Italian Travel Adventures: Chaos, Quirky Stories, and Coffee

If you’re new to my blog or writing, I write a lot about Italy.

Why?

Well, first, I’d have to say it was the lure of my Italian heritage.

Second, my sister lives in Italy. (Because of that, I worked hard to learn the language, so I could communicate with her husband and kids – who speak such good English, it isn’t needed. But learning Italian gave me an unexpected connection to my ancestors.)

Thirdly, I write about Italy because I get to visit often, and one day, the trips will be a good tax write off.

And finally … Italy is always a good idea.

I’ve been to Italy with tour groups, with family, and alone. I’ve traversed the streets of Florence at this point so much it feels like a second home and yet, there are still so many secrets to unearth. So many more cities and towns to visit. Which means there are more trips to Italy in my future and more books to be set against the background of that glorious country.

Have you seen this quote?

One of the things I love about writing adventurous rom-coms is that I am able to place characters in unexpected situations that are equal parts comedy and plausibility, with a dash of ridiculousness. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that at this point in my life, I have quite a list of ridiculous situations I’ve lived through that I can impose on my characters. Not to mention a plethora of Italian travel adventures.

The Family Vacation

So there I was, the early 2000s with my mom, dad, sister and grandmother on the great ‘Griswold’ family trip in Italy. The idea was to take my grandmother back to the homeland, starting in Genoa where her father and her people were from. But when presented with the itinerary, my 5 foot, New York Italian grandmother waved away the idea of Genoa with the rationalization: “Daddy always said there was nothing to see in Genoa, let’s go somewhere good.”

So my dad redrew the lines of our trip and away we went.

We landed at the airport in Milan, packed up the rented car and began the Holiday Road drive from the airport in Milan to Lake Como, then Venice, then Florence, Orvieto, and finally Rome.

If that sounds familiar, it’s because in my book, Big Trouble in Italy, I used the exact same path we took on that family trip and applied it to Jessica Dodd’s adventure. 

Of course, the adventure that Big Trouble became was nothing like our family’s trip.

Our family trip was the stuff of ridiculous comedy.

The above picture is of my mom, dad, sister and grandmother on the least romantic gondola trip a girl could ask for. (The photo is grainy because it was taken pre-smartphone era.) 

While my heroine Jessica Dodd was exhausted from a mystery she’d been embroiled. My version of the trip wasn’t so much a mystery as one strange ailment after another. 

I arrived in Lake Como seeing tracers and feeling light headed because I’d stayed up all night talking with my sister, didn’t sleep on the plane or in the car. Then I was eaten alive by mosquitoes at dinner outside in Lake Como. I got pink eye in Venice. Developed a rough congestion cold by Florence. Started my monthlies in Orvieto. And by the time we reached Rome, summer temperatures hit a record high: the hottest summer in Italy in 500 years.

I was proud of myself for learning how to communicate with the pharmacists at the farmacia, which was a lot of pointing to my current ailment or just coughing – which made the amazing human behind the counter nod gravely and hand over a magic elixir to help aid my ills.

Best trip of my life by the way.

I kept my spirits up because I was in Italy. 

It was on that trip I read tour guide extraordinaire, Rick Steves’ theory of travel. That travel becomes a microcosm of our lives: Emotions run fast and rampant, interactions are heightened. You can’t plan what’s going to happen. And you have to decide in moments of anger, frustration, utter elation and disappointment, how you are going to handle things.

I decided to load up on Advil, cough medicine. Stuck an ever-present lozenge in my cheek and pushed myself forward and took lessons Italy and travel and that trip taught me. 

If you visit Italy in the spring and summer months, take bug spray and cortisone.

Most pharmacists speak just enough English.

Rest that extra hour when you need it.

Drink lots of water.

Everything is relative.

And a cappuccino in the morning at a quaint, busy, café surrounded by enchanting pastries really does help cure what ails you.

Lost in Translation

A few years ago, I relayed the story of my first solo trip to see my sister in Florence. When I was finished, my friend asked me an interesting question: Why didn’t you stay in Italy?

To be honest, the thought never crossed my mind. Though I now kick myself for not staying.

Her question however, gestated. And wouldn’t you know it, a few days later Olivia Keats McCall woke me up in the middle of the night and told me how she went to Italy, got off the plane in Rome and had the adventure of a lifetime. That book became The Italian Holiday.

And of course, I used several of the strange, unforgettable experiences from that trip to help color the pages of my story.

I myself, left two days before Valentine’s Day to see my sister in Florence. I purchased the cheapest ticket I could get. That cheap ticket got me a flight with three layovers before landing in Rome. On the last layover, I ended up running through the Chicago airport with two fellow travelers for the plane that was frustratingly waiting for us. We arrived winded, tossed our requested passports at the flight attendants and were instructed to hurry up and sit down as we were pointed to our seats. 

I actually ended up sitting next to one of the people I ran with.

She was headed to Rome to visit her boyfriend for Valentine’s Day. And she was going to propose to him.

She relayed the story of her courtship with her boyfriend and the long distance relationship and that he didn’t know she was showing up. One of those stories that makes you hope the internal cringe isn’t showing on the outside. But, she was intelligent, polite and a bit shy. No crazed, wide eyed hysteria. So I wished her the best. And I never did hear how things went. We never exchanged contact information.

When we landed in Rome. I waited for my luggage, which never appeared. I went to report it and was told that when it did arrive, they would deliver it to my sister’s apartment in Florence.

I used that entire experience almost verbatim for the book:

“So, my bag will be delivered?” I asked.

“Sì, certo. Of course,” was the thickly accented answer I received from the woman helping me.

“To Florence? I’ll be in Florence.” I talked slowly, because I wasn’t sure the woman, who spoke broken English, was truly understanding me.

“Sì,” she repeated.

I tried again. “Not Rome. I’m not staying in Rome.”

“Sì.” She shrugged.

I looked down at the form as she pulled it away from me, the last physical act of holding onto my ‘stuff’.

I’d flown through three cities before heading to Rome, a consequence of buying the cheapest ticket I could find. The last city I switched planes in had a twenty-minute layover, so while I ran like an Olympic sprinter to make my connection, my bags did not.

“Firenze,” she nodded as she added the paper to a stack next to her, “domani o dopodomani.”

What the hell did that mean?

I blinked at her several times, but she was waving me away so she

could begin to help the traveler behind me with his baggage woes. But I didn’t want to be waved away. I kind of wanted the woman to call my sister, Marie, at the number I supplied and talk to her so that everyone was on the same page. That way, I’d be assured what few goods I had to my name would actually be delivered when and where this Italian woman promised.

“Signora.” The woman waved again.

I gave a weak nod and moved. I suppose it would make trying to find a train to Florence easier since all I had now was my backpack. I looked down at the yellow transfer copy of the paper she’d given me, with my sister’s address and F I R E N Z E written as large as I could make it.

The fact that my overstuffed duffle bag didn’t make it, turned out to be helpful. I was able to move more freely from the airport, to the main train station in Rome, where I purchased a ticket and headed to Florence. So exhausted, I promptly fell asleep and missed the glorious countryside.

My sister and I walked to her apartment, saving money by not taking a taxi, because she needed to borrow the money I brought to pay her rent while she waited for her school loans to come in.

I borrowed sweats and t-shirts from her and we lived on the last 5 Euros we had for three days. Eventually, my luggage – with a brick of cheddar cheese and a jar of peanut butter – arrived along with her school loans.

And it was another amazing trip.

Because for three days, I wandered the misty, February streets of Florence while soaking in the culture – an exercise that costs nothing. There are plenty of outdoor benches to sit down and write and daydream the moments away. Because February was the off season, there were several museums and churches that had ‘free’ admission days also. 

And it doesn’t cost a thing to walk in the footsteps of the men and women of the Renaissance. That’s where the adventurous spirit of my characters was built.

 

You might be wondering what we spent the 5 Euro on. Well, at that time, a cappuccino only cost .80 centissimi. (Now it’s up to 1.10 Euro.) So we used the money for glorious cafe sitting as we slowly, appreciatively sipped the warm, Italian concoction.

Culture Shock

Rome. I was with a tour group, but I was up early each morning, very much fearing I might miss something. So in those hours, I would go for slow walks through the almost empty streets of Rome. I used this experience in  La Bella Luna , as the main character walked the streets of Pisa in the early, dusty morning hours.

I walked past a bread shop that had their doors propped open, allowing the enchanting scent of yeast, warmth and salt to rush into the street. I passed an older couple wobbling down the street arm in arm, the man pulled their empty wheeled grocery bag behind them. They were arguing, yet when a priest passed them, they nodded happily at him, stopping only until he was out of earshot before they started arguing again. 

I was fresh out of college with a degree in history, having majored in the study of Romans and Greeks. And now I was standing among their legacy. In a happy daze, I walked through the history of Rome. The Colosseum, the Forum, the Circus Maximus.

I wrote odes to Rome on that trip, wrote lovely essays and stories.

I eventually found a small café in front of the Pantheon and ordered an espresso that I did not like, but with enough sugar I was able to choke it down.

I used the limited words I learned: Per favore, grazie, café, bene, mi piace. Si and no.

The older barista, in between customers, used his broken English to strike up a conversation with me. His brow furrowed as he asked me where I was from. I told him, and he shook his head. “No.” He declared, with a slight anger to his voice. 

“Excuse me?”

“Where you live?” He asked again.

“Idaho. The United States.” I tried again.

He gave a very Italian tsk and shook his head, “Ma no.”

Why would I lie? “Yes.” I answered.

“America?” He asked.

Now we were getting somewhere. “Yes. I’m from America.”

“No.” He pointed a finger at me and shook his head, “You Canada.”

It was my turn to frown. “No…I’m American.”

He shooed the idea away, “Too nice. You Canada.”

“But…I’m not.”

He left and returned with a pastry for me, free of charge. Said something about “Canadese” and left me to my morning.

Which made me wonder. How many awful, stereotypical ‘American Tourists’ have the people of Italy had to deal with over the years? Because with just a little effort – learning a few words of Italian and using common courtesy – the most obvious conclusion was that there was no way I could be American. I must be from somewhere else.

It was a good lesson, that when we travel abroad, we’re no longer in a country that does things the way our country would do them. Italy has different rules, different culture ideas, and a different languages. A bit of effort goes a long way. And when they mistake you for Canadian and give you a free pastry, I guess just smile and say ‘grazie’. 

Destination Wedding

My sister was married in Florence. (As we’ve already discussed, it was because she lives there.) Family members excitedly planned travel for the event. Because when you have a destination wedding in Italy, people move heaven and earth to go. I know because I was married in Boise and while family and friends did show up, there was a lot of: “I never would have traveled here if you weren’t getting married” and “Is there anything to do in Boise?”

So getting married in Italy = big excitement.

Boise = eh…

Eventually, 24 family members ended up staying together in one giant villa. I have talked on end about this property and of course it made its way into a book. It’s the vacation rental Isabelle’s family reserved in Italian for Christmas.

We spent our morning hours with coffee cups clasped in our hands, laughing as we told exhausted tourist stories and relived our day trips. We shared the wonders we saw and the little ‘Italian-ness’ we picked up on. We sat around the wooden country table every evening and ravenously ate steaming plates of pasta, drank deep of Tuscan red wines and toasted ‘Cin Cin’ to the whole experience.

Meals were my favorite. And this photo of the rehearsal dinner, which just happened to coincide with Thanksgiving, is one of my favorite moments captured on film.

The wedding was joyful and in Latin and Italian. I sat with my brother on the altar, representing my sister. Before the wedding began, while we waited for guests to finish arriving, my brother asked me what we were supposed to do. I nodded at the groom’s brother and sister, sitting across from us and said. “Do whatever they do.” And strangely enough, someone captured that moment on film too.

The reception was held at the Villa Viviani, which boasted among its return visitors, Mark Twain.

“The situation of the villa was perfect. It was three miles from Florence, on the side of a hill. It looked down upon olive trees and vine yards; to the right, beyond some hills, was Fiesole; nearby was the impressive mass of the Ross castle, its walls and towers rich with the weather stains of forgotten centuries; in the distant plain lay Florence, pink and gray and brown, with the high dome of the cathedral ruling over its center, and the right by the smaller dome of the Palazzo Vecchio; all around was the ring of high hills, snowed white with count less villas. After nine months of familiarity with this view I still think, as I thought in the beginning, that this is the fairest picture on our planet, the most wonderful to look upon, the most satisfying to the eye and the spirit.” – Mark Twain, autobiography.

Before the reception, my sister made an announcement. “Listen, Americans. Don’t stuff yourself at the reception. Because dinner is going to be a four course affair with dessert.”

But look, when you get to a Villa in the hills surrounding Tuscany, dressed in your finest, and caterers begin to bring out fresh buffalo mozzarella, papa al pomodoro, fried zucchini, plates of salami and prosciutto, pecorino dipped in honey, ricotta, pate, and salty focaccia … all bets are off. Our group dissipated, like cartoon characters following the smoky wafting call of delicious food. We’d find each other as we crossed the room where the hor d’orves were being served and ask, “Did you try the thing with the lemon?” “No, but you need to try the herbed cheese thing.” Then we’d part ways in search of new delicacies.

And we still all ate the four-course meal and desert.

I learned another lesson on that trip, that it is very uncouth to order a cappuccino after 11 in the morning. But the kitchen at the reception was bringing out espresso with shots of liquor for other guests, a sort of digestive. So I asked our waiter, “Look, I know it isn’t proper, and I apologize, but because we’re Americans is it too awful to ask for a cappuccino?”

The waiter sighed, but winked, he’d make an exception. How many did I want?

I called out to the other family members, “Does anyone want a cappuccino?”

Hands were raised and I smiled back at the waiter, “Dodici, per favore.” Twelve, please.

An Italian Walk

It’s March, 2022. Italy is in bloom. I went to visit my sister at the same time my parents went. My book Big Trouble in Little Italy was awaiting its coming debut. One of the reasons I went to Italy was because tickets were very very cheap, and it was a great excuse to take all the photos I could for promotional purposes. 

My dad and I also decided while there, we would walk a few segments of the Via Francigena, which is the Italian part of the historic pilgrimage route that runs from Canterbury, England, to Rome.

We did research, we found the trail we could break up into two days. I made reservations in an old castle turned hotel in a little town called Gambassi Terme.

We talked about how cool this was going to be. We’d get dropped off, hike into the town, spend the night, and hike the second day into the medieval town of San Gimangnao where we’d be picked up. And the whole family could stay in a nearby Agratrouismo – wine estate. Then, day three, dad, my sister, her husband and I, would go do another leg of the trip.

I watched videos. I read the literature my dad sent me. We found where to get a passport in Florence to make the whole experience official. Even the small part of the trail we were going to take part in.

I walked every day to get ready for the adventure. I re-read a bit of Canterbury Tales and watched a PBS special on the history of the trek.

Then, the days of the trip arrived.

Everyone was sick.

I had cough, congestion and a general crappy cold feeling. Dad had the same.

So after a family meeting, we decided to compact the trip a little bit. We scrapped the first day of the hike and took the train to Gambassi Terme where we were going to stay the night.

We told the gentleman at the check in what we were doing and he urged us outside and pointed down the cobblestone, hilly street to a town in the distance, just barely visible in the setting sun. “That is San Gimaniano.”

The pilgrimage trail was built so that those taking the trip could easily walk the distance between medieval towns in one day and have a place to lay their head each night.

But with a head cold and the urge to just sleep, the distance looked tremendous.

Still, we walked the small town, enamored with the medieval architecture, terracotta roofs, cobblestone streets, brick worked buildings.

The next morning, we made coffee in the little apartment, watched Italian TV and couldn’t figure out how to turn on the heater for the shower. I ended up taking a cold shower and just offered, “Well, we’re on the pilgrims trail now, they didn’t have hot water back in the day either.”

We went to the small church in the middle of Gambassi Terme, dropped off a prayer and then stopped in the café next door so I could partake in my own religion.

After a cappuccino, daypacks were firmly affixed to our backs, the strongest Halls cough drops were tucked into cheeks and we began to shuffle our way along the trail.

And it was gorgeous and lined with vineyards and chianti tasting rooms. We laughed and wondered how much introspection did people get done where you could stop in and taste the product of the vines every mile or so? 

The hike didn’t have an intense rise in elevation or hills to climb. (Which was why we picked the three segments we did.)

But the old man’s hip was hurting him and mine wasn’t any better. It was a sniffling, foggy, coughing fueled shuffle down the dirt road. We tried to offer up our suffering for others as one foot fell in front of the other and made sure to pop medicine every four hours.

Our day’s walk was surrounded by rolling Tuscan hills, terracotta topped villas encased by cypress trees on the horizon, blooming daisies and other white, yellow and purple flowers. One gorgeous view after another greeted us around each bend in the road. 

Finally, we arrived at the final bit of the trip. Like most medieval towns, San Gimanano was built on a hillside, meaning all the streets lead up.

When we first planned this trip, the dream was to explore the city once we arrived. This time, we made it as far as we were able to push ourselves, and sat on a curb halfway up the main street, waiting for my sister to pick us up.

At least she understood the assignment, and once we were in the car, she drove to the nearest café.

Even feeling as roughed up as I was, there was an accomplishment and a cappuccino at the end of the line.

Yet another good reminder: You can plan all you want, but life gets in the way and changes the plans you made.

The way I see it, we have a choice in those moments, we can either complain and point fingers and wallow in how everything is ruined. Or we can embrace the unexpected (and sometimes ridiculous), duct tape ourselves together best we can with cough drops, order a cappuccino and appreciate the view.

If you love chaotic Italian adventures with quirky characters (and coffee), my books might just be your next page-turning escape. And be sure to sign up for my newsletter for more stories and fun.