“See? I knew we would find it.”
On our third day at the incredible Villa D’Este a call came through from the daughter who had not been allowed to speak to us in Austria. I know this comes as a shock, but at D’Este they put calls through to the hotel guests no matter what time of night the call comes into the switchboard.
Radical, no?
She wants to join us. She will arrive by train from Portugal.
The next day we find ourselves in the BMW totally lost smack in the middle of Milan rush hour. Where the hell the train station got to I will never understand. But Italian drivers are not known for their excessive concern for caution, rules of the road or speed limits. I felt as if I had landed in an anthill when the queen’s in heat.
Now, in Milan (and pretty much all over Europe) all street signs are located on the corners of buildings way back from the street. And they are pretty much made of the same material as the buildings – that is some type of gray stone. My eyes are not real good. On a par with my math skills you could say. So there we were being pummeled by all the hungry, tired Italians going home from work, me trying to locate some street sign that would tell us about where we were, Strong With A Spear keeping up with the traffic flow but not at all sure he was headed anywhere useful to us.
“Look at the map again.”
I open it on my lap and notice it is getting darker outside.
“Oh look, do you think it’s going to rain?”
“Look at the damned map.”
“Yes, honey.” (This is a big lie. I never call my husband honey.)
“Is this the train station?” I point at a blob on the map that is in Italian, of course. I have been looking for the shape of a station or at least something substantial enough to be a major building.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s starting to rain, I think.”
I look up from the map as a huge splat hits the windshield. In less than four seconds we are being pelted by hailstones the size of robin’s eggs. In case you have never seen or held a robin’s egg, they are the size of an average oval ice cube made by an ice maker.
“Shit, I can’t see a thing.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“What?”
“I asked you what.”
“I said I can’t see anything.”
“Neither can I. Why don’t you stop?”
“What?”
“I said stop.”
“Where?”
We are both yelling by now as the hammering of hail becomes a movie theater sound surround.
“Anywhere.”
“I can’t.”
He follows the traffic, which has slowed somewhat since no one can see anything.
“I think it’s this way.”
“Why?”
“I just think it is.”
Let me stop the action right here to make an observation.
* * * *
My father was one of those very controlled people who planned trips down to the most finite detail. Which is not to say he didn’t leave room for extemporaneous events once you had reached your destination. But getting there was serious business that required Marine Corps style organization. If he were going to Milan to retrieve one of his daughters from the train station, he would have known precisely what route to take down to the last traffic light. My husband, on the other hand, never even knows when his plane is taking off and, on occasion, has even gotten on the wrong plane. Even walking very confidently headed in the wrong direction, he appears to know what he’s doing. I say appears.
Still, he always gets where he wants to go. He’s one of those people for whom things just work out.
* * * *
Back to Milan.
“Let me look at the map again.”
“No, no, I think it’s up this way.”
“Have you ever been to Milan before?”
“No.”
“Then what makes you think it’s this way?”
“Because there it is.”
The last of the clouds roll away and, as daylight returns, I see a massive stone building in front of us with train tracks going everywhere. He pulls into a parking space that has just opened up in front of the huge entrance and jumps out of the car, beaming. This is perhaps his most annoying facial expression.
“See? I knew we would find it.”
