Euro Tripped

by Sally Bryan

  “We’ve found a base.” Her little finger curled around my own as we ambled slowly, oh so slowly, up the ancient cobbled street, narrow as it was with the buildings either side reaching up at least five storeys, making you feel small and inferior because they were so old. “And it’s about time too.”

  I had to think how long it had been since we left Lisbon and decided it was probably around two weeks and in all that time, we’d not spent more than a single day in any one place. “Agreed, I’m tired of all the driving.”

  This type of a holiday was not possible without an infinite amount of driving but still, I’d had enough of it and fancied an extra day or two somewhere special. Who’d have thought that two women travelling together could be so hard to please and not even Milan, Florence or any place between Portugal and Italy had felt satisfactory.

  That was, until we arrived in San Gimignano, deep in the heart of Tuscany.

  Built on a hill, the town was famous for its many tall towers resulting from family rivalries over the centuries. When normally rivals would declare war, here they’d merely tried to see who could build the tallest tower and the result was the beautiful town we now intended on calling a base, for a few days at least.

  We were enjoying morning coffee in Piazza della Cisterna and watched as the usual tourist flocks followed guides holding flags or symbols or teddy bears on the end of long sticks. I glanced around the square and looked up.

  “You’re trying to count the towers?” She was leaning back in her seat, devilishly cool in sunglasses as our legs touched beneath the table.

  Some of the towers had collapsed over the years due to earthquakes and I didn’t want to miss any. “In this square, I think there’s seven.” I sipped my coffee and enjoyed the sensation of her bare flesh so smooth against my own.

  For two weeks we’d been alone and what an experience, being able to finally have her to myself, just Arwen, no bullshit, a chance for us to get to know each other and see how we were together.

  But the last two weeks had felt different to before, weirdly different.

  We were close, for sure, I felt closer to Arwen than I ever had and there were the occasional sparks of what we had in Barcelona.

  Back in Monaco, she’d made a point of cuddling up closer to me to “overwhelm that creep’s eyes” that she could still feel crawling over her body. That fat, disgusting billionaire, who I’d recognised from the news, had offered Arwen fifty thousand Euros to spend the night on his yacht and she’d laughed in his face even as her nails were digging into my palm.

  “Please say you’d never allow me to do anything like that.” Shortly after, she was absolutely shivering in my arms as I snuggled up and felt conflicted, appalled yet so turned on and privileged to be the one allowed in this girl’s presence. She’d looked up suddenly and for several minutes we’d enjoyed one of our more passionate embraces as our mouths pressed so hard together I feared I’d melt into her. Unfortunately, the camper had been parked across town and even if it had been close, we were in the middle of a busy city and when we finally did find a place to pitch the tent for the night it was too late, she was cold again and once more I had to endure that frustrating thrumming from deep inside, something that only Arwen had the power to satisfy.

  But then, there were also the occasional exhibitions of what we had when we first met, though in reverse, of my getting under her skin. Long drives made her tetchy, as did my inability to peel prawns, no matter how many times she tried to teach me the skill. My supposed cold feet were a constant problem and it was always my fault if she had to go more than two days without showering. “I can’t share a sleeping bag with you tonight,” she’d say and I’d sulk into the night wondering if there was something else behind it. I’d sometimes watch as she practiced her dances whilst she listened to the music from her headphones and that was fine but as soon as she began meditating it became a problem. “You’re putting me off, why don’t you go find a gay bar somewhere for an exorcism, you’re looking at me like I’m the last woman on the planet.”

  And I’d told her I went too, when in reality I was sitting on a park bench balling my eyes out.

  It was a new side to Arwen, she was human, as it transpired, and the realisation she was not the Goddess I’d always assumed came as an incredible relief because it made me less intimidated to be around her. On the contrary, she was exceptionally flawed, just like anyone else, yet was so in the most adorable of ways, evidence yes, as to my love for her.

  She muttered in her sleep, though never anything of coherence and the one time we ran out of coffee I worried she might cause damage to my person. One night we made the mistake of going to a bar, a regular one, and she’d been approached by so many horny men that the final unfortunate soul was told to “fuck off,” before, in exasperation, she dragged me out by the wrist. That night I worried my poor legs would be bruised so badly by her kicks that I’d left her in the tent and gone to sleep in the camper and the next morning, I awoke to find her beside me in bed, our legs tangled together.

  We bickered all the time, over matters large and small but always, it was with an undertone of sexual tension, even if she never felt ready, or capable, of seizing me and doing as she bloody well pleased.

  I was beginning to get a taste of what a lesbian relationship was, just without the sex, which I absolutely craved. It was a constant rollercoaster of ups and downs, of not knowing what the fuck was happening and never being sure which of her actions or moods were intentional or not. Still, to spend a single day with Arwen was more interesting, thrilling and indescribable than five years with Gabe.

  Yes, things were different now, I’d hurt her and I was paying for it. No matter what I did, evidently I was unworthy. She didn’t wish to make herself vulnerable again, which is exactly what I’d become in her stead. I’d learned my lesson but what difference did it make? And I reasoned that she’d long ago made up her mind that I was good enough only as a friend, not as a girlfriend, and that was the most devastating realisation in the world.

  I sipped my coffee and watched her do the same, her big blue eyes never leaving the pamphlet.

  “It’s a tourist trap, is what it is. There’s so much to do, we’re here in the peak of summer and won’t we just pay hand over bloody fist for everything.” Italy, as it turned out, wasn’t much less expensive than Switzerland and Arwen was always complaining about the price of food.

  I smiled because she was using my expressions now. “Something relaxing, perhaps?”

  She hummed, “that rules out the Museum of Torture and Execution, of which there are three in this one town, can you believe that?”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “Um, not really my thing but I’m sure there are castles and more towns just like this.”

  She squinted into the small brown sheet of paper and whatever she was reading must have been good because she held up a finger to silence me. “There’s a hot spring about a hundred miles away, a village called Saturnia, where we can bathe out in the open. Everybody looks so happy.”

  I sighed, “too much driving, maybe another day. Personally, I’d settle for an early night with some wine and you in the camper or tent, I don’t mind.”

  She looked up and licked her lips. “You say you still have that wine I gave you in Bordeaux? It’s supposed to be delicious.”

  I nodded, the truth was I’d been waiting for the opportune moment to drink it with her as it seemed like the right thing to do. “I still have it.”

  She pulled a funny face. “It’s red though.”

  “So?”

  “So.” She mimicked my Scotch accent perfectly and I rubbed her leg beneath the table. “We’re not in Bordeaux anymore, we’re in Chianti and here they make white wine.” She said as her eyes snapped up to the wall over my shoulder.

  “You’re guessing, aren’t you. You don’t know squat about the local wine.”

  She flicked the pamphlet. “Which is why this wine tour will be the perfect way to l
earn all about it.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed and felt the fatigue take control of my body, Italian coffees were so small in comparison to what we got back home and the one I’d just finished had barely any effect on me. “If it even matters about drinking local wine just because we’re, well, local, then surely we can just buy a bottle or two from a shop, some food and maybe watch a movie on your tablet.”

  She wasn’t listening and now her finger was back to silence me. “It says traditional.”

  I shrugged, “so?” I mimicked her Oz accent just as perfectly as she did mine.

  “And we get a free meal included in the price, so the jokes on Italy.” She saw my blank expression. “Really, Frey, you go to Belgium, you eat chocolate, you go to Germany, you eat sausages, you go to Poland you … doesn’t matter, but when you come to Tuscany, you take a wine tour.”

  I conceded with a nod and took her hand. “Ok, ok, we’ll do it. I’m sure it’ll be great.” And I wanted to make her happy. “But I need another coffee first.”

  It wasn’t far away, about six miles east before the town of Poggibonsi and we had to park the camper on the road because of the large iron gate that blocked access to the dirt track that led towards the building, or rather, bomb site at its pinnacle. There must have been work going on because I could see the huge piles of rubble, workstations with discarded tools, wheelbarrows and several vans and trucks.

  I frowned and wanted to return to San Gimignano. “This can’t be the right place.”

  She waved the pamphlet in front of my face. “It is and look, there are people up there.”

  They looked like workmen to me, rather than tourists but Arwen wasn’t discouraged and the intercom crackled when she pressed the button.

  “Pronto?” Came the woman’s voice after a short wait.

  “Siamo qui per il giro.”

  I gaped at the girl as my entire body unsteadied. I shouldn’t have been surprised. “Italian too?”

  She held up a hand to silence the intercom, as daft as that was, and turned briefly to me, “Freya, it’s pretty much the same as Spanish, French and…”

  The intercom crackled but nothing was returned.

  “If you say so.”

  We stood still for a few minutes, stupidly exposed to the late August sun as I tapped my feet and stared forlornly at the camper with its curtains and privacy. “Gordanno Vineyard? Am I saying that right?” It was impossible to tell how many similar vineyards we’d passed on the way, but there were many, any one of which would be happy to take our money if this place didn’t open the gates.

  “It’s pronounced Jee…or…danno. Say it.”

  “Giordano.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I reckon that maybe Miss Giordano’s coming down personally to open the gate for us.” I joked, even though it wasn’t funny. “Seriously, let’s just go. Bordeaux doesn’t sound so bad right now, does it?”

  She was about to speak but then there was a loud buzz and we both jumped.

  And then the gates slowly began to open inwards and before us was the empty dirt track with what I could now definitely see to be workmen sitting idly around at its summit.

  We’d arrived at the Giordano Vineyard.

  * * *

  “We’re one of the oldest vineyards in Tuscany to have been run continuously by the same family.” The tour guide grimaced because we were facing the steep ascent back up the slope toward the large barn at its summit and she took a deep breath in preparation. “Strap yourselves in for the charge. Where were we? Ah yes, the Giordano family has been making wine through war, pestilence, plague, revolution and numerous repossession attempts by the bankers,” she laboured with every step as the two of us fell in close behind, “but we’re still here.”

  That was our cue to smile so we did, after having spent the last fifteen minutes strolling through the many rows of vines and being told about the unique type of grape they grew in Tuscany and that Giordano wine was superior to most because of their strict inspection process, which meant having to scrutinise every single grape.

  Arwen’s face betrayed her lack of interest which, given this tour thing had been her idea solely, prompted me to assume that either she’d had a different romantic view of what a Tuscan vineyard would be, or else had simply wanted to get tanked up on the produce.

  We reached the barn, which turned out to be a factory, and had all kinds of fancy, yet very old winemaking apparatus and hardware, most conspicuously the twelve giant wooden tanks lined against the wall that had to contain the fruits of the vineyard’s labour.

  The tour guide’s name was Dayna and when she’d greeted us, I’d been surprised to hear an accent from the south of England. We’d had to wait twenty minutes in an unfinished reception area with loose wiring and sawdust strewn across the floor and soon after her arrival, she disappeared again, we guessed to use the bathroom. Now, she excused herself once more, whilst Arwen and I were left alone amongst the vats, and returned a few minutes later, face flustered, and directed us to a large oak cask with a wheel and lever attached to it.

  “This is the grape press and is where every drop of our wine passes through, where we separate the white winemaking process from the red winemaking process.” She had to shout above the hammering and sawing that was coming from somewhere nearby. “The grapes go in here, we turn the wheel to crush them and the juice flows into this tub. Because we make white wine, we have no further use for the skins, which are required only for making red wine.”

  “Ok, yes.” I nodded, feeling the need to show I understood.

  Dayna was one of those stereotypically beautiful petite blondes, or except she might have been with a few good nights’ sleep in her. She had a soft face but it was buried beneath a hard exterior, with the first sign of lines appearing beneath the periorbital puffiness, or eye bags, which were displayed prominently on what I put to be a girl in her late twenties or very early thirties, though in truth it was hard to tell. And oh yeah, she was liable to pop at any moment.

  “Seriously, why isn’t she reclining back on a comfy couch right now?” Arwen took a moment to whisper in my ear whilst Dayna was taking a sip of water and cooling her face with one of those foldout fans she’d been carrying from the outset of this tour. It was a good question though none of my business.

  “The press is presently full of grapes so let’s give it a whirl.” She manoeuvred herself over to the handle attached to the big wheel and alarmed, Arwen and I both dashed forwards to preempt her.

  “Ooh, let me,” I called, “I’ve always wanted to try this,” which was a lie and I gave it a few turns, which required considerable effort and was rewarded by a stream of juice that began to flow from a spout at the base, straight into a wooden tub with wheels. “Arwen?”

  She took over from me and the juice flowed with even more vigour.

  “You’re probably wondering why we use such antiquated methods,” Dayna continued above the added noise of hundreds of squelching grapes, “and that’s because here, we’re traditional.”

  There was a squeaking sound and Arwen and I both turned to see a man in a baseball cap wheeling into the warehouse a large contraption with four long tentacles and pincers for hands. “Where do you want the Agbot?”

  Arwen smirked and nudged me in the side as Dayna’s cheeks flared. “Over there.” She pointed in the direction of a closet and stepped in front of us in a futile effort at cutting off our line of sight. She shook her head and managed to meet our eyes after the man had disappeared. “We, um, we’ve had a recent staff shortage.”

  She again excused herself so that after almost an hour on the tour, we’d barely learned anything, not that we could blame her personally, just whoever it was making her work in this condition. But it gave us time to leave the barn so we could relax under the shadow of a tree and admire the beautiful landscape. It wasn’t just the vista but also the four-hundred-year-old mansion that acted as the Giordano family residence, wherever they were. Regardless,
it was certainly large with three floors and impressive with its timber frame, intricate stonework and window shutters.

  Dayna now strolled out from that building as she clutched at her lower back like women in the late stages of pregnancy often did and I felt for her. “If you’d like to follow me, it’s lunchtime.”

  We were taken through to a small canteen with three long wooden tables and benches to accommodate sixty tourists at least, except today it was just the two of us. The walls had yet to be plastered and the wiring was visible between the joists, while the light fixtures hadn’t yet been screwed in and the air possessed that distinct smell of wood shavings.

  Dayna handed us menus and after placing down a carafe of water, proceeded to fill two wine glasses from a bottle with an elegant label. “This is our Panizzi blend, featuring a seventy-five percent Vernaccia di San Gimignano grape as you saw, perfect for lunchtime. We recommend it with the ricotta and spinach tortelli.”

  Arwen ran a finger down the three item menu, “I think I’ll go for the wild boar pappardelle.”

  I nodded, “sounds good, make that two.”

  She sucked in air, “ah, I’m afraid we’re out of that.”

  Arwen looked back to the menu, her gaze flashing over me as she did. “In that case, I’ll go for the tordelli versiliesi, I’ve no idea what it is but it sounds good.”