There is a scene in European Vacation where Clark Griswold is driving in London and he gets on a roundabout but he cannot get off. Well, the story you are about to hear is not written for a movie—the story is true, and I have not changed any details to protect myself.
Friday dawned bright and beautiful in Turin. Joyce and I enjoyed our last breakfast in the lavish breakfast room of the Turin Palace Hotel. Our friendly waitress who cheerfully provided our Americano Coffee each morning wished us a warm, “Arrivederci!” as we departed.
The Turin Palace Hotel is right across the street from the main train station of Turin. Our train was literally a few feet away from our room. I’m the type of person who likes to be at the airport at least two hours or more before our flight, so Joyce was getting concerned when we had not left the room 45 minutes before our train was scheduled and I told her we had plenty of time. At the train station you don’t have to check in, you don’t have to go through security, and you do not have to check your bags—in fact, you cannot check your bags, and that was our biggest concern at the beginning of the day.
We had packed for both warm and cold weather, so we have two large and one small suitcase. In Europe, you must carry your bags on the train and store them over your seat. There is a space at the end of the car for some luggage storage, but it is very limited.
We walked out of our hotel and in less than five minutes we were standing in front of the big information board that announces arrivals and departures. Our train was scheduled to leave at 9:25 a.m. Our train was a “Trenitalia Frecciarossa,” formally known as the Eurostar. It is Italy’s version of the high-speed train. The English translation of Frecciarossa is red arrow. We were scheduled to cover the 285 miles from Turin to Florence via Milan in 3 hours—and that included 5 stops!
The Frecciarossas are very modern and sleek, with engines on both ends shaped like an aerodynamic bullet. These trains stand in stark contrast to traditional trains, therefore we thought we were standing in front of our train which was parked on platform 18. But you cannot make your way to the train until the platform is officially displayed on the board, which is normally 15 minutes before departure.
We wanted to be one of the first ones to board to make sure we could find a place to store our luggage. Unlike airlines where you board by groups, in Italy once the train platform is announced it is first come, first serve. Our seats were in car 4.
At 9:10 a.m. on the dot, platform 18 flashed on the board beside our train and we joined the multitudes making our way to the cars. The majority of the people were in 2nd class cars. One other couple was in front of us waiting to board car 4, a “Prima” first-class car. When the doors opened we grabbed our suitcases and walked up the steps into the car. The luggage space was empty as this was the origination of this train and I quickly claimed the bottom half for my three bags. It was so easy. We made our way to our comfortable seats and precisely at 9:25 a.m. the train pulled out of the station.
Twice during our 3-hour journey attendants came by with a cart serving water, juice and snacks. They even sold sandwiches. The seats were very comfortable and could easily recline. I had my laptop, working on Thursday’s journal.
Once we got out of Turin, we increased speed. When we reached 200 km/hr (124 mph) the speed was displayed at the front of the car. We kept going faster. 220—240-260—280, all the way to 300 km/hr! That is traveling at 186.4 miles per hour! When the conductor (they call them managers in Italy) came by to scan our tickets, I told her we had never been on such a fast train. “In the US,” I said, “Trains are slow and not usually on time!” She smiled and seemed to enjoy the contrast. We arrived in Florence at the main train station right on time.
Everything was “Perfecto!” But that was about to change!
The car rental place was within walking distance from the train station. After making only one wrong turn and asking for directions once, we walked into the office. It only took a few minutes to process the paperwork. The lady handed me a paper and said, there are two places on the car where damage has already been noted. Then she walked me out front. I assumed our car was parked on the street, but she pointed to a garage over a block away and said, “You walk there to get your car.”
Several rental companies share this downtown garage. We had rented our car though AAA. It is a European company named Europcar. The lady told me her colleague would be waiting for us. There was one guy carefully washing a red Fiat that didn’t look large enough to hold our bags, much less us! I gave him my papers and he pointed to a larger dark colored car and said, “This is your car.”
It was a Fiat sedan with a stick shift. Now, we are used to someone walking around the car with us, pointing out any scratches or dents. And they would make sure we knew how to open the gas cover and would show us any unusual things about the car, like how to put the car in reverse if you have to pull the gear shift up and over—but this guy just kept washing that little red car. All he had said was, “That’s your car.”
I asked him where the keys were and he said, “In the car.”
I pulled the car up a few feet and loaded our luggage. I adjusted the driver’s seat, the mirrors, and made sure I was comfortable with the gear shift. Then we tried to load our destination, “Greve in Chianti,” in the Google Maps, but we could not get a signal in the parking deck. We had a map the rental company had given us, so I asked Joyce if she was ready. She was, so we started to pull out of the parking garage. We drove and few feet and the car cut off.
“You need to give it more gas,” Joyce said.
I tried it again, this time with more gas. It cut off a second time. Not a good start.
Finally, I pulled out of the parking deck and we were off to the races. We were following the directions on the map. Traffic was heavy. There was one place I turned left then needed to turn right quickly. Scooters were flying past me, cars were not willing to let me in, finally at the turn I slowed and the car behind me started blowing the horn. Somehow, I squeezed into the right lane and made the turn. We were following the signs to Siena. We also had a cellular signal and it was agreeing with the highway signs. We were moving out of the heavy downtown traffic and I was beginning to feel a little better about things. Then we turned on the AC. There was a terrible odor like something was burning.
Then Joyce said, “Is that smoke coming out of the hood?”
“No,” I said. “It couldn’t be smoke.”
We were
moving faster now, but I started to notice people waving at us. Friendly Italians! Then, they were honking their horns. The car behind me was flashing its
lights. I slowed down and they pulled
beside us and rolled down the window.
“Do you speak English?” they shouted. “Your car is smoking very bad. It may be on fire.”
“Ray,” Joyce said. “If the car is on fire, don’t you think we ought to stop?”
The only problem was there was nowhere to park. After a short way, I pulled into the only open space I could find—a no parking zone beside a dumpster.
We got out of the car and sure enough, smoke was pouring out from under the hood. I found the map that had the Europcar number. I dialed the number and got a recording. About this time an Italian lady came up and saw the smoke. She tried telling Joyce where a mechanic was located. Mechanic was the only word we understood. Joyce tried telling her that we only spoke English, but she kept talking. Finally, I got a real person on the phone.
I explained that we had just picked up the car from their downtown office in Florence and the car was smoking.
“Did you take off the brake?” the lady asked.
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“Do you know how to use the clutch? It may be the clutch.” she added.
I sure thought I knew how to drive with a clutch. Then she said, “Wait a few minutes and if the smoke does not go away, call the emergency number on the key.”
Is that the only help they can give me? I thought. Wait until the smoke clears?
“Maybe we should look under the hood,” Joyce said.
I looked for the release for the hood, but could not find it. Joyce got the owner’s manual, but guess what? It was in Italian. Finally, I gave up and said, “Even if we get the hood opened, what good would it do? We wouldn’t know what we were looking at.”
I was also concerned that I was parked in a no parking zone next to a dumpster. I got in the car to back it up a little, but when I put it in what I thought was reserve, I went forward. I tried it 3 times. Now I was almost on the dumpster.
“We’ve got to get the car pushed back,” I told Joyce as the Italian lady continued to chatter.
“How?” she asked.
“You get behind the wheel and I will push.”
Joyce got behind the wheel and now I was pushing the rental car backwards because I couldn’t get it in reverse. Meanwhile cars kept flying by and people were staring at us. At least the car had not blown up. It had stopped smoking.
We were supposed to be at a beautiful Villa in the Tuscan hills right now, sipping wine in the lovely gardens. Instead, I’m pushing the rental car away from a dumpster because panicked bystanders thought our car was on fire and an Italian lady we can’t understand, can’t understand why we don’t go see the local mechanic. This is not the way I had it planned.
Finally, Joyce started the car and easily put it in reserve.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
Joyce explained that she used to own a Fiat. You always have to pull up on the gear shift before shifting into reverse.
“Maybe you should be the one driving,” I said. But Joyce quickly rejected that notion.
“What should we do?” asked Joyce.
“There’s only one thing I know to do,” I said. “Let’s get in the car and drive.”
“But what about the smoke?”
“We will see what happens.”
We both got in the car and decided to go somewhere besides where we were. We could still smell the smoke, but we didn’t have any more trouble—at least not with the car. Our adventure was far from over.
We finally got Google Maps working again and tried to follow the directions. We pulled out on a main highway and the Google Map lady said, “Take the first exit on the right.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
“You just passed it,” Joyce said.
Google Maps was trying to recalculate when I saw a sign for Siena. I took the exit and followed the signs. Finally, Google Maps kicked in again and we followed the directions for about 10 minutes. It seemed we were taking every turn and every exit. Finally, the Google Map lady said, “Take the first exit on the right.” We were back at the same place we had been several minutes before.
“Where is the exit?” I asked.
“You just passed it, again!” Joyce said.
We started the same slow circle and before long we were back again. The Google Map lady said, “Take the first exit on the right.”
“Where is that exit?” I asked.
“You just missed it again!” Joyce said. “Don’t you trust Google Maps.”
“It’s not that,” I said. “That dadgum exit just keep coming too fast.
This time Google Maps kicked in quicker and the digital lady decided to route us a different way. But the next thing I knew we were approaching a huge toll booth plaza, you know, the ones that fan out to about 15 or 20 lanes. As we got closer I kept looking for the toll booth with a person, because I didn’t have any change and I didn’t know what the toll would be. The problem was, all the gates were automated—not a single one was manned by a human! Not knowing what to do, I slowed down and got as far to the left side as I possibly could. I looked around but there was no way out. The only thing to do would be to back up, backing against all of the 100s of cars and trucks flying into the toll plaza. If I backed up several hundred feet, there would be an emergency turn around I could use.
Hoping St. Christopher had not deserted me, I started
to carefully back the car (true confession, Joyce is still having to show me
how to put it in reverse) as I watched cars and trucks swerving to miss me in
the backup camera. Having finally backed
up enough to turn into the emergency lane, I moved forward until I was headed
in the opposite direction. I noticed
several policemen watching me closely as I joined the traffic leaving the toll
plaza from the opposite direction.
We listened closely as the Google Map lady had us turning here, then there, then going up one ramp, then another. After about 15 or 20 minutes I said, “Look!”
We were back at the same toll plaza! This time I pulled into the emergency turn
around and stopped. Several policemen
were staring at us.
Joyce rolled down the window and cried, “Help!”
A policeman walked over to the car and Joyce said,
“English.”
He called to another policeman.
A nice
pleasant policeman walked up to the car, leaned down and said, “Little English.
How can I be of service?”
We explained that we were trying to go to Greve in Chianti but were just going around in circles. He said not to worry he could help us. He told us to get on the toll road (which is what the Google lady had been trying to get us to do for the last 45 minutes) and go until we saw the Florence/Siena exit. Then he said that we should see signs for Greve in Chianti.
“I have one more question,” I said. “How do you go through that toll booth. There is no one to take your money and I have not easy pass.”
“That is because you do not pay now. You pay when you exit. All you do is collect the ticket.”
Thanking the officer profusely and feeling very much like Clark Griswold, we joined the cars in the lanes of the toll plaza and collected a ticket. As we picked up speed down the highway, the Google lady sounded relieved!
When we reached our exit, we went to the exit toll plaza, but again there was no human on duty. I became concerned when we pulled up at the machine and inserted the ticket. We owed 2 Euros and the sign said “Coins Only.” But then I saw a place to insert a bill. I sent a 5 thought the slot and received 3 Euros in change. The gate opened and we drove through. Soon we saw a sign that read: “Greve in Chianti!”
We followed the signs and the Google lady. Only once did they not agree and we followed the Google lady. Soon we were driving into Greve in Chianti.
Our destination was the Villa Bordoni. They had a notice on their web site not to follow your GPS once you enter Greve. So we turned off our friend from Google Maps and followed the written directions.
The Villa Bordoni is one of the most beautiful Villas in Tuscany. It is a “Patrician Villa”—the former country home of the Bordonis, a family of wealthy merchants from the city of Florence. But the origins of this amazing structure go back to the 11th century, over a 1,000 years ago!
Long before Italy was a unified nation, Italy was ruled by different city states that were frequently at war with each other. Two of the fiercest rivals were Florence and Siena, and the valley of the river Greve was right in the middle. Over 1,000 years ago a stone tower with a dungeon was constructed. The tower was a fortress with thick walls and arrow slits. The dungeon was to hold prisoners of war. As time went on alliances were made and a farmhouse was attached to the tower.
In the 17th century this “casa colonica” was purchased by the wealthy Bordoni family from Florence and slowly transformed into a Villa for their summer home, with it stucco façade and Italian Garden. (The beautiful garden continues to this day and I am sitting in the garden as I write this on a picture, perfect Sunday morning).
During the 18th century Giuseppe Bordoni made the Villa his permanent residence, invested heavily in the vineyards, and in 1782 started producing the renowned Chianti Classico, taking the name of “Mezzuola.”
The Bordoni family continued to own the property and produce the famous wine until the Second World War. After the war the heiress of the property married a painter of “dubious talents” and he dwindled the family fortune paying for expensive exhibitions all over Europe. The final member of the Bordoni family vacated the house in 1997.
After three years of extensive renovations, the Villa opened to the public in 2005. In 2006 and 2007 it was voted one of the “Best New Hotels in the World” by Conde Nast Traveler.” In 2010 Reuters listed the Villa Bordoni as one the “10 most romantic hotels in the world.”
We are staying in a Junior Suite, that overlooks the olive groves and distant Tuscan hills. There is a comfortable king size bed and a separate mezzanine level with a day bed. The bathroom is spacious and luxurious with a walk-in shower with hydro massage jets.
The dining room is located in the original 1,000 year-old tower. A wood fire warmed the room. The room is small, only tables for 16 people. The tables were covered with linen tablecloths and candles were burning. The first night we enjoyed Wild Boar Ragu with Rabbit as the main course. The second night we enjoyed a Lamb Gnocchi with Guinea as the main course.
We have walked through the beautiful gardens and olive groves. We have rested, read, and meditated. The days are warm and sunny. Sitting in the garden is most serene and peaceful----except we now have a problem.
We have met some wonderful people who are staying here. A couple from New Jersey, another from Arizona, and a newlywed couple from California—he has an uncle in Polk County, North Carolina. But yesterday, a couple from Germany appeared at lunch. She is very tall, nice and quiet. But he is big, loud, and obnoxious. All he does is talk—very loudly. And this morning, as I was hoping to have a quiet time in the garden, all I can hear was his loud rantings on politics. I think he is a radical. I do not want to engage in conversation with him.
It is an example of what is wrong with the world. Most people are kind and gracious, level headed, understanding and compassionate. Most people are tolerant and accepting of those who are different. But one person with radical ideas and a loud voice can create problems for everyone.
World travel is one of the most important ways to experience different cultures and meet people of different faiths. If more of our young people could travel internationally they would learn that the world is one big family and we must learn to respect each other and live together in understanding and peace.
We will enjoy one more day and night at the Vila Bordoni, then we travel to our home away from home, the Torraccia di Chiusi outside of San Gimignano, our beloved farmhouse.
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