Nightmare on the A1

Even if you don’t have Italian parents, you’ve probably heard the story of Pinocchio, remember the puppet who wanted to become a boy “a bambino” and every time he told lies his nose would grow longer.

Right. To avoid the same outcome as Pinocchio, I’m going to tell you a truth. la verità.

I confess that I have a lover. Un amante. I love sleep. Sleep loves me. It’s a co-dependent relationship. One that Graham, my husband, has had to accept since we were married.

Unfortunately I’ve had to accept forsaking my amante when we travel. Travelling of course is a big sleep stealer. I appreciate just how much now that Graham and I bought a dream place in the town of Montepulciano nella bella Toscana.

However, La Perla del 500, which is Montepulciano’s nickname, is worth the sacrifice (il sacrificio).  As a matter of fact, for centuries Florence and Siena spilled blood for ultimate control of this rich and fertile land. With its Etruscan origins, it stands on top of a hill, overlooking the Val d’Orcia and the Valdichiana. It’s a town where its precious wine, the vino Nobile, flows like tap water.

In the past I was lucky because Graham always took care of everything. Like good captain and expedition leader, he was travel agent, luggage carrier and driver.

After the 18-hour transatlantic flight, heavy eyelids and constantly yawning, the poor guy il poverino would get on the A-1 (autostrada del Sole ) where many Italian motorists morph into Ferrari race car drivers on the Monza circuit.

I never appreciated my husband’s sacrifice/sacrificio until a while ago. I had grown accustomed to, right after taking off from Vancouver, sipping on a glass of excellent vino rosso then and falling asleep.  Once we arrived in Rome, I would wake up but only to get settled into the rental car and then continue with my nap.

Later, when we arrived, safe and sound (sani e salvi) in Montepulciano, Captain Graham, who you can imagine, was exhausted by the trip, wanted nothing more than to crawl underneath the covers. I, however, was nicely rested, ready for a romantic dinner in the centro storico.

That all changed, a few years ago, when I had to manage the trip by myself.

Not having Graham, my rock next to me it was “fear” or paura, now personified who became my travelling companion who followed me  on the plane from Vancouver taking her place beside me in the  rental car in Roma.

 It was a black Smart car. The colour was hardly reassuring.

As I set out on the autostrada every was going well at the beginning. My positive inside voice, which I had practised, cheered me on: Forza Silvana, Ce la fai.” “Credi in te.”    

But then Fear’s more negative and aggressive voice took over.  “Ma sei pazza?” “Lascia perdere.” “Non sei capace.” 

At a certain point my imagination runs wild and the nightmare unfolds where before my eyes, Italians are laying fresh white chrysanthemums, the customary flower of death, next to my lifeless body on the side of the A1.

And while the negative and positive voices are fighting among themselves for supremacy in my head, a rush of adrenalin takes over. I am now a female version of Schumacher in Ferrari times, and its that  force takes me across the finish line hours later in Montepulciano.

Too tired for dinner,  I am under the covers by 8 p.m. The next day I wake up at 2 p.m. in the afternoon.

in the Sleep, or glorious sleep, how I have missed thee.  –End-