April 14
Rome - Chiusi

Kathy had rented a sexy little Mazda MX5 convertible for our many planned road trips in the Tuscan countryside. When we arrived at the gold counter, the skinny, sad looking employee leaned over the desk, looked at the 150 pounds of luggage, then looked at me, then again at the 150 pounds of luggage, then outside at the tiniest, sexiest little silver convertible you ever saw. Then he looked at me again and shook his head. I didn't need the Italian to English dictionary to look this up. He meant, "There is no way in hell you're going to get that 150 pounds of luggage in that little car." So instead of the sexy little convertible, we piled our bags into a Ford Fusion. Kathy's first complete sentence in Italy was, "It's a damn station wagon!"

But it worked. We fired up the diesel engine, pointed it toward Firenze (Florence), and took off. We drove up the Western coast for a ways, and then headed inland toward the A1 expressway. We drove past sections of the ancient Roman aqueducts and stretches of rural roads flanked by thick growths of wild dill weed growing on tree-trunk sized stems. Once we reached the A1, we paid the 1.60 Euro toll (luckily, we had changed some money at the airport) and drove nord (we figured that meant North). Cars of all shapes and sizes passed us doing 140 Kph or more, which after only three hours sleep, made the trip seem like passing through a time warp.

Chiusi, where our villa was located, is about halfway between Rome and Florence, about a 2-1/2 hour drive in the station wagon. We made the trip without major incident and even found the villa after turning around only once. Trouble was, the big steel gate leading to it was closed and locked. Kathy looked for a bell to ring but didn't find it. So we drove on down the winding dirt road looking for the owners' house.

In our experience, the first day at any new vacation locale is always disorienting. Something always goes wrong and makes us feel like, well, like we don't belong here. So far, nothing like that had really happened to us. So I took care of that. I took my eye off the dirt road for just a second to admire the view and, wham!, drove the station wagon into a drainage ditch. The ditch was about 18 inches deep and, in my defense, it was filled with tall Spring grass, making it almost impossible to see. Grass or not, both passenger side wheels went into the ditch and the rear axle buried itself in the dirt, lifting the driver's side rear wheel off the ground. End result - the station wagon was totally stuck, listing precariously to starboard, on a deserted rural dirt road in the middle of Italy. We had no working cell phones, and even if we had found somebody to ask, our Italian phrase book did not contain the phrase "tow truck." Talk about disorienting...

Kathy suggested piling all our travel books in front of the front tire to get it out of the ditch. The irony of that suggestion was appealing, but instead I decided to try to lift the rear end while Kathy put it in first gear and raced the engine. We made progress inches at a time. Twenty minutes into the ordeal, a female mail carrier in a florescent orange vest drove her Vespa past us, waved pleasantly, and kept going. Finally, after another ten or fifteen minutes of pulling, lifting, pushing, and cussing, we managed to liberate the station wagon, which was none the worse for wear, save for several large chunks of sod wedged into the undercarriage. Rental cars - the ultimate off-road vehicles!

We drove back to the villa and examined the closed gate once more. I discovered a row of tiny buttons on an intercom box that we hadn't noticed before and pushed one of them. "Hallo?" someone said. All my book-learned Italian escaped me immediately, so I just said in obviously desperate English, "Hi, this is Jim and Kathy." And miraculously, the gates started to swing open. We drove through a long arbor tunnel of roses, wisteria, and grape vines and parked the sodded station wagon in front of our Tuscan villa, back tires still smoking from the ditch adventure.

Our hosts, it turns out, were a retired couple who spoke no English. We managed to communicate by pointing and using makeshift sign language. For example, his first communication after teaching us to say, "buon giorno," was to point to the car and pinch his nose as if to ask, "Why does your machine stink so badly?" I replied by looking quizzical and shrugging my shoulders as if to say, "Sir, I have no idea why that ugly station wagon reeks like burning rubber."

We unloaded the 150 pounds of luggage, parked the stinky station wagon as far away as possible, and took care of some paperwork with our hosts. Upon seeing our passports, Gennaro said, "Ah Texass. Joan Ween?" Kathy looked puzzled, but I pointed my finger at him and stuck my thumb straight up.

"Yes sir," I said as I pulled the trigger of my make-believe six shooter. "John Wayne indeed."