On My Way to Italy Today!

And . . . my flight's delayed.

Which means I have time to give you a little update. My husband Tony and I are on our way from Amsterdam to Rome, and this time we’re taking along our little eight-pound ball of fluff.

Packing up all the essentials

To wit, our much-beloved and spoiled little dog Lyra. We left her behind the last two times to have her own little holiday. Although she adores her sitter, she’s always happy to be allowed to come along on an adventure. When we start packing the bags, she makes a point of inspecting them thoroughly. I have to make sure to pull out her own bag too, so she knows she’ll be coming with us.

Her first flight was at nine weeks old, when we met her breeder at the Vienna airport and flew Lyra home with us to Amsterdam. That was an unbelievable eight years ago. Now she’s old hat at traveling, and very happily packs herself up in her trusty little travel bag at the earliest opportunity. At the airport I like to leave the top zipped open so she can sit inside and watch all the bustle from the comfort of her own little space.

And now that you’ve seen multiple photos of my dog, perhaps you’d like to be introduced to my husband too.

This is Tony. For the record, I fell for him long before I found out that marrying him would get me an EU passport. Twenty years later, he’s still the man I would run away with to Italy. And we have, more than once. We’ve been running away to Italy ever since 2007, when we first landed at the Turin airport with two toddlers and fourteen bags. Since then, I guess what’s changed most is that the kids are now old enough to leave at home, and the toddler we’re toting along with us to Italy is a dog.

But that’s all a longer story than I have time for today. For now, it’s enough to know that in February we went to Narni for what was supposed to be our “first” house-hunting trip. We were just intending to look at a few properties, and get an idea for what type of place was available in our (somewhat limited) budget. But of course, fate has a mind of its own. Within a week, we were falling in love with a little stone house in the historic centre, halfway up to the fortress on the hill.

We went back to Narni in July to sign the paperwork to buy it. I’m in love with this house, which has lovely terracotta floors, Medieval-looking alcoves in random places, and even a 12th-century tower you reach through a trapdoor in the kitchen. Even better, though, there’s a cellar with vaulted ceilings that’s going to become The Wardrobe Bookshop. Have a peek through the archives of Escape to the Bookshop for photos.

I’ve never been to Italy so many times in one year. It feels like an almost criminal luxury to get to go back again now, just halfway through September. We haven’t been to Umbria yet in autumn, which is my favourite season anywhere. I want to see if the hills are changing colours yet, and if I can open my tower windows and feel the wind.

July’s week-long trip mostly consisted of trips to secondhand stores to buy boring but necessary things like dishes and sheets. Not to mention the glamorous task of cleaning a house from top to bottom when—small detail—the water hadn’t been turned on yet. So yes, I made uncounted trips in the blistering summer heat toting up bottles of water and then toting back down dirty rags and towels to wash at the AirBnB where we were staying.

By now she’s bored and putting herself to bed.

I’d like to think we’d be much further along now, but two months later, the water is still not hooked up. Nor is gas, or internet. For months I’ve also had an item on my to-do list entitled “research garbage,” which is literally me reminding myself I need to figure out how to get us set up with the local waste removal company so we can get the several little bins in different colours for the complex task that is sorting recyclables and trash in Italy. Each municipality does it slightly differently, but in general you must set out a different bin on each day of the week. Early in the morning, you’ll hear two gregarious Italians with a tiny three-wheeled truck picking up whichever bin you should have remembered to leave out last night. So yes, I still need to get on with that garbage.

I’ll blame all this lack of movement on the month of August, during which it is folly to try to accomplish anything in Italy. Trying to do things long-distance is also not recommended. Even in person, I try to budget ten times as much time as I think I’ll need to accomplish any small bureaucratic task. Which mostly keeps me cheerful. The key to happiness, as my husband says, is good expectations. By which he means low expectations.

So far, after countless emails, phone calls, and strategising, this is what I’ve accomplished:

• I have an appointment to get internet hooked up. Miraculously, fibre-optic cable was installed in Narni last year, so in theory we will have amazing internet. In practice, the internet company has been promising for two weeks that they will also call or text me to arrange for delivering a modem, but despite multiple follow-ups on my end, this hasn’t happened yet. Will the technician be able to set up my internet without a modem? I’m thinking not, but I guess we shall see;

• I have an appointment to get gas hooked up. This will probably happen, thanks to a new friend in Narni, who was kind enough to go to our house and take a tenth photo of our gas meter—since none of the first nine we took in July turned out to be from exactly the right angle;

• I have an appointment for a couch and dining table to be delivered. We had pretty specific size requirements for these because of our small, oddly-shaped living/dining room, so these two will actually be new, and probably will look down their noses at the motley crew of thrift store finds and ancient furniture left by the previous owners.

• Actually, the modem people just called. They’ll be delivering the modem the day after the technician comes to set up the internet. That’ll be fine, right? Right?

• My contract with the local water company is still “in process,” whatever that means. If you had to live for an unknown number of days without either electricity, gas, internet, or water, would you choose water? Yes, well, neither would I. Yet here we are.

We gave up and rented an AirBnB for the first week, and I’m hoping to get all this sorted so we can spend the second week staying in our very own house above the future bookshop.

I can dream.

In the meantime, please pour out a libation on my behalf to the gods of minor bureaucratic tasks in Italy.

On the bookshop front, have I mentioned that our magical future bookshop currently houses only spiders, mosquitos, and (possibly, thought this remains unconfirmed) rats? In other words, it requires renovations of a rather significant sort. To that end, my husband has emailed or texted fourteen different geometras. In Italy, a geometra is a bit of a cross between a basic architect and a general contractor. They check houses for structural soundness, draw up plans for renovations, and—crucially—file those plans with the city to secure the necessary permits.

A geometra will often manage the resulting construction project as well. Not in our case, however. My hot husband is very handy around the house, and keen to oversee the bookshop renovation himself. But mystifyingly, out of all those geometras he contacted, not a single one has yet responded to his request for a meeting. We’re not sure why. If anyone has ideas (or knows a great geometra near Narni), I’m all ears. Maybe we just need to drop by in person?

I’m now in the air somewhere above Germany, or maybe Switzerland, with Lyra curled up fast asleep in her bag at my feet. It’s beautiful up here above the clouds, though my weather app insists it will rain today in Narni. As a devotee of rain and current resident of Amsterdam, this doesn’t bother me a bit. I love Narni in any weather. I’m more preoccupied by the fact that our flight was delayed so long that by the time we arrive in Rome, I will have completely missed the few morning hours during which it is socially acceptable to order a cappuccino in Italy.

So I am currently wrestling with the better angels of my nature over whether to have an espresso like any self-respecting Italian or risk my own mortification and the psychological well-being of whichever poor barista in the airport would then be forced to compromise all principles of decency to make me an illicit afternoon cappuccino.

I’m only human.