Driven Sane
It was just before dusk, long light falling on the brown
stucco and flagstones in the open courtyard of the Tuscan
villa where my wife and I would stay for a delayed honeymoon.
The quiet of the vineyards and the olive trees was a blessing
after a long drive. We started in Switzerland, and that
leg was smooth and quiet, on time. As soon as we crossed
into Italy, though, we felt our peace slipping away with
each Mercedes speeding by us on the Autostrade. We got
our peace back, but it wasn’t easily won.
But here we were finally, getting our bags from the trunk
and meeting Sonia, the owner. A young man our age, maybe
a little younger, was talking on the office phone. The
door was open to the outside, and it was warm, mid-May.
The dark wood and quiet of the place felt old and comfortable,
different in that way you want when you travel. How strange,
then, to hear someone speaking English. It was a northern
accent—Minnesota, maybe? We were too road-worn and
exhaustedly triumphant to hear what he was saying, but
we didn’t forget him. We asked each other what he
was doing there. Legal work? Study abroad?
We found out later from Sonia, who told us things she
probably didn’t tell most guests, that Barry had
been talking to the U.S. Embassy to try to get medical
insurance for his wife, who had had a breakdown and was
sedated in a Florence hospital room. Apparently, they
were on a horseback ride when she simply broke. She had
been feeling nervous and panicky since Venice, Sonia said.
They had booked one of those group trips that goes from
the Netherlands to Rome in two weeks, and the stress of
traveling abroad for the first time was just too much
for her. Her folks had to come for her and take her by
taxi to Rome, where they could get a direct flight back
to the U.S. Any stopovers would have upset the tenuous
hold she had on herself.
This woman’s story haunted us a little. We already
felt sad and guilty for leaving our six-month-old son
with my wife’s mother and stepfather. We might break
down. We didn’t, but I can’t help thinking
that they suffered—at least she did—in place
of us, sort of a proxy couple. After all, we had planned
a day trip to Rome but backed out early on. Now that felt
like the best decision of our trip.
We never saw Barry’s wife, but we imagined her blinking
at the Colosseum, staring blankly at St. Peter’s,
monuments she might never see again. We did, however,
meet Barry one night as he was having dinner with his
in-laws in the villa’s restaurant. He didn’t
know we knew all of this. He was calm, just as you’d
want your stand-in to be. They were leaving the next day
to go home, he said, which was Minnesota after all.
We stayed a few more days, just making our flight out
of the Florence Airport after a frenzied, pre-dawn drive.
Back home in Evansville, we felt supremely sane and very
lucky, navigating the smooth, wide, Indiana roads expertly,
knowing a little more than we did before. Our son grew
into his car seat over the summer, and if he cried as
we strapped him in, we would say, "Don’t worry.
We’re just going for a ride."
