On my departure from my little small town safe house to lead the latest tour of Tuscany, I was taught that angels come in all forms.
Nudged awake at 5 AM on the day of departure, I realized that something seemed amiss with the hotel reservations I'd made in Florence for myself and an early-arriving guest. Something entered my brain that said "Um, check the reservation dates. I don't think you reserved the right days." That gave me enough time before leaving to jump on the internet (the internet angels were there, as well. The damn thing was working!), and confirm, YUP, I'd reserved one night too few. It also gave me time to alert the hotel of the need for another room. And, YUP, we got one.
Now driving to the Pescara airport sleepy and sans coffee, I am given another nudge that makes me veer left at an unfamiliar fork in the road and straight to the airport entrance. Instead of taking the right fork, which would have taken me off to god knows where for god knows how long before I found a way to turn around and then figure out how to get back on tract.
Once at the airport, after circling round and round the parking lot, once asking directions and being directed the wrong way down a one-way lane, once having a finger wagged at me for nearly crashing the gate at the entrance to the "employees only" parking lot in search of the "lunga sosta [long term]" lot, I ultimately "accidently" encounter a parking attendant angel on her way to the ticket office. She is remarkably unsurly for an Italian working so early and even manages to look trim and stylish in her uniform: a crisp white blouse, blue pencil skirt and matching heels that are just high enough to show off some pretty well-muscled calves. It could easily be an angel uniform. She escorts me to the correct lot so I don't end up paying 4 euro per hour for my 298 hour stay. She even tells me how to receive a discount on the cost. This will be very important upon my return for reasons which will become evident further down the blog. (Hoho! Got your attention?)
There were several other angels along the way. But my favorite was on the platform in Pescara awaiting the arrival of the train to Florence. At first I ignore him. He is a tiny man; his clothes, although seemingly carefully chosen, are wrinkly. Prickly stubble covers his chin and he mushes his words through spaces where his teeth should have been as he approaches me. He is thrusting his ticket at me, waving it in the air as he slushes a question. Usually, my reaction would be to recoil in distrust. This is just the kind of ruse used all the time by thieves and pick-pockets. The old "help me out here while I rifle through everything you own" routine. But something in this man also triggers a stubborn, lingering naivete about the goodness of the human race that somehow has remained intact despite years of being shown evidence to the contrary. I said "Cosa? [What?]
The little man jerks his ticket around, as if poking it into something, and the only clear words I hear are "Dov'e' something something something [where is the something something something]. But in the time it took to perform this mime, the Italian congeals in my brain. I realize he is saying "Dov' e' la macchina per convalidare il bigletto? [Where is the ticket validating machine?]. And my mind is catapulted back to my daughter Aeriel and I on the train to Venice. The amused smile on the conductor's face as he handed us the "multa [ticket]" for failing to stamp our tickets before we boarded. And the chuckle he involuntarily emitted as I handed him what amounted to a $75 dollar fine for the oversight.
I jump up and gesture.
"Vieni con me [come with me]" I tell the withered little angel, as I race towards a blur of orange signifying some sanctioned train official.
"Dove si trova la macchina.... [where do you find the machine...]?" I shout over the swoosh and sweep of the cleaning machine he is operating.
Mr. Pumpkin suit points to two little yellow boxes, one on each side of the elevator in the middle of the platform. I guide the angel's gaze towards them and say, "Vedi. Di la. [Look. Over there]."
He thanks me profusely. Then disappears on the far side of the elevator.
"No, thank YOU", I think.
Now that I am safely back at my house, I'm reflecting on angels. Okay. Maybe they don't work 24/7. For example - where were they when someone stole my purse on the train back here? The purse that contained my house keys and the only keys to the car that would have gotten me from that discount parking situation to my house without having to futilely search for 3 hours through all the Italian, American, English, and Scottish friends in my phone's contact list before giving up and spending 65 euro on a taxi. And where were they when I decided to put BOTH sets of car keys in the purloined purse - the original AND the spare, so that now I am without transportation until the mechanic can find a way to get me a new key?
But then, was it they who dinged me upside the head at the last minute with the decision to put both my phones in the laptop case? And both passports? And my wallet with all my cash and credit cards? Could it have been them who had me leave the spare key to my house with the cleaning woman? And let her be the one person here who was available to come to my aid?
When I finally entered the house, I dragged myself to the kitchen and fell into a chair. Tired. A bit disheartened. Angry with myself. And starving. Tough luck, kid. No money. No food in the house. I filled a water bottle and stuck it in the refrigerator. At least I could hydrate myself before bed.
Angel alert: my previous guests had left eggs, a jar of homemade pasta sauce one of my neighbors had given them, and a ton of pasta in the freezer. I feasted. I heard the little girls playing, squealing, laughing outside. Little girls who just before my departure, for the Festa della Madonna, had been dressed up as angels.
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| The Madonna during her Procession, during which the faithful repeatedly ask for her protection. |
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| Gaggle of local Angels |
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| I want this angel on my side |
