In the summer of 2001 my family and I took a trip to Italy to see my mother’s best friend, Veronica, and her fiancé, Aaron, who were to be married. It only took three planes five stops in three countries to get to Florence, Italy, from our hometown of San Diego.
We stayed the night in a quaint hotel in Florence, down the street from the Duomo. It was the most stunning piece of the Florentine skyline, and it was outside my hotel window. We only saw it briefly, because the wedding rehearsal was that night. We piled ourselves and suitcases into two tiny rented Ford Focuses and drove south, on our way to stay for seven days at the Castello Di Machiavelli with the wedding party.
However, things never work out as you wish they would, and we had to make many stops for the bathroom, for food and just to stop and admire the ancient, mysterious ruins that litter the Tuscan countryside. Veronica had told us to go to the city of Sienna and call her when we arrived. Everyone was sick of the car and anxious to experience Italy, so we decided that we should go for a walk. We parked in a lot outside the walled-off part of the city called the Campo, and hit the city on foot. It turned out that the city was mostly pedestrian-friendly, and no cars were allowed in the Campo.
An older man in an art store tried to sell us “natural pigment paints” that were supposedly made from clay that was the color sienna. He told us, though we could find no evidence he was telling the truth, that the color sienna originated in Sienna, from the color of the clay underfoot in the city and surrounding areas. He said it was used as a pigment in paint and that it dominates the walls of most of the buildings in the city. The walls were a very similar color, but I was not too convinced. Everything looked the same to me. It could have been painted with the dirt paint, as it was all a similar color and style. In any case, he tried to sell us six shades of brown paint for $30 “because they were specially made in Sienna.” We walked around for about two hours peeking in more shops and eating gelato (Italian ice cream).
It started to get cold quickly at about 3 o’clock when a sudden storm rushed in and it started pouring rain. In a matter of 30 minutes it went from 80 degrees and humid to cold and rainy. Every one of us was caught unprepared, wearing sandals, tank tops and shorts. We attempted to get out of the rain and into a restaurant, but we were asked to leave because restaurants were not open between the regular meal hours. We took shelter under an overhang, only to realize that not one of us knew which direction led back to the car. We used the meager map that was in the pocket-sized guidebook, but it was insufficient at best. We also tried to ask for directions, but the people didn’t speak discernible English and we didn’t speak discernible Italian. One woman even gave us the wrong directions and we got turned around again. Seven people, and not one of us paid enough attention to where our mob had gone in the city full of switchbacked hills, and none of us knew the language.
So we were a little lost, nothing too serious, but we had a wedding rehearsal to attend at 7 p.m. and it was already 4:30. None of the streets had names, so we had to find the few landmarks that were in the guidebook. After about 30 minutes of more walking and feeling frustrated and tired, we stopped to have one more look at a map. A man in his late 60s came up to my older sister and held an umbrella over her head and started to say something that sounded like flattery.
In nearly perfect English he asked us if we needed some help, so we explained the situation. We told him we could manage, but he insisted that all of the ladies come with him in his car and find ours that way. Of course, our car was not far from where the old man had picked us up, but it was a relief to get out of the pouring rain.
We got out of the old man’s car and all he asked in return was a kiss from Shauna, my sister. Of course, she refused and was very rude to the kind old man (although I, too, found it perverse). He was saddened and asked me if I would acquiesce. I grudgingly sent him off with a goodbye peck on the cheek. I must admit to being a little grossed out, but I was later informed that it was not uncommon for the men of that generation in Italy to request a kiss after a favor.
We got back into the cars and, after a quick phone call, we were off to the Castello Di Machiavelli once again. We made it there in less than 45 minutes. It had stopped raining and the rehearsal had not yet begun. The Castello was amazing. It had a vineyard, olive groves, a swimming pool, six different cottages and a grand main house. They were all restored in the original style. We were put up in the Castello for one week -- but not before we experienced some genuine Italian cultural moments.
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