine, I thought, then opening my eyes I continued on down towards the tree. I came to the hammock sat down. Swinging quietly, sipping my wine, I tried to burn the moment in my mind. It was one of those perfect times when you felt like pinching yourself just to remember you’re alive. Something that could never come close to being captured in a photo as it embraced all of the senses. Quietly in the distance the church bell tolled, eleven o’clock……time for bed.

I walked back to the house, windows open, but now dark, as everyone had gone to sleep. The moon lit my way up the steps. Upon reaching the little front door of the villa, I turned back for one last glimpse. I then looked up. “How lucky am I!”

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