Here's a life lesson for you --- If you wait until everything is perfect to do something you might miss the opportunity to do it all together.
Let me give you the perfect example:
When your dad and I were honeymooning in Italy almost 3 years ago, we spent the last few days of our trip in Rome.
By our third city in Italy, I was starting to come to the realization that I married a man who wasn't the best with directions since locating each new hotel took several hours and many puzzled looks at maps. There was also the occasional "It must be over there a few streets over." "Or just behind that corner." By the time we located the hotel, I thanked my stars your dad had only allowed me one suitcase, because carrying any more would have been out of the question.
Finding our hotel in Rome was no exception. Although we didn't have to hurdle our luggage up the stairs and over bridges as we did in Venice, Rome offered the unique challenge of dodging tiny cars that seemed to travel at the speed of light. Plus it was dark and we had taken the subway to the ghetto by accident. your dad was trying his best to seem like he knew exactly where we were and that he hadn't just placed his new wife in an uncomfortable situation of wheeling luggage down a dangerous street in the middle of the night.
Soon enough he decided to call our hotel quest quits and he flagged down a cab. What a relief it was for us, when we got in and saw a young hip girl driving it. Maybe she could help us. But we ate our words and the dust as she floored the gas petal and zipped between cars in what could only be described as Roman drag racing. By the time that we got to our hotel which was nanoseconds, I nearly hurled myself to the ground to kiss the cement in appreciation that our lives had been spared.
Thankfully, Rome daytime was a nice departure from ghetto Rome nighttime.
One night we decided on the Ristorante del Pallaro. We hailed a cab and circled around forever before we finally eyed the name of the restaurant on the street we insisted it was on. Our driver had never heard of it, go figure. Once we were there we were served 8 courses of whatever they felt like feeding us that night. It was hands down the best food we had while in Italy. Your dad and I were in heaven.
Fun fact about Pallaro is that the owner claims that the restaurant rests on the site where Julius Ceaser was assassinated. It has been disputed, but it still adds to the restaurant's intrigue.
Before we left we hightailed it to the kitchen where we were able steal a picture with the owner and cook, Paola Fazi.
When we got back to the hotel, we decided to stop by the hotel bar for a minute to relax.
That's when we met Michael.
We were sitting at the bar, musing over the food and experience we had at that really neat local restaurant, when Michael caught my eye.
Michael was an older man, in his seventies. He was sitting alone a few chairs over, sipping on a glass of Brandy.
Since I'm not shy, I turned to him and asked him if he was American.
"No, I'm Scottish." he said, smiling.
We told him all about the restaurant we just went to and about our trip so far to Italy.
Michael explained the reason for his trip to Rome. It was a group trip with other folks about his age. He had lost his wife a few years before from cancer after a year long battle with it. He took care of her in their home in Dumfries. (When he talked about her, you could tell he missed her tremendously) In the past few months, he thought it might be the right time to start traveling so he booked a spot with a group trip to Rome. He wasn't particularly fond of the group he was traveling with - they were a bit boring for his taste.
He bought a glass a Brandy for your dad and the two of them sipped while I continued the conversation.
Before we knew we invited him to dinner with us the next night. We didn't know where we were going to go, but we would really love it if he would come with us.
At six thirty the next day, Michael greeted us in the lobby, hopped in a cab with us and joined us for dinner.
We continued our conversation over dinner and Malbec wine. I ordered something really awful to eat. I don't remember what it was but I mostly pushed my food around my plate while I told Micheal all about our lives back at home.
We talked about his kids, life in Scotland, how he lived in a town that was only twenty minutes from the town our town was named after. What are the odds?
Anyway, when we got home we parted ways agreeing to write to each other. I took down Michael's address and he took down mine.
Each year that followed Michael sent Christmas cards and one or two letters a year.
But Hammy here is the thing: I never wrote him.
Not for three years.
Let me tell you the ridiculous reason why.
To be continued...
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