Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  The next day, we set off for Trieste, which we chose because it was featured so often in the Cold War novels we read in the sixties and seventies. Trieste made us think of spies skulking around in fedoras, handing off secrets and ratting each other out to the Commies. Its rich literary history also attracted us. While living in Trieste, James Joyce wrote most of the stories in Dubliners, turned Stephen Hero into A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and began writing Ulysses. He and other writers like Italo Svevo and Umberto Saba regularly visited its literary cafés, making it the cultural and literary center of the so-called Austrian Riviera. The third largest Adriatic port, Trieste has a rich history that stretches all the way back to Roman times, which intrigued us. Neither of us had been there, which made it even more of an adventure.

  The approach to the city was dramatic. While driving through a forest, we made a sharp turn. Suddenly, stretched out far below us, was the Adriatic—pancake flat and bright blue. Trieste curved around a deep bay, with impressive estates hugging the tops of the cliff. Designer houses lined terraces that marched down to the sea.

  Tim booked a room at the Grand Hotel Duchi d’Aosta, which has hosted just about every visitor of note since 1873. It was wonderfully elegant and the old-world service impeccable. The hotel sits in the best location in town, directly on the square facing the Adriatic Sea. The neoclassical buildings that surround the square are huge. When illuminated at night, their elaborate exteriors look like wedding cakes. The city oozes a middle-European feeling different from any other place in Italy. After the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, it was annexed to Italy, but it still retains its unique Austrian look and atmosphere.

  In the hotel, porters in navy uniforms with epaulets and shiny gold buttons made the rounds with dust mops, constantly polishing the dark wood floors. The brass fittings looked as if they’ve been prepared for the king’s arrival. Floral wallpaper and velvet settees contributed to the sensation of an elegant bygone era. Our room was awash in inlaid furniture and gilded botanical prints.

  The pedestrian-only city center features a short canal, a failed attempt to compete with Venice. We explored the wide plazas and narrow alleyways, enjoying cooler temperatures than we’d experienced for many weeks, but found ourselves looking around corners expecting shady characters with dark secrets to appear any second! We enjoyed the hotel and appreciated the beauty of the city because it was so different from other places we had seen in Europe, but there was a melancholy feeling about the area that made us slightly edgy. Its dark history during World War II—Jews were gassed to death there—had left a stain that, for us, even its physical beauty could not erase.

  Florence was still a furnace when we returned. We tossed our bags in the apartment and hurried to the pool for relief. As we paddled around, Tim said, “Look, we have just a couple of weeks left here, and our only commitment is to see La Bohème at Puccini’s home. I want you to see it, but the weather report says it will be 104 in Lucca that night. Can you imagine the cast in their wool coats and scarves, passing out on stage?”

  “We’d probably faint, too,” I replied. “Didn’t you tell me that we had to walk quite a bit to get to the arena? I’m not sure that’s the best plan, are you?”

  “No, I don’t think it is. I say let’s give the tickets to Martha and let’s get the hell out of Dodge. I’ve already looked into it and I think I’ve found just the place for us. It’s not too far from Paris, so we won’t have any trouble turning in the car and getting to London. The apartment looks great, it’s in a cute little town…and it has three air conditioners.”

  I gave him a big smooch and ran into the house to start packing. He was right behind me. Now we were moles in our hot hole, running at warp speed to get out of the tunnel!

  We were not surprised when we phoned Martha days later to let her know we had safely arrived at our next destination, and she told us that her daughter, who had taken the tickets, said that cast members and some in the audience had fainted from the extreme heat during the performance. We were very pleased that we had not been among those prostrate in the aisles, and felt terrible for those who had suffered so in the name of culture.

  The next day, we were so excited to leave that even the crazy drivers in the tunnels didn’t bother us too much. The higher we climbed toward the Alps, the cooler the temperature became. Soon, it was in the eighties. We were so happy to have surfaced from the oppressing heat that, during two days on the road, we never had a cross word, even when we were lost, hungry, held up by traffic, or caught in a surprise rainstorm. We felt free as a couple of kids ditching school.

  After we negotiated the last tunnel, we stopped for lunch in a large restaurant that drew us in because we were amused by the full-size papier-mâché cattle on the lawn. After a beef sandwich (what else?), we took a look at their children’s museum, in which they presented displays showing how well the cattle were treated and how happy they were on the farm. We also saw pictures of rapturous children chomping away on roast beef sandwiches. How cute. “I can’t figure out how they explain to the kiddies that Bossie has to be offed before she shows up on their dinner plate,” Tim said after we left.

  We drove into La Charité-sur-Loire, a medieval town complete with towers and cobblestones, our home for the next few days. “I’ve saved a little surprise for you. There’s a blues festival going on in this town over the weekend! Supposedly some really good performers are going to be here, and I’ve already booked tickets for us.” Tim looked at me, grinning. “Is that cool or what?”

  “Well, it’s quite a change from Aida, and it sounds like fun,” I replied.

  The American owners of our fifteenth-century building, Kelly and Byron Harker, had converted it into several apartments. Ours was at the very top, up a steep circular stone staircase. Its tiny private terrace paralleled a fabulous medieval church, site of the festival. Not only was the place spacious and beautiful, it was also cool.

  At the festival, we had fun listening to an American art form interpreted by pickers and players from all over the world. Not the best blues we ever heard, but the setting was marvelous and everyone had a terrific time. The audiences tickled us because many of them were dressed up in their impressions of what an American blues-goer would look like. There were lots of T-shirts with silly sayings that used words like “dude” and featured Harley Davidson logos (an odd choice to us). The venue, in the annex of the stately old church, did NOT have air conditioning, so before long the entire audience and the performers were soaking wet. The German guy sitting in front of me was so hot that he dumped his water right over his head. I didn’t even mind the splash-back. But eventually the heat got to the comfort-seeking Martins. We left after the first set and fled next door to our temporary home where three air conditioners were blasting away and we were still close enough to hear these guys sing the blues. It was blissful.

  We explored the countryside, picnicked along the river, and even hopped the train to Paris for one more lunch with our pals Andie and Georges. We felt so cosmopolitan strolling up the little main street of town and boarding the train bound for Paris. The views of the French countryside were even more enticing when Tim was able to enjoy them, too. The pleasant two-hour ride brought us to the station at Bercy, where we easily caught the Métro to meet our friends. We strolled up the street beside Luxembourg Gardens and here they came, as planned. I also managed to spend a couple of hours at Dessange, which made me feel terribly soigné and continental, and ready for our next move to cool, rainy Britain. We repeated our little train ride down to La Charité and felt as if we were leading a golden life when we stepped back into our cool digs. Days like that, when everything worked out perfectly, we spent time with people we adored, and we were completely satisfied, made the times that were not so rewarding seem worth the trouble.

  We had come full circle from Paris. Our experiences in Italy reinforced what we suspected: new friends and travel enliven our lives, and we can cope with almost anything as long as we ke
ep laughing and stay flexible. We also came away from that experience with some new resolutions. We agreed that in the future when someone offered us a really great rental deal that we would not allow the benefits to render us deaf to the details. We now knew that Italy is HOT—and I mean way hotter than we ever could have imagined—in July and August, and renting a place with “traditional Italian air conditioning” (meaning none) was a mistake. Originally we had made that decision in deference to our budget. But in the future, this resolve would save us a lot of discomfort. We have declined several attractive offers because we looked clearly at the circumstances and knew we would be setting ourselves up for irritation or disappointment.

  As we’ve discovered many times in this adventure, it’s important to listen to that little inner voice we all have. You know, the one that pipes up during horror movies as you watch the hero step into a sinister room where the killer is lurking behind the curtain and you and the rest of the audience silently scream, “Don’t go in that room!” I suppose these are lessons all of us have to learn more than once before we really get it. Luckily, unlike the poor guy in the movie walking into the killer’s trap, we lived another day to do so.

  Chapter 9

  Britain

  “No, no, no—I’m NOT doing it. I don’t care what she says, it isn’t happening!” Tim shouted as he banged his hands on the steering wheel.

  He stared at the hand-lettered sign in front of us and then glared in defiance at Victoria, the GPS, reached down, and turned off the ignition. “Not Advisable for Motorized Vehicles” the sign read. We could see through the rain-splattered windshield that after about six feet of pavement, the road turned into a black, muddy bog full of waterlogged potholes.

  “Okay, okay, take it easy,” I said, patting his left hand that rested on the gearshift knob. Yes, his LEFT hand. This was Tim’s first day of driving on the left side of the road, shifting gears with his left hand, and learning to glance up at the rearview mirror, which was on exactly the WRONG side for everyone on earth except the British and the countries they conquered over the centuries.

  That morning, we had picked up the car at Heathrow Airport in London. Our goal was to reach Bucklawren Farm, a B&B on the Cornish coast, before dark. And preferably in one piece. It was beginning to look as if we had made one of our famous miscalculations, because Tim was thrust into this new form of driving with no time for a practice run. I had driven in Ireland when I lived there for a couple of years in the nineties, and I didn’t remember it being terribly difficult. Of course, I was younger (and therefore less daunted), had already been a passenger many times in the cars of experienced Irish drivers, and had been aided by plenty of parking lot practice before I made my first solo excursion. So I had much more help before I actually took off.

  Our drive started well on the M3, a major six-lane artery that runs east to west. After a few hours on that highway, Tim felt like he mastered the car’s basics. British traffic was well regulated, the drivers competent and courteous, and Victoria, the GPS, was having a great day of accuracy, probably because she was on her own British turf. Seriously, she sounded much more relaxed than she had in Italy and France.

  “You know, honey, I don’t think this is going to be too big a problem for me,” Tim had said. “The mirror is disconcerting [he never did get used to looking left when he glanced at the mirror], but overall, it’s not so hard. I think I’m getting used to it.”

  Moments later, when we got off the highway and approached the first traffic circle, things changed dramatically. In Italy and France, we entered and exited the roundabouts from the right. Here, they were exactly opposite, with traffic moving in and out on the left. The trouble was that right-hand drivers automatically look to the left for traffic. In this case, everything is happening on the right, so with every maneuver the driver is required to ask his brain to switch its focus. It’s terribly difficult. The gear shift is also on the driver’s left, and as I mentioned, the rearview mirror is on his left, too, which is disconcerting when you instinctually reach or look the other way in the middle of a busy intersection and find it’s not there.

  It took all three of us—Victoria, Tim, and me—to get through the traffic circles. We worked out a routine whereby long before we reached a roundabout, I’d study the GPS map and say things like, “Okay, in three kilometers you’ll enter the roundabout and take the exit at one o’clock. It’s the third exit. One o’clock. Got it?” I tried very hard to speak with a calm, unhurried cadence.

  “Yep,” he would respond through clenched teeth, a death grip on the wheel.

  Half the time, we picked the wrong entry lane. We circled again, struggling to stay in the lane that would release us from the circle at the right place. Every time we got it right and no one honked at us, we felt victorious.

  The road to Bucklawren took us through quaint villages, where the owners of authentic cottages displayed their well-tended gardens, and through tiny farming hamlets, forests, and fields outlined with ancient gray stack-stone fences festooned with vines. It was very beautiful, very English, and very nerve-racking. The deeper into Cornwall we ventured, the narrower the roads became. Those low stone fences crept closer to us and grew taller until they were about three inches from the side of the car and impossible to see over. Every oncoming car looked as if it was going to hit us head-on. Tim instinctively dodged to the left and hit the curb more than once. Just to add a little excitement, the skies chipped in: a light drizzle became more insistent. We were soon listening to the grinding of an improperly adjusted windshield wiper. Grrrriiiiinnnnchhhh, grrrriiiiinnnnnchhhhhhh, grrrrriiiiiinnnnchhhhhh. Great for the nerves.

  Suddenly, the road reduced to one lane, but cars were still coming our way! We saw small, muddy pullouts along the road. Each time we met another car, someone had to back up and wiggle into a space to let the other pass. Most of the people drove Range Rovers or some other four-wheel-drive beast that looked as big as the Space Shuttle. Backing up and squeezing into a space half as big as their car didn’t seem to bother them at all, but it terrified us. By this point, Tim and I had given up conversation. Occasional gasps, groans, or long sighs were our only forms of communication.

  Eventually, between the instructions emailed from the B&B owner and Victoria, who finally got a grip on her homeland’s strange road system, we crunched onto the farm’s gravel parking lot. Hurray! The TripAdvisor listing made much of the fabulous views, but through the rain and fog, we could barely see the house, let alone anything like a vista! We ran from the car to the building and stood dripping in a little covered vestibule, sheltered from the weather. At that moment, the door opened and the owner, Jean Henly, a tiny woman wearing a welcoming smile and a crisp little apron with a strawberry theme, shooed us inside. “We’ve been waiting for you. This weather is dreadful. Please come in and we’ll see to your things later. Come with me into the sitting room. Would you like tea or coffee? Are you hungry?”

  We felt as if our mother were welcoming us home after a particularly bad day at school. She parked us in the parlor near a little electric fireplace and brought us coffee and homemade cookies—plus the bright news that the next day would be sunny.

  A young English couple occupied the sofa in the living room. The girl, with the unlikely name of Fliss Mooncannon North, told us she had been coming to Bucklawren Farm since she was a child. Her beau, Sean Twomey, was a mechanic. When the rain slowed, we were so grateful when young Sean wouldn’t hear of Tim’s hauling our luggage up the steep stairs alone. That day, we needed all the help we could get.

  The old house looked typically English: cabbage roses and figurines, painted teacups and small flower prints hung a little too high on the walls, a creaking staircase and linoleum on the bathroom floor. The quilts and towels were thin but very clean. It felt like a trip to Grandma’s!

  In addition, the farm next door had been converted to a small hotel and restaurant. How fortunate: we would have rather starved to death than attempt those roads at night. />
  After Jean handed us a flashlight, we found our way next door and joined a chipper group at the bar. We placed our dinner orders, relaxed over a drink, and then walked downstairs. We were surprised to find a warm, attractive dining room where they served us an impressive steak dinner. The day, for all its drama, ended pleasantly, for which we were grateful.

  That night, as rain pounded our bedroom windows and we waited for sleep to engulf us, I turned to Tim and sighed. “I don’t know, honey, but after a day like this, I sometimes wonder if we’ve lost our minds. I’m so tired and I know you are, too. Do you think we’ve taken on too much?”

  Indeed, the dampness, cold, and uncertainties along the way had wrung us out. The whole day left us more than a little apprehensive about how we would fare with so many challenges ahead. We had no idea if the apartment in England would be a haven or a hovel (it’s always a relief when the places we rent turn out to be what we’d hoped), and moving in always presented a new set of unpredictable hurdles that had to be addressed. We still had London, Ireland, Morocco, and a couple of nights in Barcelona ahead before we were able to collapse in our stateroom on the way home. And who knew what that ship would be like? Being tired didn’t help our outlook. Plus, both of our birthdays were coming up, and we felt a little vulnerable. Although we are lucky to be completely healthy, we certainly are aware of our age and the lessening of resilience that comes with it. Our recovery time from stress and exertion was much slower than it had been a few years earlier.

  “No, I really don’t,” Tim replied reassuringly. “I do think we shouldn’t have tried to come this far in one day, and we’ll have to remember not to make such an ambitious start in the future. But I’ll bet you’ll feel much better in the morning and be ready to see what’s around here!”

  Of course, Tim was right as always. Jean’s weather prediction hit the mark, too: the new morning revealed acres of deep green cornfields. Beyond the stalks and tassels, the Cornwall coast sparkled in bright sunshine. The wind whipped up whitecaps and howled through the trees, just as it was supposed to do in this section of the world. Our spirits were further revived by a great night’s sleep in our cozy room under a downy duvet, followed by a full English breakfast in the old-fashioned dining room. Cut-work linens and hand-painted Limoges serving dishes, silver toast racks and tasty sausage left no further doubt: we were in England! Our eagerness to see Cornwall replaced all worries.