Rambling Rose

Our final breakfast on the terrace at Schloss Berge with our favorite waitress. She was so excited for us that we were going to Paris, almost swooning when I told that was where we were headed. I put my hand on my heart and said, “Wir bringen Sie mit.” (We’re bringing you with us.) She clasped her hands under her chin, smiling and making a tiny bow. There were promises about “nächstes Mal” (next time) and seeing one another again. It didn’t matter that we knew that were not true; it was the heart’s desire that mattered.

The cab we had ordered the night before arrived early and we were on our way to the Oberhausen train station before 8 am. The day promised to be even warmer than the one before. This cab, finally, was air-conditioned, so I had hopes for a more comfortable day.

About 15 minutes and 80 Euros later (cabs in Germany charge extra for trips on the Autobahn), we were at the station and on our platform 1 hour and 45 minutes before our train. The desk clerk at Schloss Berge had suggested leaving at 8 am, so we had agreed, even though I thought it was awfully early. We found a long bench in the shade, settled our bags around us, and waited. We strategized about the best way to get all six bags onto the train: Santo would board first with his two small bags, I would move the larger bags to him and help him left them up and into the train, then I would board with my two small bags.

When I checked the electronic sign on our platform, I noticed Wagen (car) numbers for our train and letters which corresponded to large letter signs along the platform: A, B, C, D, E. We checked our tickets and realized for the first time that we had assigned seats. We were in Wagen 37, Seats 93 and 95, and should stand at letter E. This was at the far end of the platform, so a few minutes before the train was scheduled to arrive, we made our way there. When the train got there, we did not see any Wagen numbers, but I did notice on the car that pulled up in front of us the Seat Numbers 59 to 99. “This must be us,” I said to Santo. Luckily, I knew to press the button to open the doors. We knew the train would not stop long, so in the rush our well-laid plans went awry and we scurried to get everything up the steps and into the car. Somehow we did it!

Our seats were in the first compartment on the right. There were 5 seats, and 3 young men seated there. One was sleeping, but the other two were quick to help us with the heavy luggage. He managed to lift Santo’s garment bag, along with our hand luggage, up to the overhead rack. The largest suitcase we were able to place against the wall just outside the door and out of the way of the aisle. The young men moved so we could have our assigned seats: one by the window and the one next to that. They spoke perfect English and after thanking them profusely, we chatted for a bit. They asked if we had children, and I told them a son who was 30 and a daughter who was 26. “Those are exactly our ages!” one of them said.

The car was not as cool as I would have liked, but manageable. I was very tired, but was not able to sleep. This leg of the trip was only 2 hours anyway.

Changing trains in Frankfurt, we again strategized about the luggage. Several people were in the vestibule waiting with us and everyone offered to help. People are so nice. When the doors opened, before I knew it a tall black man lifted my suitcase and handed it down to Santo. Just like that we were on the platform. Our next train was two tracks away. We just needed to go to the end of our platform and over two tracks—all on the level.

The Frankfurt train station is large and open, so the warm air that clung to us from Gelsenkirchen continued to smother us. We found seats at a tall table, mostly for a place to drop our luggage while we waited. Santo went in search of food. I was too hot to eat. The train was at the platform early, so we made our way down to our assigned car number. We were lucky that just inside the doors was an area for large luggage and we were able to store both of our large bags as well as our carry-on luggage. We had two forward facing seats with plenty of legroom. Everyone else on the train, including Santo, seemed comfortable but I was still dripping with sweat. I felt like I had been waiting to get SOMEWHERE cool forever. Would it ever happen? My hopes were on Paris.

Our high-speed train traveled at over 300 kmh (that’s 186 mph) and got us to Paris in four hours. Since Paris was the last stop, we waited to get up and retrieve our luggage. Again, people around us were helpful and we were on the platform and on our way in no time. Cabs were waiting just outside the station. Next stop: Hotel de l’Abbye in St. Germain, our splurge accommodation.

Driving through Paris on our way to the hotel we were again overcome with the sheer beauty of this city. It is without equal. Street after street of light-colored buildings with wrought-iron French balconies, and enormous double doors painted in rich gem tones (deep greens, reds, and blues) that gave entrée to the inner courtyards. Sidewalk cafes dotted every block: beige-and-brown patterned chairs with bentwood backs and small round tables that seem to expand to accommodate whatever was ordered. All under the shade of striped awnings.

The hotel was on a narrow street. Gates opened to a courtyard with iron two tables and a red carpet leading to the double glass doors. At last!

Inside, everything was warm, welcoming, and elegant, including the staff. Several small “living rooms” made up the lobby, each with an intimate seating area of sofas and chairs, wall sconces, small lamps with striped shades on marble-topped tables, and café or coffee tables. The walls were of pale cherry wood, outlined with simple and elegant moldings. Original paintings with lighted frames lined the walls. Deep burgundy and gold carpeting tied all the rooms together and added to the overall feeling of ease and comfort.

The desk clerk and another man helped us get our bags to the room, a first floor chambre that opened onto the interior courtyard. The room had the same genteel tone as the lobby areas. It was not as large as we had expected, but it had a solarium that opened directly onto the courtyard furnished with a cushioned wall seat, a small table, and a comfy chair. And, blessedly, the room was air-conditioned! “Not as cool as you have in America,” the clerk said, and then showed us how to turn it to the coolest setting. As soon as he left, I collapsed onto the bed’s cool pillows. I had been waiting so long for this moment!

We decided to eat at the courtyard café of the hotel; I could not think of leaving this comfort until at least the morning. The café served light fare, which suited us perfectly. Santo wanted to eat right away, but I needed a shower and change before I would be ready to face the world. The walk-in marble shower was marvelous. Even though I had trouble understanding the complicated instructions for operating the rain head, hand held, and side jets, I managed to get the cool water I needed to come out of the hand held and doused myself, washing away the sweat, exhaustion, and frustration of the last few days. Unfortunately, I was not able to wash away the bronchitis that had been plaguing me, but I did feel better.

The courtyard was lovely, enclosed by the creamy walls of the building and overflowing with lush greenery. Water flowed gently from a tarnished bronze fountain mounted against the back wall. Seven or eight tables filled the space, some for two, some for four, each with cushioned chairs in shades of cream and blue. Santo ordered the Croque Monsieur, I had the gazpacho and avocado toast. The large white bowl of gazpacho looked like more than I could handle, but the saltiness of the tomato and vegetable puree was just the thing for my throat and I was more than happy to finish it.

Getting back to the crisp white sheets of our air-conditioned room, still fresh from my shower, I could hardly wait to fall into bed. The sensation of the first few minutes was pure delight. But I could not lay down for more than a few minutes before my hacking cough returned. The force of my exertions caused so much pressure in my skull that I thought my head would explode. Luckily, I still had the Ricola lozenges we had gotten in Rotheburg, but I had to have one in my mouth every minute, and even then the cough would break through. I barely slept. If I propped myself up on pillows, I could keep the cough at bay, but I could not sleep. If I lay down, the cough kept me awake. I was still very grateful to finally be cool, but I knew I had to do something about this sickness. It had just been too long and I was not getting better. And now my coughing was keeping Santo up, too.

Day 13. This is the day the trip went south. And I’m not talking geography here.

Started off OK but not great. It was hot in our un-air-conditioned third floor apartment, my sore throat and cough were not getting any better, and an even hotter day was in store.

Breakfast was the usual delight, this morning served outside on the terrace, again with a delightful waitress. She truly could have served us anything and it would have been wonderful—her gracious hospitality was that enchanting. We even had another bird keeping a watchful eye on us–and our food!

After breakfast, we lingered in the shade for a bit, then made the short walk to the car to bring in all of our bags so we could re-pack everything in the room in preparation for the next leg of the trip. Thus far, our two large suitcases had never been out of the car. Our goal now was to make all the hand carry items as heavy as possible so the biggest suitcase would be easier to handle getting on and off of trains the next day.

After that chore, and a bit of writing and relaxing in the room, including another now-familiar picnic lunch, we headed to the car, heavy suitcases in tow, for the last day of visiting family sights. Our destination was Oberhausen, a larger city about a half hour away. It is the city where Oma and Opa were married. The address I had there was for the last place Oma had lived before coming to America.

Our first stop would be the Avis location where we were to drop off the car in the morning. We wanted to confirm how long it would take and make sure we knew the way. When we got to the location the GPS told us was the place, we didn’t see any Avis sign. There was a car dealership and a small repair shop in a large, asphalt parking area. We pulled in. A man was coming out of the repair shop. He looked like he was locking up. I stopped him to ask about Avis. He didn’t seem to know anything about it. I explained more, and nope, there was no Avis, no car rental place here. “Perhaps my colleague knows more,” he said, leading me towards the car dealership and calling out to someone. Another gentleman came out and I explained again. He, too, had never heard of an Avis location here. He asked if I had the address, so I got my phone and looked it up. 13-15 Wehrstrasse. “That is not here,” he said. “That is about 5 km away. Do you have GPS?” “Yes,” I answered. He wanted to wait for me to enter the address in our GPS to be sure we would be able to get there. They were both so sweet, so concerned for us, and so determined to help.

“Where are you from?” they asked. “America. New York. But not the city,” I said. “I am from Lebanon,” one man said, “and he is from Turkey.” “Wir sind alle Ausländer!” (We are all foreigners!) I said, and they both smiled.

The day was exceedingly hot and even being out of the car for that short time had me drenched in sweat. Was it a fever or just the heat?

We made our way to the new address and YES, there was an Avis there! We cheered at the red and white sign. Then we drove up. It was closed. We looked at the door. It closed at noon on Saturday (today) and was not open at all on Sunday. From the beginning, the plan had always been to drop off the car in Oberhausen on Sunday morning. No one from Avis ever told us the location would not be open. We had bought our tickets for the train to Paris from Oberhausen Hauptbahnhof (main train station) specifically because Oberhausen was the Avis drop-off location. We didn’t see any drop-box for keys or any sign saying what to do when the location was closed.

What to do now?

I hadn’t brought any of my paperwork with me, so we were anxious to get back to the hotel where I would have all of that plus Wifi. But since we were already in Oberhausen, it made sense to stop by Oma’s address first.

My mind was swimming with possible solutions: maybe we could change our train, drive the car to closer to Paris and take a train from there. Or find an Avis location that was open on Sunday and was close to a train station. Maybe an airport location would be our only choice. But how would that work with the train situation?

When we got to Michelstrasse 14, it was hard for me to focus on where we were. The building at number 14 was very new—a plain brick house that had a very stark appearance. It was a free-standing house, like most of the houses on this street, unlike the attached apartment buildings we had seen in Gelsenkirchen. Who knows what this street looked like in 1923 when Oma left? Even the trees which lined both sides of the street looked too young to have been here then. I had the strange feeling that Oma was never meant to have been here, at least not to have stayed here. Another life was already awaiting her.

Back at Schloss Berge, our room was even hotter than we remembered, our frustration not helping to cool us off any. I checked the train tickets (not refundable or changeable). Santo found the Avis location at the Düsseldorf Airport that was open today and would be open at 7 am tomorrow. But Düsseldorf was 40 minutes away from Gelsenkirchen and 20 minutes from Obehausen. We could drop the car in the moring and get a taxi to Oberhausen to make our 10 am train. But Santo really wanted to get the car returned today and be done with it. He did not want any hassles in the morning that would mess up our getting to Paris.

We tried to call Avis and spent nearly an hour on the line with someone who told us that the Rental Agreement Number we had was wrong, even though it was on the contract printed out at the Avis in Naples. Then he asked for the number on our car keys, and said that was wrong too. How could that be? We had the keys in our hands, and we had been driving this car for ten days. The agent was trying to find out if it would cost us more to return the car to Düsseldorf since this was not our original drop-off location, but was unable to get the information because of the “wrong” numbers. In the end, he gave us a number to call Customer Service. “I thought this WAS Customer Service,” I said. “No,” this is the reservation line.” “So we have to start all over with Customer Service?” “Yes.”

This time I let Santo make the call. All the phone options were the same as for the last call. When we got to a person, we asked if it was Customer Service and they said, no, it was the reservation line. “You need to call Customer Service.” THAT’S WHAT WE JUST DID!!!!! Santo explained our situation as briefly as possible and said: “Can you PLEASE connect me to someone in Customer Service who can help with this?” Finally we got a person on the phone who seemed to understand what we were saying. She had no problem finding up our Rental Agreement Number. She put us on hold to look into it … THEN THE CALL DROPPED!!!! “Let’s just take the car to Düsseldorf now and be done with it. Then we can relax in the morning,” Santo said. Seemed like a good idea, even though I was so hot and sick I could hardly imagine making our way back from Düsseldorf by train and then taxi.

First we had to schlep our heavy bags that we had just schlepped TO the car BACK up to the room so we could return the car. By the time I did the  circuit — to the car, to the hotel, back to the car – I thought I would melt.

The drive to Düsseldorf was not too bad, and after one mistake finding the car rental return area, we got the car to the right place. We were told just to leave the keys in the car and go. So we did. If Avis ever tried to charge us more or gave us a problem, we would have it out with them later. Then we walked to the terminal to find out how to get a train back to Gelsenkirchen. The air seemed even heavier, even hotter, if that was possible. The Weather Channel told us it was 94 degrees Fahrenheit.

Luckily, a train was leaving in 10 minutes so we quickly bought tickets and made our way to the train station via the airport tram—NOT AIR CONDITIONED. Made our connection to the train. Santo thought it was air-conditioned but I didn’t feel it. I was dying. Coughing. Hot. Headache from coughing. Tired from not sleeping. And I knew I had another un-air-conditioned night ahead of me.

We got to the Gelsenkirchen train station and found a cab to take us to Schloss Berge. Should I have been surprised that it had no more air conditioning than on the train?

When we got back to our room, I went straight to the bathroom and starting filling up the tub with cold water. I didn’t think there was any other way I could get my body cooled down. We decided to have dinner at the hotel restaurant under the trees on the terrace and hope for the best. At least we would be served. The bath helped, at least enough for me to get dressed and down to dinner. Thank God, we had our wonderful waitress from the morning. She truly made the unbearable bearable. We found light meals to order: chicken in orange sauce with basmati rice for Santo and a wonderful grilled trout amandine for me with boiled potatoes that had just a hint of butter and parsley. We asked for ice and water—and to keep them coming—and made it through the meal feeling a bit more relaxed. At least our car worries were over.

We even had enough energy after dinner for the short walk to Lake Berge. Dusk was beginning to settle on the lake, muting the heat of the day’s sun ever so slightly. A young couple were walking with a baby in a carriage as we neared the lake. I couldn’t resist looking in at the baby. Think dark hair framed her delicate sleeping face. “Jemand ist mude” (Someone is tired), I commented to the couple and they smile. We continued to the semicircular patio overlooking the lake and watched the large carp and ducks swimming leisurely below as pinks began to overtake the sky. It had been a tough day, but we were feeling blessed.

Heading back up to the hotel, the same couple stopped us, wanting to show us something. They had taken pictures of us looking out over the lake. They were just beautiful. “Could you send us a copy?” I asked in German. “I can give you my phone number to text them.” “Do you have WhatsApp?” the woman asked. It took us several minutes to figure out how to get Santo’s WhatsApp number to her so she could send the photos. Meanwhile, we talked. They were from Syria and lived in a town just a few minutes away. Their little girl was named Rita. “A German name,” the father said. We told them about our journey and my connection to Gelsenkirchen. Rita started to fuss while all this was going on, so the dad picked her up and held her. Santo and Rawun, the mother, finally figured out the technology. They wanted to take another close-up picture of us, and we wanted pictures of them. Rawun even managed to take a selfie of all of us.

We come from here. We travel to there. We change our lives and start new ones. Everywhere we go there are strangers–and friends.

I only got a few hours sleep due to the warm temperature of the room and my cold, but wasn’t too worried since we did not have a big agenda for the day: just to go into Gelsenkirchen and visit the two street addresses I had: one where  Oma had lived as a girl, one that was listed on Opa’s pilot’s license for the Royal Navy dated 1919.

I took a long shower, enjoying the cool and comforting stream of water in the walk-in shower. Feeling refreshed, we went down to breakfast, which was included with our room. The dining room in the morning was just as elegant as in the evening. Luckily, we had a different server—a delightful young woman who understood what true hospitality was!

We ordered coffee and Santo ordered fried eggs, which I found out were called Spiegel Eier. Literally translated, this means “Mirror Eggs.” They were cooked in a circular pan and came out on a round plate. Perhaps the yolks were the eyes staring back at you (like a mirror)?

Platters of meats, cheeses, jams and jellies were brought to us along with a pitcher of freshly-squeezed orange juice and a basket of fresh rolls and croissants. Heaven!

After breakfast we headed to the car. I entered an address into the car’s GPS and we headed to Gelsenkirchen. Our first stop would be Oma’s street: Feldstrasse 6. It was a short street, only one block long with five three-story buildings on each side. Some looked old, but most had probably been built in the 1960s: smooth stucco walls in muted colors, glass entrance doors, and evenly spaced windows facing the street, many with their outside metal roller blinds closed. The few that were open revealed lace curtains similar to ones I had seen in pictures of Oma’s coal company house in Scranton. There appeared to be six apartments in each building.

The narrow street was lined with cars on the right side where parking was allowed. Unable to find a place, Santo dropped me off and found a place just around the corner at the end of the street. He stayed in the car in case he had to move it. I walked to the sidewalk across the street from the light gray building that bore the same address as Oma’s childhood address and started to take photos. I was trying to imagine Oma walking down this street, walking to school, or to the glass factory where she worked. But I couldn’t. It was a street in a German city but I struggled to connect it to her. As I was taking pictures, a man came out of the building next door and, understandably, looked curious about what I was doing. I explained about Oma and also asked if he knew where the mines in Gelesenkirchen where Opa had worked might have been. He told me about a place called Zeche Ewald (and helped me enter it in my phone so I got the correct spelling). I thanked him warmly, glad to have made a human connection here. Somehow, it made all the difference.

It turns out that “Zeche” means “colliery.” How had I not known this? The area, Zeche Ewald, is a place where a colliery had been and two of the structures still stand–heavy, steel triangles reaching high into the sky. At their base were old brick buildings, long since abandoned. Through the broken windows, I saw more heavy steel beams. A small canal ran through one building. The structures were not like the breakers I was familiar with in Scranton, but I could see how they might serve the same purpose. Across from this was a new park. Signs indicated that the area was being repurposed to be a destination for families, bikers, etc.

Just as the man had told me, there was a café nearby with outside seating under shade trees. We went inside and viewed all the treats in the glass cases. Santo chose a nutty cheesecake, I picked a “Schwarzwald Kuchen” (Black Forest Cake). We took our desserts and two coffees and found a table on the park side of the building. As I enjoyed this green space and wonderful food, it was hard to imagine that this may have been the place where Opa had gone underground to work in the mine.

The desserts would tide us over until dinner.

Our next stop was Elisabethstrasse 7, the address on Opa’s pilot’s license from 1919. Elisabethstrasse was closer to the city center than Oma’s street. Unlike Feldstrasse, there were no trees here. The buildings were larger and a bit more ornate, but still sat one attached to another in a long row. The building that had been Opa’s looked like one of the older buildings, but I do not know if it had been there in 1919. It now houses an Asian restaurant downstairs. I stare at the building and down the street. So many questions. So much that has been lost to history. I’m looking for something that matters, but maybe it is not here. Even if I knew this was the very same building, if I knew which apartment had been his and who he had lived with, if I knew precisely where the mine entrance had been that he entered each day, would I know him any better?

Santo was waiting outside the car when I was ready to leave. He asked me what I was feeling, sensing that there was something wrong. I paused a long time. “Honestly, I don’t know,” I said. Then Santo noticed some pigeons landing on the street and hopping along in search of food. “Look,” Santo said, “They’re looking for Opa!” Opa had raised, raced, and loved homing pigeons his whole life. “YES,” I said. “Yes, they’re looking for Opa!” I started to smile as I chased the birds, taking photos. They could feel Opa’s presence here, even if I couldn’t. In my heart, I thanked them for helping me to find him.

Earlier in the day, we had decided to go to Aldi’s (really, how could we NOT?) before returning to the hotel to purchase some things for dinner in our room or outside in the bier garten: cheese, bread, fruit, chocolate. I’m not sure if we were avoiding the waiter-from-hell, the food, or both. We both enjoyed shopping in Aldi’s, which was much nicer than the Aldi’s at home. I should say, Santo enjoyed the shopping. I enjoyed the air conditioning. Fully provisioned, we headed back to Schloss Berge. The temperature had risen, and even the outside tables in the shade offered no protection from the heat. With the fan on in our comfy room, we were able to enjoy a restful picnic dinner of our own making, along with some of the leftovers from the night before. It was perfect.

I didn’t look forward to another night battling my cough and the heat to try to get some rest. But we both did our best, still grateful for where we were and all the helpers God had put in our path. Even the pigeons!

A happenstance from yesterday I forgot to mention. During our stroll around Rothenburg, we came upon a small church with a sign that said, “Bitte eintretten. Wir sind geöffnet” (Come on in. We’re open.) So we did. It was more of a chapel with an arched nave and ceiling crisscrossed with dark wood. The creamy walls made the space light and welcoming. A woman in traditional dress stood at the front of the aisle. There were three other people in the pews. Apparently, we had walked in on a stop on the musical tour of Rothenburg. The woman advised us that she would be singing a song that would last about three minutes and we were welcome to stay. So we did. The pureness and clarity of her voice were amplified by the fantastic acoustics in the small interior. What a delight! If we were staying another day, we likely would have signed up for the entire musical tour. Such a special way to see—and hear—this magical city.

One to today: With a shorter drive ahead of us (about 4 ½ hours), we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Then we waited a few minutes in the lobby while our car was brought round to the front door. We set the GPS for Schloss Berge in Gelsenkirchen.

The terrain between Rothenburg and Gelsenkirchen was again familiar. The trees, forests, and rolling farmland were not as dramatic as previous drives but gentle and relaxing. As we got close to Gelsenkirchen, large modern buildings dotted the motorway—companies that were perhaps part of the growing solar energy industry that was revitalizing the old coal and steel city. It reminded me of the 128 technology loop around Boston.

Once off the motorway, we drove on broad “allees” (boulevards) lined with trees. Gelsenkirchen was much greener than I had expected. Within about ten minutes, we were at the entrance to Schloss Berge, on the outskirts of the city. It turned out that Schloss Berge was not only the name of the hotel where we would be staying, but also a large public park with a small lake (Berger See), gardens, shaded walkways, bike paths, and even a bier garten. There were many cars parked in the public area and many people enjoying the park on this warm and sunny day. We drove as close to the hotel as we could get and took just our overnight bags up the tree- and flower-lined path to the entrance, going over a small bridge where families of geese and ducks glided in the dark water.

The hotel was U-shaped. Between the two sides were numerous brown wicker tables and chairs and large umbrellas for shade. People were dining in this area on pressed white tablecloths, clinking wine glasses, laughing, and offering us “Guten Tags” as we passed by.

We checked in and asked about reservations for dinner. The desk clerk told us they were not necessary. We decided to get settled in our room, then come down to dinner later.

The home of barons and counts since the 14^th Century, Schloss Berge as it stands was first built in the 16^th Century and then partially demolished and rebuilt between 1785 and 1788. It is a lovely buttery yellow color with dark green shutters and a red-tiled mansard roof with dormers. Our room was at the end of the left wing on the 3^rd floor. We had windows on three sides facing the entrance patio, the front of the hotel and lake, and the side gardens. There was an enormous living room with couch, two comfy leather chairs, coffee able, desk, large fridge and coffee maker. The bathroom was all white and spacious, with a real walk-in shower and a whirlpool size tub. Another home away from home.

We made our way to the dining room around 8 pm. A short, white haired, very professional-looking waiter asked us if we had reservations. I told him “no” and he immediately frowned, dismissing us with a shake of his head. I tried to explain that the clerk had told us we didn’t need reservations, but he had already summed us up as hicks. Making a show of just how much trouble it was to seat us, even though the restaurant was only about half full, he gave us a table at the far end of the long narrow sunroom overlooking the gardens that was the dining room. The white tablecloths were thick and crisp, made of a fine fabric that whispered “elegance.” Flourishing a lighter he whisked deftly from his pocket, the waiter lit the tall white candle on our table. Even though the waiter looked down his nose at us, we felt we had arrived.

I did my best translating the menu for Santo and we decided on the “Wildplatte,” a “Wild Plate” for two that included two kinds of deer, wild pig, and rabbit. Santo took a look at wine list and decided to order a glass of Riesling (a real German wine in Germany). This did not please the waiter at all. He spoke to me, since I could understand German. “Virklich?” he asked. “Really?” I nodded yes and he shook his head again. I knew he meant that we should order a RED wine with the meat we had ordered. This kind of arrogance, I think, is NOT hospitality.

Before our dishes came out, the waiter brought three (count ‘em, three!) long, low hot plates. Oh my God, what kind of a feast were we getting? We soon found out. Platters and platters of meats in mushroom, berry, and wine sauces. One large platter contained our vegetables in diagonal rows: buttery fried spaetzle, red cabbage, and Brussels sprouts. On the edge were four large dumplings. There were also warm bowls with additional sauces. Each platter held two large spoons to serve ourselves. The meats were delicious, less salty than in Rotheburg, but still heavy. I took only a small taste of a dumpling and felt it sit in my stomach like a lead ball. Even the spaetzle was too rich, fried in butter. We were glad we had tried it, and it certainly was an experience, but we would not order it again. Maybe we wouldn’t even eat in the restaurant again. We didn’t want to deal with the snooty waiter again.

We took a short walk in the gardens, past the beer garten where a kiosk sold wurst in a roll, French fries, and beer. Under the shade of some delicate trees were scattered numerous wooden tables with folding wood slatted chairs. There was only one table of guests enjoying the garten. We thought we might come back here another night.

Without air conditioning (we had not had air conditioning in Weggis or Rothenburg either), our top floor room was a bit warm. Santo angled the oscillating floor fan towards our bedroom and we opened windows hoping for a breeze that didn’t come. My cough and sore throat were not better, and I felt I desperately needed a good night’s sleep. I prompted myself up on several pillows and hoped for the best. Luckily, we had bought Ricola lozenges in Rotheburg so I was able to suck on one after another during the night.

How I longed for this cold to go away!

Started the day with a wonderful German breakfast, this time served to us on white tablecloths in the dining room. We had heard a gentle rain on the red tiled roofs during the night, and the clouds were still hovering in the morning. We both took some time to write in our “apartment” while we waited for the weather to clear a bit.

By late morning, the skies were more blue than gray, so we ventured out. The hostess at the front desk had given us a map and directed us to route that would loop around the southern half of the city, much of it atop the wall, built before 1400, that ringed the city. First stop, though, was the small grocery across the street. Santo wanted to “check out’ what they had. I think he was just experiencing grocery-shopping withdrawal. Of course, he had to check out every inch, loving every minute. You can take the many away from Wegmans but …. We bought a few items which Santo brought back to the room, then we headed for the wall.

We climbed the steep, uneven stone stairs and found ourselves about twenty feet off the ground. The walkway was enclosed by a stone wall on the outer side, an overhanging roof, and a wooden railing on the inner side. From this vantage point, we got an overview of the city and the many red-tiled roofs, meandering streets, and medieval houses. Santo kept to the wall side, his acrophobia keeping him from anywhere near the railed edge. We squeezed ourselves against the wall whenever we needed to let someone pass. He tried valiantly but was really uncomfortable and not enjoying this at all. We passed a few of the many towers spaced along the wall until we came to one with stairs that would take us back to terra firma.

The city was really more enjoyable from this vantage point. Keeping the wall basically to our left, we circled the city, then turned to head into the center again. This place was like Disneyland but REAL! Each of the colorful houses had some sort of fascinating detail in the shutters, doors, knockers, hinges, windows, or entrance ways. As we got closer to the city center, there were more and more shops and restaurants. Chocolate shops, bakeries, butcher shops, cafes, plus a variety of stores appealing to tourists with cuckoo clocks, Christmas decorations, jewelry, and clothing. In one shop I found a black-and-white shawl to wear for the black-and-white gala on the Queen Mary 2, along with some jewelry. We also found a necklace for Natalia and one that perfectly matched a set of earrings I had gotten for the trip.

Around 2 pm we were getting hungry. Not wanting another heavy German meal, we had decided to eat lunch out, then purchase bread, cheese, and fruit for a picnic dinner. We chose a place with outdoor seating: perfect spot for people- and dog – watching. Santo went for the Wiener Schnitzel and French fries. I opted for a lentil soup with wurst and bread, saving room for one of the “Eis-spezialitaten” I had seen on the menu. The ice cream specialties were described as works of art. The masterpiece I chose was a Black Forest sundae: vanilla and chocolate ice cream, cherry sauce with whole cherries, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream in a tall vase-shaped glass. We had to ask for an extra spoon for Santo—no way I could eat it all myself.

After lunch, we ambled back to the hotel, window shopping along the way. It was magical to be in this space, truly a step back in time. Each corner presented a new wonder.  We marveled at how all of this could have been so well preserved over so many centuries. In front of our hotel, Santo wanted to take a picture of me on the stone-stepped entrance. As I began to pose for the shot, I saw two people walk up to Santo as he framed the photo. It was our Australian friends from the rest area! Since we had been in Europe, this was the second time we had just run into someone we knew. We laughed and talked. They had just arrived; we were leaving the next day. We finally got their names: Linda and Baz (for Barry). I said I would remember Linda because that was my best friend’s name. Then she said that her best friend’s name was Debra. I love these happenstances!

By the time we got back to our apartment, the sore throat that had started in Weggis was coming on strong. In addition to a cough, I was beginning to feel a bit flushed and weary. So we napped in the cool breezes blowing in over the tile roofs.

When I woke up, Santo had our dinner laid out on the table/desk, which he had moved so we could sit on either side. He had gone to the small grocers across the street and bought our provisions. All delicious, especially my chocolate covered marzipan for dessert!

Still not feeling well, we decided to stay in. We did some more writing, then next thing I knew Santo had set the table up for cards! He had not wanted to pack two decks of cards, but I knew there would be some time during the trip when we would enjoy playing cards. And we did! It was a close game of Three-Fourteen, but Santo edged me out in the end. Felt like a little bit of home, though we missed our usual partners.

The next day, we would head to Gelsenkirchen, where my grandmother, Oma, grew up, and Opa had lived for a time. We would also visit Oberhausen, where they were married and where Oma lived right before she boarded the ship for America. I began to feel nervous. Not sure why. Was I afraid to feel something? Or was I more afraid NOT to feel something? Perhaps I realized I could go back to the place, but not the time. Was I bound to be disappointed?

In the morning, amidst wonderful sunshine and swirling clouds, we said goodbye to Weggis. After breakfast, we sat on the expansive wooden deck (where we would have enjoyed dinner if the restaurant had been open during our stay). We tried to breathe in the deep peace so we could carry it with us on the road north – to Germany.

After about a half hour’s drive to Zug, Switzerland, we emerged from the drama of the Alps. Fifteen minutes later we found ourselves in Zurich—literally in Zurich! No bypasses here. We drove a zigzagging route on city streets, giving Santo his first glimpse of a Swiss city. While the driving was slow going, the traffic lights were well timed and we were soon back on the motorway. North of Zurich, we found ourselves in a gentler landscape of rolling hills and farmland that reminded us of home.

We crossed over into Germany and stopped at the first rest area, a massive complex with restaurant, hotel, and shopping, as well as the usual amenities of a rest area. Not only was the modern architecture stunning, but there was a – wait for it – COMFY CHAIR! The middle schooler in Santo could not resist taking a photo of me under the sign that said “Gute Ausfahrt.” Ha ha.

As we were leaving the rest area, a couple about our age approached us, noticing that we, too, were speaking English. We exchanged the usual where-are-you-froms (Australia–north of Sydney and New York–the state not the city). They were spending over 3 months in Europe and had just completed a loop by car from Amsterdam through northern Germany to Poland, then south to the Czech Republic, east through Austria and Switzerland, and now back north through Germany to Amsterdam. Like us, they were avoiding the big cities. They’d stopped where they pleased and find a place to stay. Braver souls than me, though I would have, and did, do the same in my youth. Their next leg would be a cruise down the Rhine and Mosel Rivers. We parted with smiles and the sentiments “Ain’t retirement grand?” and “Safe travels!”

Continuing on roads we found more familiar than any on the trip so far, we continued to our next destination: Rothenburg ob der Tauber (or o.d.T.). This perfectly preserved, walled, medieval German city is something of a tourist trap, but still well worth a visit. Our hotel was within the walled portion of the city, and they told us to drive up to the door and a valet would park our car. Late in the afternoon, we entered the city through a narrow archway in one of the towers dotting the fortress walls. Now on cobbled streets as narrow as the ones in Avigliano, we made our way through the maze of short blocks, dodging tourists and dogs, until we came to the Romantik Hotel Markusturm (so named because it was located right next to the ancient Markus tower). Grabbing our overnight bags, we went through the thick wooden doors to the small lobby. The walls were of dark wood, the carpeting deep red, and the furniture was throne-like (and looked royally uncomfortable). Check-in was efficient, and soon we were headed up two flights of stairs to our room.

Entering the room was a stark transition from the dark browns and reds, and the heaviness, of the hotel lobby and stairs. The room was bright and modern, but somehow the light style seemed perfectly appropriate. It was more like a small apartment than a hotel room. The woods were in hues of blonde (floor) and light cherry (furniture). Windows on two sides offered views of the medieval rooftops in shades of red and brown. A free-standing desk/table of simple design was in front of the double windows facing the front of the hotel, a tall comfy chair was in the corner, and a modern white loveseat with nested glass side tables faced the foot of the bed. Curtains and pillows had a large floral pattern in muted tones of beige, brown, and ochre. The bathroom, though, may have been my favorite place. The green glass countertop curved gracefully along the long mirrored wall an dthe mirror was backlit on all sides with a gentle light. The bathtub and sink picked up the light green tint of the glass. Overall, it had the restful aura of a pampering spa. Ahhhh!

We opened the screenless windows to let in the cool air (no air conditioning here, just a tower fan). Santo was tired from the drive and I was fighting an oncoming cold, so we lay down for a medieval slumber before going downstairs to the hotel restaurant for dinner.

Our table was in the back of the long, narrow room. The front room, facing the street, had the dark wood and red heaviness of the lobby. Just behind it, the room we were in had a softer feel with green cloth-covered walls, cream-colored drapes, and pale wood.  

A long table next to the wall hosted a group of about fourteen Japanese tourists. The group leader was able to speak English, so she hustled around the table communicating with the staff for everyone. All the staff spoke perfect English, so used to Americans and other tourists. The entire front room was taken up with a group of Americans celebrating the 4^th of July. “You’re in Germany, folks,” I thought. I had noticed a small American flag on one of the tables when we passed through and was afraid they might be a group of Trumpers. In Europe, it is embarrassing to be an American.

The wait staff were dressed in traditional German garb to meet tourists’ expectations. I felt bad for them. The two waitresses we had were both lovely, and I felt they were somehow being exploited.

The menu was laden with the heavy German dishes Americans would expect: heavy meats in heavy sauces with dense noodles or roasted potatoes. Santo had venison stew, I had rolladen. I did enjoy the meat, similar to my mother’s but not quite. Still, it felt like everything was just too much: too salty, too rich, too German. I was determined to find something different for our second night, though this wouldn’t be easy within the walled part of the city.

After dinner, we took a short stroll to the central plaza (Marktplatz) and back, window shopping along the way. We had all of tomorrow to explore.

Our genteel apartment overlooking the city awaited us.

The mountain filled my view as I opened my eyes. Clouds dimmed the light but not the beauty. They were in motion, giving hope for sun later in the day.

We made our way to the restaurant for breakfast. Wonderful breads, meats, cheese, fresh eggs you cooked yourself in a pot of boiling water, fruit, and real Swiss muesli. We enjoyed everything, especially the coffee which was closer to what we are used to than the espresso in Italy.

After breakfast, I had time to write at the table and chairs on our balcony as we waited for the clouds to part. By noon, we made our way down to the village and the lazy park stretching along the lake front.

We went to the cruise office and found that the next cruise to Flüelen was in about one hour. We bought tickets and looked for a place to have a coffee while we waited.

Everything in Weggis was much more expensive than anywhere we had been so far. Coffee with a table at an outdoor café would be over $10 each! We decided to buy waters, and an amazing lemony dessert, from a kiosk in the park and sit on a bench to wait.

The ship boarded right on time (think Swiss watches) and we found seats first inside at a table, then a better spot outside on a wide bench facing the east side of the lake. We would have the western view on the way back. The ship was only about half full, so there was plenty of room and people moved around easily. Everyone seemed relaxed, even locals who were using the ferry just to get from one place to another.

It is difficult to describe the absolute majesty of the unrelenting views. Colors that cry out “peace” – varying shades of blue and green in the water, trees, grasses; earthy browns in the houses and on the even darker rooftops; sparks of white on peaks and on the elegant hotels gracing the shore at each stop. The steepness is what bends the mind. Looking at the houses, I feel that if I stepped out one of those doors I would just tumble down the mountainside into the lake. Impossible roads etch sharp lines back and forth up the slopes.

The four hours sailed by as we stopped at villages up and down the lake, passengers getting on and off: hikers with their boots and walking sticks (ironically smoking), teenagers with backpacks, couples young and old, including one older couple who followed one another around the boat, finding a seat for a time, then moving to another. They never walked together. The old man walked stooped over with his mouth open, his shoes never leaving the deck as he shuffled from one foot to the other. He reminded me of Tim Conway’s impression of an old man on the Carol Burnett Show. They always found each other. She was usually the one finding him. But once we saw him shuffling back to her with two ice creams he had purchased from the café.

We decided not to eat on the boat since the dessert before we left seemed to be tiding us over. We arrived back at Weggis at 6 p.m. and walked to the Hotel Viktoria, which someone had recommended as a place we could find traditional Swiss food. I had hoped to get fondue or raclette on our one night in Switzerland, but the man at the restaurant told us that these were served only in the winter months; they were not warm weather foods. That made sense! So we stayed at an outdoor table on the lake and ordered pork cordon blue with French fries (Santo) and veal liver with rösti (me).

The climb back up the hill to our hotel was difficult but I made it. I sat on the balcony in the cooling night air then went to bed early, feeling the beginnings of a sore throat.

Of all the places Mark Twain visited in Europe, Mark Twain found Weggis to be his favorite. He returned once for a 10-week stay when he was mourning the death of his daughter and was looking for a quiet place to regroup. He wrote:

“This is the charmingest place we have ever lived in for repose and restfulness. The scenery is beyond comparison beautiful … Sunday in heaven is noisy compared to this quietness.”

In this stillness, I rested.

With the long drive to Switzerland ahead of us, we got up for an early al fresco breakfast on another beautiful morning. We were sad to say farewell to Alexandra and Trere; they had given us such a welcoming and comfortable home, where we had the time and space to refresh. We said we would come back, meaning it but also knowing that it was probably not true. “Yes,  yes,” Alexandra said, “You must come back.” Since she had told us she would be retiring soon, Santo said, “But you won’t be here. Would you come back?” “I’ll come back to work if you will work with me,” she teased him. We all laughed. We said “Arrivederci” knowing we would probably not meet again.

From Faenza, we headed northeast, driving through Bologna and Milan on our way to the Alps, which were on Santo’s bucket list. Just beyond Milan was Lake Como. We didn’t stop, but could see the lake and the town from the road. I had imagined Lake Como to be nestled in a mountainous area with only elegant villas and resorts gracing the lakeside. But we past by only the southwestern tip of the lake at Como, a densely packed city covering the low hills surrounding the lake. At the foothills of the Alps, the mountains were lovely but not yet majestic.

We crossed into Switzerland after Como and had to stop at the border to purchase a pass allowing us to drive on Swiss roads. Forty Euros later, we continued past the lake towns of Lugano and Lucarno, our elevation gradually climbing to over 1300 meters. The Alps emerged in front of us, the peaks looking like the sharp points on an EKG. We descended again so that the mountains seemed to grow around us. We must have passed through more than twenty tunnels carved into the steep hillside as we made our way north. One tunnel was 17 km long! Some of the tunnels had a smaller side tunnel for bikers. Finally, Lake Lucerne (Luzern) came into view on our left. We were at the very southern tip of the lake near Flüelen. From Flüelen to Ingebohl, we were in and out of tunnels, catching glimpses of the deep aqua lake (similar in color to the Adriatic) on our left when we emerged from the tunnels. At Ingebohl, we veered to the east of the lake, losing the view until we reach the top of the lake and turned sharply south to Weggis.

Weggis seemed to sit in a palm of a mountainous hand, nestled safely far below the towering peaks. Our aptly named hotel, Hotel Alpenblick (Alpine View) was on our right. The several story sand stuccoed building sat atop a steep driveway. There was a garage entrance at the bottom of the driveway, but there did not seem to be any way to enter it. We drove to the top, to what look like the main entrance. We parked and walked to the covered entrance. There were sliding glass doors that looked like they should open when you stepped up to them. But they didn’t. We could see a sign inside pointing to “Rezeption” but we couldn’t get in. Now it was beginning to rain. Santo thought maybe there was another entrance further down the road, so we went back to Luzernerstrasse and continued down the hill into the village. No luck. We drove back to the hotel, parked in place along the driveway, and were walking around looking for … something! Finally, a man drove up, parked, and started walking up the hill. I asked him (in German) if he knew where the entrance was and he indicated the spot were we had been. “The doors wouldn’t open,” I said. He was surprised and accompanied us to the doors. Still locked. I told him we had reservations. He was able to let us in a side door with his room key. We walked over to reception, but there was no one there. The restaurant was closed, too. What now?

That’s when we met Michael and Carol. They had come into the reception area via the “locked” doors that had barred our entrance. Michael and I started talking in German and he was able to explain to me that they had received an email from the hotel telling them that reception closed at 6 pm. They had given him a code to get in the door and told him there would be an envelope on the counter with their room key. He found their envelope, then asked us our name and sure enough we had an envelope, too. We were in 112. They were in 113. I had not received the email because, DAMN SPECTRUM!, I had no data on my phone.

Santo parked the car closer to the top of the hill and we got our bags. Our room was two stories up. As soon as we entered, the magnificent view of the lake and mountains opened up before us through the wide double glass doors to our balcony. Ahhhh!

We had not stopped for lunch, so were very hungry. We had planned to eat in the hotel restaurant, not knowing it was closed on Sundays—and Mondays! Santo tried to find research restaurants and found a Mediterranean take-out with falafel, hummus, etc. I would have preferred a sit-down restaurant but these were either not open or very expensive. We started back down the driveway on foot.

There we met Michael and Carol again, realizing now that they were Canadian and we could all speak English! They were also in search of dinner. The light rain had let up. We decided to look for something and eat together. Santo and Michael walked ahead, Carol and I carried on a lively discussion behind. She was originally from Belfast, Michael was born in Ireland but raised in England. They live in London, Ontario, about 4 hours from Auburn. Michael found a restaurant that had been recommended to them and we went inside. Santo did not want to stay because it was so expensive, but I would have stayed in order to be with our new friends. Luckily, they thought it was too expensive, too, so we all left and found the place Santo had identified. The inside was a small take-out place, but there were 3 small tables and chairs outside on the sidewalk. We ordered our food and sat outside.

There we met Simone and Markus. They were a handsome pair. Simone was blonde with a very open face and twinkling eyes. Markus had long graying hair pulled into a bun, a slight beard. He was tall, handsome, and reserved. Simone immediately greeted us and we started talking in German but she wanted to use her English, which would also allow Santo to understand. She was from the Black Forest, had worked for a cruise line for many years, and had lived in Florida. We all joked about DeSantis and how it was good that she was no longer in Florida. Markus was from Switzerland and they both lived in Weggis now. The six of us had a lively discussion about politics (U.S., Canadian, Swiss), our personal backgrounds, travle, and more. Simone and Markus told us about a 4-hour boat trip that would take us down to the narrower southern part of the lake where steep peaks plunging into the water were reminiscent of Norwegian fjords. It would take us to Flüelen and back, and we could see the parts of the lake that had been hidden by the tunnels, but from below, not above. An idea for tomorrow.

We parted with laughter and promises. Friends are everywhere waiting to be found.

Back in our room, we enjoyed the night view of the lake and the village dotted with lights. We kept the balcony door open to let in the cool air and turned on our fan.

No air conditioning here, just wonderful air.

Another good night’s sleep. Is it the Italian beds or our level of relaxation?

Breakfast on a small patio behind the building. Took our time (two cappuccinos each), enjoying the space, the peacocks of all shapes, sizes, and sexes roaming around us, and the lush pink and white flowering bushes that added a sweet scent to our meal.

After breakfast we headed to the supermarket to pick up some bread and cheese to add to our leftovers from last night for today’s lunch. Santo was in his glory! The glass case at the back of the store overflowed with fish and seafood, included whole octopus (tentacles and all), squid, shrimp, and more. There was even a spot where you could fill a plastic wine bottle with red or white wine from a tap. (see below)

Back to the hotel by noon, the weather had warmed up to a perfect poolside temperature. I headed to the pool with my computer and started writing. Santo joined me after a little bit and took a dip in the pool (cool, he said, even the hot tub!). Then he brought our lunch of cheese, bread, fruit, leftovers, and cookies to a poolside table.

The afternoon at the pool was a pure delight. Comfy lounge chairs, umbrellas for shade, a glorious infinity pool with an infinity hot tub nested inside, all surrounded by lush vineyards and pink and white flowering bushes. We still do not know what they are called (they also line many of the highways), but Santo is determined to find out. Perhaps they will be growing around our pool one day! A group of young people were enjoying drinks and each other in the hot tub. I imagined they all were twenty-something career people in Florence having a weekend getaway to the country. After all the strenuous waling and climbing in Matera, this pastoral respite was just what we needed.

By 5 o’clock, we were ready to take our sun-soaked bodies up to the cool sheets of our air-conditioned room for a pre-dinner nap. Very romantic!

This night, the restaurant and villa was hosting a wedding. Alexandra had told us about it the day before, indicating that they marrying couple was “you know, not so much on the young side.” “You mean like us?” I asked. She laughed. “It will be a nice group. And we will have everything shut down by midnight.” She wanted to assure us of this since our room was just upstairs from the festivities.

By the time we came down for dinner, the restaurant was filled with wedding guests. The tables had been set with white tablecloths, flowers, and candles, all looking quite lovely under the small lights strung along the wooden beams of the porch. Dinner for the hotel guests would be served on the back patio where we had had breakfast. Before we headed back, we took a peek out front, catching a glimpse of the elegant bride, her blonde hair done up and dotted with white flowers. It did indeed seem like a nice group—how fun it would have been to join them.

On the rear patio, there were five tables of guests. A family at the table next to us, parents and two teenage boys, were having a weekend getaway from Florence. Their dog Lucky accompanied them. A beautiful white and brown dog, Lucky greeted us gently, then spent most of the meal under the table. At a table for three was a gentleman who seemed to be famous from the way people were sheepishly greeting him. He was probably in his seventies with pure white hair, parted in the middle and hanging to the nape of his neck. He had a deep tan, which seemed to more likely be from a tanning bed than time outdoors, and a look of arrogance. Accompanying him was a small, dark-haired woman in jeans and white shirt and a blonde (dyed) woman of a certain age whose palazzo pants and loudly colored silk top made her look like she walked right out of Dynasty.

The air was perfect, mild with a gentle breeze. By now, we were so used to the resident peacocks that spotting them in the trees around us and hearing their loud, shrill cries barely phased us. In the long room just inside the patio was the children’s table for the wedding. Every once in a while, they would all burst into loud laughter or whooping sounds. They seemed to be having fun—and we all smiled at one another on the patio when we heard them.

I couldn’t resist having the raviolini with green pasta and pistacchios again. This time I had is for my main course and had steak tartar for my “primi.” Unlike in Matera where the meat was served in ultra-thin slices, here it was ground and shaped like a burger and accompanied by pungent mustard and bits of watercress. Santo repeated his lamb chops from the night before, and ordered the cheesecake with berries for us to share.

After dinner, we made our way through the tables of wedding guests (the only way to get outside), and went for a stroll in the vineyard. We ran into Lucky and a few peacocks along the way. The DJ’s music from the wedding accompanied us. On the way back through the weddijng reception, we saw the bride and groom’s table.

We continued to be serenaded as we settled in for the night. There were a few traditional Italian songs which had everyone singing along, but most of the music was American rock-and-roll and R&B. When I glimpsed out the window, I could just make out the bobbing heads of some of the guests on the dance floor. Promptly at midnight, as promised, the music stopped.

Even the peacocks were quiet.

Breakfast was at a long table in the hotel’s cave restaurant. After packing up, we took some pictures of our cave home, then began the walk back up to the Piazza di Venedetto and our car. With the directions from the hotel, we hoped it would not be as bad as we imagined from our trip down. We took a winding road that sloped gently upward for about ten minutes. Then we hit the stairs. Thank god for my cane! Carrying our bags made the trip particularly arduous. One foot in front of the other, I keep saying to myself. By the time we reached the top, I was dripping. At the garage, I collapsed in a chair while we waited for our car.

Within two minutes of leaving the stones of Matera, we were in the country! Fields spread out on both side of us as we made our way towards Bari and from there to our route north along the Adriatic to Faenza. We gasped at our first glimpse of the Sea. I had always heard of “the blue Adriatic” and now I knew why. Aqua turning to blue, clear and inviting. Lush green hills curved down to the sea. At the places where two hills met in a rounded V, the blue water filled the space like tea in a verdant tea cup. The expansive blue stayed with us for hours, peeking in and out of hills and villages.

For lunch, we stopped in Vasto and found a small café with outdoor seating. The walls of the courtyard were stark white decorated with tropical trees and flowers. At our shaded table, I enjoyed what I had been craving: linguini and clam sauce! Beautiful little clams in brown and white shells!

About 30 minutes from Faenza, the road veered inland. Vineyards and orchards lined our route, becoming close as we drove the narrow roads to our Agriturismo: Trere, a vineyard of hundreds of acres. In the middle of the vineyard was the villa/farmhouse that would be our home for two days. Along the light salmon stucco façade was the restaurant: heavy wooden tables in various shapes and sizes, red terra cotta floor and beamed roof.

Our room was upstairs: Rebianco, named after one of the wines made by Trere. A king-size bed made up of two twin beds with heavy dark wooden headboards anchored the room. A dresser and armoir with hanging closets on both side and drawers in the middle, matched the bed. Around the mirror in the bathroom were painted white Italian tiles. While Santo napped, I packed my overnight bag from our large bags in the car. Then I changed into a dress and leather sandals for dinner.

The highlight was my raviolini: homemade green pasta filled with ricotta and top with chopped pistacchios. The cheesecake with cooked berries wasn’t bad either! While we ate, the resident peacocks strolled outside and the resident cats wove in and out of our legs, ever hopeful. Our hostess checked on us several times. She someone reminds me of my old friend Virginia, not so much in looks but in her energy, her warmth, her humor, and her boundless hospitality.

After dinner, we made our way to the brown wicker chairs scattered on the grounds and enjoyed the gentle evening breeze. Less than 30 feet way, grapes ripened on the heavily laden vines.