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Tuscan Seduction

The antiquated train trundles down the tracks between Abruzzi and Venezia at a leisurely pace, vastly more satisfying than a rocket ride by bullet train. This was my choice, of course.

In an effort to discover my roots, an adventure I’d romanticized over many a sleepless night, I’d scrimped and saved for the better part of a year. Still, countless travel books could not have prepared me for the depth of emotion I would feel gazing at breathtaking vistas of golden sunflower fields waving in the breeze, the silver-blue gleam of olive groves sweeping up gentle hillsides, or the comforting shelter of towering cypress and sycamores lining the narrow cobblestone streets.

July in Italy mimics the hot climate of Southern California, which is precisely why I chose this month to make my move. I love the sun, and research indicated that tourism slows during the humid months. Even the Pope flees the heat of Vatican City to holiday in the Italian Alps, leaving Rome, with its monolithic basilicas and unparalleled history, to swelter on its own.

For me, this is more than a vacation. I let my apartment go and quit a job that paid decent enough, but did not thrill me. Also left behind was a man who didn’t deserve what I’d done to him. By the time I turned thirty, too many capricious lovers had passed through my life. Jeff wasn’t one of them. Sadly, losing him is the only aspect of this bold move that stirs pangs of regret. While he wasn’t my first long-term boyfriend, he was definitely the nicest; as well as the oldest, at nineteen years my senior. I met him met on a blind date and, for lack of distractions at the time, fell into routine that quickly evolved into a relationship. He couldn’t have been more content. I felt trapped.

It wasn’t that I was dissatisfied with my life. Flowers, fine dining and orchestra seats at the theatre were not too shabby ways to spend one’s weekends. The sex that followed was nothing to write home about—and certainly not vigorous enough to burn off the calories from those dinners—but it was sincere. For months on end I tried to convince myself that this was how grown-ups were supposed to behave. Polite, poised and discreet. According to Jeff, displays of affection were reserved for darkened bedrooms, under cover of crisply pressed sheets.

When I could no longer stand the monotony and tried to articulate the intangible longing inside that compelled me to move on, Jeff called me selfish, naive and starry-eyed. Maybe he was right. He said he would not wait idly by while I indulged a childish whim. If I chose to leave, it would be our final goodbye.

With far more life experience under his belt than I, his stance was understandable. His last words still echo in my ears, “You’ll never find someone who takes care of you like I do.” I thought long and hard about that final statement, but it failed to quell the desire that burned through me each night as I lay in my in bed alone, listening to the drone of city traffic and craving something more than to be taken care of.

I’m too young to eat rich food and sit prim and proper at the ballet every weekend. I want to scream with the throngs at deafening rock concerts, letting music like thunder shake me to the core. I want to speed though Europe in a convertible, play on the coarse sand of hedonistic beaches, swim naked in the Mediterranean and, most of all, experience genuine lust—the kind that makes you weak in the knees.

I want to live.…

Unlike the bullet, this old train makes frequent stops that might be annoying if it weren’t for the opportunity to discover each ancient village along the way. I’m in no rush to reach my destination, a 650-year-old hotel on the Grand Canal in Venice. The journey is part of the adventure. Venice will be the icing on the cake.

Despite the breeze wafting through open windows, my skin glistens with perspiration. My lightweight sundress clings hopelessly to my body and my strappy heels are slippery on my feet. More than once today I’ve daydreamed about air conditioning, a luxury I have not felt much of since arriving in Italy.

A few rows up sits an old woman, her hands gnarled from decades of work I can only imagine. At her feet is a handled grocery sack with a crusty bread loaf peeking out. The unmistakably sharp tang of Italian cheese reminds me that I haven’t eaten since the fruit and fromage plate on the plane. The woman is dressed entirely in black with a scarf to match and clutches a rosary while whispering under her breath. Penance? If anyone should ask forgiveness right now, shouldn’t it be me, the “selfish” one who flew a perfectly good coop for greener pastures?