These days we often hear our friends, co-workers, and even family members say, “I just want to get out of here!” Many Minnesotans are eager to escape the relentless sub-zero temperatures that seem to be each year more punishing than the last. For others, dreaming of and planning for a future vacation is a common cure for boredom.
I am fortunate to say that I have experienced some very fine trips. Taking into consideration my traveling companion, the weather, the food, the flights, and the incredible opportunities to photograph the most beautiful countries, I’d have to say my trips have been perfect. Perfect because everything usually goes as planned. But let me tell you about a trip that was far from and could fall under the title “Are You Kidding?”
As with all of our past trips, my husband John likes to select areas in Europe known for certain things, such as Orvieto, Italy because of a certain white grape which surpasses all others. Or Montepulciano and Montalcino, two areas in Tuscany known for producing exquisite red wines. In 2012, we decided to go back to Italy, flying from Minneapolis to Atlanta then straight through to Milan. We had a full itinerary of cities to visit, each known for something special.
Waiting in line to check our bags at the Minneapolis airport, John turned to me suddenly. “Do you have my passport?” I immediately felt nauseous. “Are you kidding? I must have reminded you twice to pick it up off of the dining room table. Now what are we going to do?” Suddenly, I had a moment of clarity: what if a friend of ours could pick up John’s passport and bring it to us? Calling the friend, I asked, “Where are you right now?” He gave me the most welcome response I could have wanted. “Actually, I am about one mile from your house.” I could not believe it! I explained our predicament and he agreed to go to our house and use the hidden key to “get in, get it, and bring it to us.” All within 37 minutes.
John and I had dodged a bullet. With both passports in hand, we hauled you-know-what to the gate. Three hours later we touched down in Atlanta only to learn that our flight had been detained due to weather. Although we had expected a 90 minute wait in Atlanta, it now looked like a three hour delay. “Are you kidding?”
Finally settled into our seats and two hours into our flight across the ocean, I had a sinking feeling that something wasn’t right. “No, everything will be fine. Don’t worry,” John reassured me. Four hours later we found ourselves impatiently watching the luggage carousel go around and around and around. Where was our luggage? After waiting in a very long line at the baggage claim department, we learned that our luggage never made it out of Atlanta.
The airport staff asked if we were going to be staying in Milan for a few days. No, we were not. We were planning on taking a train that same day and then heading to Perugia and several other cities after that. Or so we thought. We were ordered not to leave our hotel in Perugia until our bags arrived. We were told it would be impossible to track us down from city to city.
So, wearing the same clothes we dawned a day and a half ago, we decided to check out the streets of Perugia. Perugia is the chocolate capital of the world. We had scheduled our trip to hit Perugia’s Chocolate Festival, held just once a year. We had hoped that by now our luggage would have arrived, but it had yet to show up. We began to venture out with atlas and local maps in hand, and a distinct odor that we knew belonged to us. We boarded the elevator at our hotel, John feverishly trying to hold on to our atlas, which contained the entire itinerary for the trip, as the elevator doors shut. In a tizzy, the atlas fell out of John’s hands, disappearing into the crack of the closing elevator doors. As we watched our itinerary tumble five flights down the elevator shaft, I tossed my head back, “Are you kidding?”
After pleading with the clerk at the front desk to find a maintenance person to apprehend our ever-important atlas, we were fortunate enough to get it back. It was completely soaked as it had landed in a pool of displaced water. Two hours, and several pieces of incredible chocolate later, we had walked off nearly all of the “chocolate” calories we had consumed. We headed back to the hotel only to learn that we still had not received our luggage. That night we opted for room service as neither one of us wanted to show up in the dining room wearing the same clothes as the previous two nights.
Day three, still captive in our hotel, I finally gave in and asked John to go out and buy us anything clean to wear for the day, and a few other things. He wasn’t crazy about finding a store where he could buy lipstick and mascara, the essentials that a girl has to have. When he returned, he encountered a very dismayed wife. “What can I do to make things better?” he asked. ”Let’s just hire a taxi and get the heck out of here,” I told him. It had been three days without our luggage and we had already missed two cities that we had intended to see. Wanting to please me, John replied, “Sure, let’s do that. Where do you want to go?” I answered eagerly, “You know how my favorite movie is Under the Tuscan Sun? Well, according to the atlas, Cortona is only an hour or so from here. Could we go there and find Bramasole where it was filmed?” “Of course we can do that,” said John. Now all we had to do was find a taxi driver who spoke a little English so that I could explain what we wanted to explore.
Marco’s English was rough but he agreed to drive us there and back for 300 euros (not including the tip of course). That afternoon we had magically become “explorers”. We were no longer typical (and defeated) tourists. We were searching for something far from the beaten path. We were on a mission. Unlike all of the other trips to Europe, we were hunting for fulfillment. Or at least I was.
As we arrived in Cortona, directly in front of us was a sign with arrows pointing out which direction to go. At first we went to the left for a mile or two, then we headed back the way we came. As we passed the cities only sign, we drove a few blocks before I urged Marco to turn around and go back. Passing the sign one more time, I asked Marco to please drive very slowly. Just then, I spotted something. “Marco, stopa-stopa-stopa,” I yelled. We were sitting at the bottom of a very long and winding gated driveway. I peered up through the back window on the right side. “There is just something about this house.” I snapped a few pictures when all of a sudden the gates began to open. Marco began to back his cab up as we watched with great interest a small pastel yellow vehicle drive in reverse down the driveway.
I remember thinking, if Marco could get out and talk to this Italian man in the yellow car, perhaps he would know where we could find Bramasole. Marco approached the car and we watched as a tall man got out of the yellow car and began walking toward us. I rolled my window down to greet him. “Chow, mi chiamo Rebecca.” He smiled at me and said, “Hi, I’m Ed.” I couldn’t believe our luck. “Oh, you speak English. I am a professional photographer from the United States. Minnesota, actually.” I shared. “A few years ago there was a movie made here in Cortona. Actually, it’s my all-time favorite movie. I’ve seen it 12 times. I’m hoping to take a picture of the place where the movie was made. I believe it’s called Bramasole.”
Ed smiled, “No, that is not possible. From the road it is not visible, and it’s also protected by a gate.” I was crestfallen. I told him that we had spent more than 300 euros to get a picture. “Well, I am Ed Mayes.” A bit confused as to why he felt like he needed to tell me his full name, I stuttered a bit and said again, “Well, I am Rebecca Hahn, and this is John Ferm.” At that point Ed reached into his back pocket to pull out his license. And sure enough his name was Ed Mayes, and it was printed on an American license. He could see that I didn’t have a clue as to the relevance of his name. “Perhaps you would like to talk to my wife.” I nodded, wondering why he thought I would want to talk to his wife. Ed sensed my confusion. “Well, my wife is Frances Mayes, she is the author of the book Under the Tuscan Sun.” I was in disbelief. That would mean that the man I was talking to was the main character’s happy-ending, “Ed”, who she lived happily ever after with!
A wave of embarrassment accompanied by sheer excitement filled my thoughts and fueled my expressions. I asked with exuberance, “Yes, yes, where could I see her?” He said, “Well she’s getting out of the car right now, and coming over.” I opened the door and sprang to my feet. Frances was so gracious, and didn’t seem to mind spending a bit of time with us. When I asked if I could take a few pictures, she was more than accommodating. She told us that the house up on the hill was not the one featured in the movie, but that very same home that I had a feeling about was indeed their home that she had named Bramasole. It was serendipity!
To this very day, I would have to compare that moment in time to what an explorer must feel as he and his crew pull a treasure chest from the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea. In the future, every time I hear the word “serendipity,” it will conjure up my great exploration of 2012, and I’ll be reminded that life is about those unexpected delights that we don’t see coming. It’s about taking a series of seemingly unfortunate events and turning them into an adventure. You never know who or what you might encounter.
In the words of the great Mark Twain: “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”