Three Towers, Wine And A Very Scary Day

Mr. "Ants In His Pants” was ready to go.

How’s it possible? 

Up too late, sipping limoncello, consuming enough food and beverage for six people, past 2:00 a.m. on Florence’s Piazza Signoria. We conjured up stories about everyone; secret rendezvous’ and nighttime escapades. Talking, laughing, listening to strolling violinists, and gazing at each other, the Italians, the star filled night.

Morning’s light crept in through the dark curtains at what seemed like the precise moment I closed my eyes. I had no clue what time it but I knew it was Tuesday.

Feeling a gentle nudge followed closely by a firm one which I failed to acknowledge, I received a more significant shake and a rather loud, to my currently delicate ears (and gray matter), “Come on! Get up! Let’s go!”

Huh?

Opening one eye first and immediately groaning, Scott handed me three Advil and said, “You’ll need these.” My second eye flew open in disbelief. In the wee hours of my unconsciousness, he’d packed up the entire room leaving me to quickly shower, throw on some clothes and find my toothbrush. Stellar!

The streets of Florence are meant for Vespas not cars (look both ways before you step off a curb, I’ll warn). It’s dangerous and my husband, not having enough practice on American roads to safely maneuver those Italian (too many years traveling on Chicago’s public transportation system), was at the wheel for our exodus from the city. I simply closed my eyes and waited for my cue to navigate.

We weren’t headed far, about an hour south, to the charming medieval walled village of Monteriggioni; excited for picnics, wine tastings, traversing small villages and taking in the quietness of the Tuscan countryside. And Siena…

Too early for hotel check in (why did we hustle?), we dropped our bags with Gigi, the proprietor, and headed out exploring.

Taking only back roads through Southern Tuscany, we basked in monks’ chanting at Sant’ Antimo abbey during morning mass and sipped grappa at a local taverna before noon, bought magnum upon magnum, and bottle after bottle of Brunello de Montalcino at vineyards along the road. And with a few hours of afternoon daylight left, cruised up the Autostrada to San Gimignano, the city of towers. Climbing to the top of the tallest, the church bell tower, the entire glory of a gorgeous Italian countryside spread out before us. Pure Tuscan style.

Having nothing to do with any extended effects from the night before, the day thoroughly exhausted us.

Driving through the village arches to the back of the hotel at 7:00p.m., all that was left to this Tuesday was figuring out a way to look presentable within the hour and dining in the village’s 4-star restaurant right next door. We got this!

Strangely, Gigi was waiting for us at the door. “Have you seen this?” he said without a smile. As he led us into the small lobby that housed the only television in this quainter than quaint hotel, a couple from Houston hardly looked away from the screen. She had tears streaking down her cheeks.

Scott said, “Is that Beirut or a Die Hard movie?”

The man from Houston said, “No. That’s New York City.”

We sat.

No. We hadn’t seen it. We’d been too busy. No one with whom we came in contact the entire day mentioned a word. How could no one have known?

It quickly became the longest and scariest day of our lives as we panicked trying to call home to speak with our parents who were caring for our young children. International phone lines were busy for 24 hours straight.

But we were hungry, so we kept our time at the restaurant next door because we didn’t know what else to do. Strangers, once hearing our voices, offered condolences for the tragedy that was currently unfolding. We shared a shocked and emotional glass of wine with the only other Americans around, the couple from Houston.

My husband insisted we stay up until we heard our President speak at 9:30p.m. EST. The once math major in me quickly calculated that we’d be glued to coverage until 3:30 a.m. local Italian time. So we watched the planes hit again and again and again. And watched the first tower go down just like everyone else who wasn’t on vacation.

My husband did business with many folks working in Tower One (and was in One Financial Place the day before it's truck bomb attack).

We prayed.

Over the next few days so many kind people gave us advice. 

Don’t even think about returning your rental car (you may not get out). Get as far from the major cities and tourist spots as possible (there won’t be any “room at the inn”). Drink all your wine (rumors of no liquids carried on).

What???? No liquids!!!

There was just no physical way just two people, who both intensely love wine, could drink what we purchased.

However, we gave it the good ole American try!

And we giggled and stressed and laughed and cried straight through the rest of our wine induced haze of an Italian vacation. There was extreme guilt having fun considering the awful circumstances of our country.

Last September, we drank the last magnum of Brunello de Montalcino we stashed in the dirty clothes of our luggage. It was an opportunity to reflect on how the world changed that day.

[Especially heartbreaking was a report from home later that our very sensitive, anxiety-ridden, young son who, because my mother-in-law with Alzheimer's couldn’t stop watching the news, kept thinking more planes were hitting more and more buildings in New York.]