We must have looked like the craziest travelers that ever graced the face of the earth. We had eleven, yes, eleven, HUGE suitcases with two adults, one child and one dog trying to manage them through the hotel lobby and out to the rental car. Eleven suitcases may seem crazy, but they contained, literally, all we own. Before leaving Los Angeles, we sold everything. I mean everything. We had an estate sale where people literally bought paper towels off the dispenser. There were a few pieces of furniture in storage but essentially all our worldly possessions were in these bags, and they weren’t leaving our sight. I was assigned to manage them while Erin went to get the rental car. Cash, Dylan, and I waited at the motor court. We waited. And waited. And then, we waited some more. I texted Erin to make sure she hadn’t fallen in an Italian sinkhole. Turns out she was okay but things were taking a really long time. A lovely bellman came over and asked if we need anything. I explained what Erin said and that we were waiting for the enormous rental car that we would drive from Milano to Firenze. He smiled and nodded, “Yes, you’re on Italian time now.” I returned a half smile and wondered what exactly that meant and if I would grow old in this motor court. Finally, an hour and a half later, up pulled Erin in the ugliest, most run down, beat up Fiat van I have ever seen. I opened the door and a weird smell slammed me in the face. I looked at Erin with my crinkled up nose and she said, “I know, but it just has to get us to Florence.” Exactly! I can hold my breathe for hours, no problem! Let the adventure begin.
Somehow the lovely bellman got all 11 bags, three humans, and one canine relatively comfortable in this slightly offensive van, and we hit the road. Erin drove, I navigated, and D watching his iPad while Cash panted. We were headed to our new home.
I asked Erin what took so long to get the car. She sort of laughed and explained that she didn’t think they had our car, so this is one of the worker’s or something. I looked around. The van clearly hadn’t been cleaned. What’s the mileage? One hundred and nine thousand. Oh good God! I didn’t really have a clue how many kilometers that is, or what the norm would be, but it seemed excessive for a rental car, right? We repeated the new mantra. It just needs to get our stuff and us to Florence.
About 10 minutes into the drive it was quite obvious that the air conditioning did not work. By not work, I mean there was hot air coming out of the vents. We had to put the windows down to survive. Now, that was good news for my nostrils, but did I mention it was 105 degrees? We were on the A1, which is the main highway to Florence. I asked D to roll his window down, he told me he couldn’t. He said there is a just this weird turn-y thing but nowhere to roll the window down. I explained that that turn-y thing does, in fact, roll the window down, and he thought I was kidding. He laughed hysterically, “Oh my god, I turn this thing? That is crazy! How old is this thing?!” That was the question of the hour. Anyway, we got all the windows down, and we couldn’t hear a word the other was saying. But even in that heat, it was the scenery that took our breath away. The green rolling hills, the olive groves, the castles nestled in the folds, the medieval cities perched on the peaks. It was stunning. It was hot as the center of the sun, but ridiculously beautiful. I couldn’t believe this is real. We were really doing this.
The highway was a maze between the lush, green rolling hills, and through long tunnels. The tunnels made the car much more cool and quiet for those moments. So, it was in those tunnels that we tried to sort out the next step. We needed to figure out how to get our stuff into our apartment. That might sound strange, but cars aren’t allowed in the center of Florence, which was exactly where our apartment was. Taxis and permitted cars can drive in the zone but not piece of crap Fiat vans. So, we had to find a place to park then get all eleven suitcases, two adults, one child and one canine through the center of Florence to our new home. Easy enough, right?
No, not right. It was sinking in a bit more every moment that things weren’t going to be easy. Between the language barrier, Italian time and general lack of information, we had a lot to figure out.
But still, we were happily driving along enjoying the view at about an hour outside of Florence in the blazing hot car when Erin yelled over the noise, “What just happened?” I was gazing out the window at the incredible surroundings and responded, “I know right, so pretty.” I turned to look at her when the lights from the dashboard pretty much blinded me. It was like Griswald’s Christmas on the dash. Everything was lit up. Oh, that’s not good. Maybe they would go away. Sure, yes, I was certain they would go away. Maybe if we drove a bit faster, they would vanish. We could outrun them. For about 5 minutes we drove in silence hoping the lights were a fluke. The next words I heard as we are trucking along the highway were, “I can’t move the steering wheel.” These are words that should only be uttered in a B movie script, not at high speeds on a foreign highway. I looked over and Erin was trying to muscle the wheel like she was in an arm wrestling contest. The wheel barely budged.
Luckily, there was a truck stop just up ahead, and she somehow managed to get us out of traffic and off the toll way and stopped safely roadside. I got the manual out. She got the rental contract out. Neither was in English. We finally found a number to call. Erin called, and they hang up on her 7 times. SEVEN. It was hot. We were in the middle of nowhere with a few truck drivers and no one else. We tried to call again because what were our other options? She gestured and spoke across between English, Spanish, and gibberish. I jumped out of the car and waved to the truck driver resting behind us. I asked him to help. Did he speak English? Italian? He didn’t really answer but started to get out of the truck. I yelled to Erin to bring the phone. My new truck driver friend pulled his pants up (don’t ask) and slid his shoes half on and grabbed Erin’s phone. Pronto? Oh good God, please let this work! Cash and Dylan were still in the back seat of the van with the doors and windows open. My trucker man, still on the phone, walked over to the van. Shut the back door and got in the drivers seat. But, but sir! There was a kid and dog… He wasn’t listening or couldn’t understand, or both. We looked at each other and sort of pretended this was normal and okay, because we had no other option.
A moment later, my trucker got out of the van and handed Erin her phone. He looked at me and flashes his open palm at me three times then stops and pushes the hand towards me. Whoever he was talking to had hung up as Erin stared at her phone. Someone will come help us? He grunted at me and smiled. Thank you so much. Thank you. “Bye, bye,” he muttered and was gone. Someone will be here in 15 minutes? Did I read that gesture right? What was the Italian time for 15 minutes? We couldn’t trust that anyone would ever show up. We tried Uber. They don’t exist in Florence let alone an hour outside of Florence. We tried to hire a car. They couldn’t get to us for hours, and we needed at least 2 cars for the luggage. We posted on Instagram, so people would know where to look for us. Panic was officially setting in as we barely even had two sips of water left and had fewer escape options. I was pretty sure I was going to lose my composure when I saw something pulled up. The tow truck. It was the tow truck! I looked at my phone. Italian time was ten minutes! We were saved! And in a timely fashion! We jumped out of the van and nearly tackled the driver with excitement. He just kept pointing to the van. Yes, broken. We kept trying to explain. I tried to gesture it out: pretended to break something over my knee, then fake steered my imaginary steering wheel and made a sad face. He nodded and pointed some more. Then I realized he was telling us to get in. We did, and he loaded the Sanford and Sons van stuffed with our luggage and us onto the flatbed and drove us to the Fiat repair shop. It was crazy and probably deeply unsafe, but at that point we couldn’t have cared less. We were one step closer to unpacking.
He brought us to the Fiat repair shop. We had no real idea where we were, but at least we weren’t on the side of the highway anymore. We unloaded all of our bags into the middle of the parking lot, and realized we were still in the middle of nowhere. The rental car company just left us there with no cab, no replacement car. Nothing. I saw a hotel on the other end of the street from the repair shop, so I thought I would see if they could call us a cab. Plus, I thought the lobby might be air-conditioned. We were so lucky that both were true. The lobby enveloped me in cool air as the doors opened, and the man at the desk called us two cabs that we would load to the brim with suitcases and take us home.
The craziest part of this whole day was that one of our hurdles was solved by all this drama. Now, we were in cabs that could drive in the zone and drop us at our door. We would not have to drag our loads of luggage across town. We were finally going to be home.
Home was beautiful. We had seen pictures online obviously, and a childhood friend who lives here was kind enough to tour it for us before we decided. But you still don’t really know what a place is going to be like in person. We couldn’t have been happier. It was charming and spacious and homey even coming fully furnished. Now, this was not necessarily the furniture I would have chosen, but it worked. It felt like it had history and a story but was still clean. Both of which I loved and appreciated. The floors, doors, and crown molding were beautifully detailed and crafted. The doors to the living room had stained glass cut outs that the sun streamed through when entering. It was warm and welcoming. The apartment was on the fourth floor in a building literally next door to the Duomo. It was over 600 years old. It had survived wars, deaths, rulers, the Renaissance, for God’s sake. How crazy is that!? Probably didn’t happen anywhere but in my imagination but, Michelangelo could have had dinner in my dining room. Now, three humans and a pooch from America inhabited the space. Hopefully, that wasn’t too horrifying for an ancient Italian. We didn’t get many pictures because the entire day was traumatic. But this is the view from our living room that greeted us, along with much needed air conditioning.
