Driving Papa in Italy
If I remember correctly, it was the summer of 1972, perhaps I’m wrong, but close enough. We had a family wedding in London and then Papa and I planned to spend some of the summer in Arona, Italy. I left my children with an aunt in Israel. She had a house with ample space for them to run and play. Most important to them was that she had a dog! They loved that dog! For that reason, my mind was at rest that they were happy and well taken care of.
Arona is situated in the northern part of Italy, on the shores of Lago Maggiore. Until my parents decided to purchase a large villa on that same lake, we usually stayed at a family run hotel called La Rocca when we went to Italy. It was lovely. Two brothers and their wives managed it. One of the brothers was the chef. His food was superb. They had a large veranda overlooking the lake where we had our meals as we looked out at the sailboats that leisurely passed by or the many small islands across the lake with their picturesque homes and churches.
At that time in my life, I was going through a very rough patch in my previous marriage and I needed time to sort out everything in my head. I spent long hours on that veranda at La Rocca Hotel. With a book in my lap, staring out into space. My father left me to myself as he met with his various clients. The hotel staff did the same. Every once in a while they would offer me a caffe latte or an espresso. They knew my family, for invariably Papa and Mama would stay there with all or some of their children and grandchildren. In any case, there I was with Papa, who sensed my need to be left alone. He would come back at lunchtime, for everything closed then until three or four. We would have the excellent meals that were prepared for us, then Papa would go for a little nap. Afterwards, we would either walk around the town window shopping or I would leisurely drive my father around the lake to the different towns that nestled around the lake. The scenery was beautiful as was the architecture. They were so artistic and took great pride in presenting their homes and towns to the fullest potential.
One morning Papa announced that he needed to be in Milano for a meeting that day. It was a luncheon business meeting. He needed me to take him. Armed with the map of the area, we got onto the autostrade driving towards Milano. In my young days I drove as fast as any competent driver, but Italian drivers were a different breed all together. There were no speed limits and they zoomed passed at one hundred or a hundred twenty kilometres per hour. With my hands clutched firmly on the steering wheel, I valiantly attempted to keep up with them. We did arrive in Milano in one piece! I mentally took breath of relief. I found a parking spot and we entered the restaurant. During the meal, we exchanged pleasantries with the clients. I was used to that. At home my role was to entertain the wives of the foreign clients. I was rather good at that. Here, however, there were no wives and I was the stranger.
After the meal was done, Papa turned to me and cooly said, “Why don’t you drive back to Arona? We have business to discuss. I will take the train back’’
What! He wanted me to drive back to Milano all by myself on the autostrade with all those maniacal Italian drivers whizzing right past me? Did he realize what he was asking me to do? This was the first time I had driven into Milano. It was also the first time I had driven on the autostrade! Of course he did not! Papa did not drive! Papa had no desire to drive! That’s why he had a chauffeur. He’d much rather sit back relaxing and being a great back seat driver!
There was nothing for me to do but make my way back to Arona with a thumping heart. It was to my advantage that I was in my late twenties. Somehow at that age your ‘worry gauge’ is set much lower than it is if you are a late seventies pampered widow. Of course I made it back to Arona unscathed, but that first trip on the autostrade remains indelible in my mind. I remember going to sit on the veranda with a glass of Cinzano to rid me of the tension of the drive back.
But Papa was not through with me. One lovely afternoon after lunch he suggested we drive to Como. I was amenable. We leisurely strolled by the lake, we stopped at an outside café, sipped our coffee and people watched. It was delightful. I was always attracted to watching people and imagining what they were like. I would sometimes even make up a story about what their lives were like. Soon it was time to head back. Thinking I was going the right direction, I took a wrong turn. Eventually I realized we had entered Switzerland. The signs were now in Italian, French and German. The sun was setting on Lago Como. My father was rhapsodizing on the beauty of nature. Soon he was reciting poetry, then softly singing to himself. When I expressed my concern on being lost, he said, “Continue, continue. Don’t worry.” So I continued.
The sky began to darken, then night set in. There was a full moon in the sky.
It reflected upon the lake and Papa went into another fit of ecstasy over it. My anxiety level was rising sky high. I was in no mood for his high level of appreciation of the beauty of nature. I glanced at my gas gauge. That’s all I needed! We were almost empty. “We’re running out of benzene, Papa,” I said worriedly.
“Don’t worry, we’ll come across a station soon,” he said and continued rhapsodizing. It was lucky for him that we did, for I do not know what I would have said or done otherwise. We drove round the whole lake. By now it was quite late. The muscles in the back of my neck were tense and in pain. Even Papa was feeling a bit tired. Around midnight we reached the Swiss Italian border. There were guards at the border.
“Passports please,” they said.
Passports? No one had asked for any passports when we entered Switzerland! That’s why we were in this predicament!
“We don’t have any.’’
“You don’t have any?”
“Our passports are at our hotel in Arona. We took a wrong turn and entered Switzerland,” we explained.
“This is highly irregular,” the guard demurred.
“Please check with our hotel. They will confirm that we are their guests.”
Thank goodness they were reasonable. They called and were assured that we were indeed guests at La Rocca. I am not sure what they thought when they received the call at such an ungodly hour, but they assured the border guards that we were indeed guests at the hotel. I was relieved when we got back.
After I got ready for bed, I was too wound to go to sleep. Every nerve in my body was tingling. It was a beautiful night. I walked out to the balcony attached to my bedroom and sat on one of the chairs there. The lake gently lapped at the shore. A bird sang its nocturnal song. The moon smiled down at b his reflection in the lake and the stars competed with him on who had shone the brightest. I leaned back into my chair with a smile of utter contentment. Finally I relaxed at which time I felt my fatigue. I got up and went to bed.
Years later, when I looked back at that time, I felt such deep gratitude to my father for allowing me the time to ponder and appreciate what I had.
The rest of our stay passed tamely. Many years later the first time that Peter and I went back Arona, the La Rocca Hotel was gone. It was locked up and in disrepair. It was a shadow of what it was. It did not look like the vibrant and welcoming place it used to be. I asked about the owners and was told one couple had separated and one of the brothers had passed away. In my memory it will always be the charming and delightful place it used to be and that’s how it is going to stay in my mind’s eye.