As much as I could not wrap my brain around trip planning last fall, it quickly overtakes me. Ellie is home until the second week of February, the winter is long and cold. Bill and Will go back to school, my long term sub-job is light years away and Ellie is right here, in the sunroom, taking a three-hour GMU Italian intensive via Zoom. I, on the other laptop in the kitchen, am taking an all-day intensive in travel planning via and Expedia and Google. Perfect environment to plan up the family trip of a lifetime. But what do I know about Italy? What do I know about Rome, what to do and where to stay? Niente. I don’t even speak the language.

Flights booked, I set out to find accommodations place to stay. In Rome. The week before Easter. On a budget. Of course, racking up Expedia reward points and covering for cancellation in Covid times are as important to me as other amenities. Also location. Being able to walk to stuff. It’s still the cheapest most reliable and freely-moving transport out there: my own two feet. I want us to stay in the midst of all the stuff we’re going to see and do, instead of thrice-isolated in an overly-Americanized hotel removed from the scene. Two-star Jenny here. Keep in mind: I would NOT stay in an American two-star if my life depended on it. The last one we checked into, a Howard Johnson’s in Pennsylvania, the issue of my life—our lives—did come up, actually, and we promptly checked out and got our money back. But a European two-star?? Chosen carefully, what they leave out in stars is more than made up in charm.

Of course I’m looking for clean, of course, so this time more than ever, the reviews matter. I am searching the “historic city center” in Rome, place I’ve never been, scrolling the lowest rates one step up from tent-pitching but still within sight of the Vatican, and up pops this one: “SPECIAL COZY, COMFORTABLE, CENTRAL WIFI ,TV SAT, CLOSE VATICAN AND METRO CIPRO.” It doesn’t even have a name. I pass up the photos and wooing attempts of other places with names like “The House on the Tiber,” or “Lovely Navona Square Apartment,” and even the least expensive on my list, a property called “the Beachbar,” which has a computer and Wi-Fi in every room. From the pictures, that one amounts to upscale college digs, a cross between Ikea and Rooms, Inc. with a gigantic specimen of drift wood suspended over the kitchen eating area that—click on photos—darned if it doesn’t match in shape and position the Henri Matisse print hanging below it of Blue Nude.

I let the blue nude go and scroll back to Special Cozy. We’re up to around 80 Euros a night, now, for a full apartment for five. Ellie will be with us the first weekend in Rome. Her Friday class lets out at 6 so she is planning to train down (Florence is about 2 1/2 hours to the north) but the fast train will get her there in an hour and 37 minutes. Expedia has the property listed as “exceptional,” always a good start in budget travelling, and VRBO has the same property on their website as “outstanding.” These are terms we look for in family travel. Let’s be honest: you have to speak Euphemism when choosing budget accommodations. We all know what “cozy” means: somebody’s not getting a real bed. Just call him “pull-out Will.” He’s been the victim more than once of mom not reading the fine print or doing the math.

Seriously though, I’ve seen more listings claiming to sleep “3” with one queen bed to offer, or “5” with two double beds. I’m thinking (a) I’m not the only one with math problems and (b) this is Europe and I gotta be careful b/c my people all like their own pillow and sleep spot. Along these same lines, the words “convenient to the train station” means… guess what goes screaming by all night? “A real find” means they’ve marked the price down because of some flaw or defect in the listed amenities. Somewhat like choosing in 2020 a hotel with a “pool” or “gym.” LIES, all of ’em. These are just places to hang the “out of service” sign fresh off the hotel printer. But still, I eye the “Special Cozy” a bit further. It’s a full apartment, two bedrooms (one queen and THREE singles, quite unusual), kitchen, all super close to the Vatican walls. Why not? The reviews are great, and the write-up from the host is endearing in its eager stab at English: (all caps) “HOME AWAY FROM HOME IN ROME…” and “A magical place, for an unforgettable holiday and the desire to never go away or come back.” Hmmm. I smile at the translation, realizing that’s just what has snuck up on me this winter of planning: desire.

It’s not 30 minutes after booking the apartment that I am messaged back through Expedia by the host, thanking me and asking if he can be of service. “Buongiorno!” His name is Stephano. Stephano is thrilled to hear I have a daughter studying in Florence and this is why I make the trip. He “is love in Florence,” in fact he is to be there next week for visit some friends. He right now would needs our passport informations, our flight numbers, and our arrival time. This is for the City and the Ministry of Tourism to know. The same guys that are going to charge us 3 Euros 50 per person per day, jacking up all my budget lodging finds considerably. CASH, no no Visa rewards either. What a rip. No worry, Stephano’s on it. He has friend, he can suggest some accommodations for the days we will be in Firenze. He can send link for the airport transfer, too, as well the link for tickets on the fast train to Florence. Yes, he can ask into the Roma pass and to see if there is a multi-day metro card one can use to get about. “But Jennifer. You can see. To start I send video Tribute to Rome by Zeffirelli. In the next days I will send all useful informations to organize your stay in Roma. Enjoy this wonderful video with your family to start thinking about your trip and you will be most welcome to the eternal city.” From then on, the trip to Italy falls open like a book. One that I don’t want to put down.

Once Stephano has my WhatsApp number, there is no end to the messages, the links, the helpful info he sends. Randomly through the winter he checks in, asks how the trip planning fares, asks what he can do for help. “Feel free to contact me for every need or advice,” he messages. And so I do. He sends me links to train options to get to Florence, advises on airport transfers, researches the Omnia card for the Vatican (a combined pass to multiple sites) and even offers to go retrieve it for me prior to arrival. Dear Jennifer—did you see my email? I send you helpful informations to organize your tour in Roma. So as to not spend your time in waiting...” Honestly. Toward the end of the planning I start to feel as though we are going to visit an old friend, and if not friend, then one very fond acquaintance who has lightened my load and given me confidence for travel like nobody else could have. What do you do in preparation for going to stay in another’s home? Quick! I need a good host’s gift from Virginia. “Stephano,” I text, “What can I bring you from America?” He writes back: “The smiles of the Burk Family” (along with a little smiley-face emoji to seal the deal.)

He is not the only one. I think of Angela, the property owner in Florence of the little two-bedroom “Appartamente” we rent right on the heart of the center square. And I mean right in the middle. Will opens the second floor shuttered windows and looks out over a narrow cobblestone street revealing a thin slice view straight to the Duomo square, the main square of the city. One block away, the bells of Giotto’s tower awaken us each morning at 7. These are not scrubbed and shiny hotels, all uniform and sterile. These are other people’s kitchens, with junk drawers and ovens that are finicky to light, these are faucets that drip and lumpy, mismatched linens that smell of fresh wash. In Stephano’s place are a few stuffed toys and clues to the grandkids who must pass through here from time to time. In all of them, the trappings of previous travelers intrigue us—maps in a basket, guest book entries, a photo or two of an American posted on the fridge, and in all of them the air is thick with hospitality.

I think of Veronica, and her brother, checking us in to the last lodging before we flew home, helping with the spotty Wi-fi, helping us secure Covid tests at the neighborhood pharmacy, confirming a 5:30 am. shuttle with a simple phone call, Italian to Italian, coming by the little dining area each morning to check on us. I think of Ermal, the director of “Touriks,” who called me, just phoned me up in the the middle of a middle school day to discuss a change to our Colosseum tour. I had just walked the class to lunch and come back when my cell phone rang and there on the end, was Italy. He was resolving a matter I had been pursuing by email, a rescheduling matter and he was calling to make sure we got the date we wanted to visit the colosseum. Just like that. Calling me through WhatsApp. “Hello? Yes! Yes, Ermal, so tell me…how the wife and kids…? I think of Guilia, who wrote back right away for the secret passages tour at the Palazzo Vecchio, and who smiled and called me by name when we went in person to pick up the tickets. For a trip like ours, it’s all about the itinerary, of course—what to see, do, and learn—and I packed our eight days as full as I dared. But it was for me SO much more than sights and selfies, so much more than Facebook fodder. From the beginning it was about the people who made their country so inviting. Their kindness and helpfulness, when I was so out of my element, transforming the unknown into a land I couldn’t wait to see. Where there is kindness, travel is like coming home—only better, since you don’t have to cook or clean anything.

Stephano, my new BFF. He is VRBO host turned travel agent turned tour guide, all rolled into what I imagine is a portly middle-aged man maybe a little out of shape from sitting on the computer all day sending aid to travelers, and immensely enjoying showing off his “Eternal City.” I ask him anything and everything, even one of the many travel dilemmas that crop up: the hateful Covid precautions. Remember, I am planning in January and February for a trip that will happen first week of April. Once again, the pandemic is receding like a tide, little spurts of BA.2 keeping us on our toes but as a whole, pulling back, letting life go on unfettered. In the world of travel this is only good news. I thought we’d never get Ellie on a plane in February. Following the protocol for testing was even more stressful than waiting out the results only hours before I took her to Dulles. Her two small suitcases lined up in the hallway and us unable to think, eat dinner, or breathe before that call from the CVS minute clinic. It was awful. Now, thanks be to GOD Italy has removed its testing requirement effective March 1. Will the US do the same? No one can say. I read more fine print than I have in a lifetime and catch this: must be vaccinated or boostered within the last 270 days. Nine months. Ugh. Will is un-boostered. But you can’t get conclusive info on Embassy and TSA websites to act on, and you sure as heck can’t call. Who to ask? Stephano to the rescue.

As we near the date of departures his messages grow shorter and more personal—“do not worry. do not worry,” and he signs off with one word: “Soon.” Soon. My image of him as a cross between Santa Claus and Geppetto grows on me. It’s less than a week away, this trip of a lifetime that has taken at least as long to plan, and I am—how do we say, undone? His WhatsApp messages to me each morning in response to the flurry of questions I fired off the day before have become a counsel and a comfort to me. For the last day, when we have a marathon tour scheduled for 9 am and also a fast train to Florence at 3 pm—What to do with our luggage all day? Stephano: “Do not worry. You leave your bags with me so then you are free…” You leave this, he assures me, to “Your host of Rome.” I consult him on what to pack, what the weather and temps will be like: now showing four solid days of rain for the four days we are in Rome. The only four days in a two-week span on my weather App. Stephano brushes past that little downer, our itinerary containing four straight days of outdoor sites and tours. We focus on the packing, since my peeps like to travel light, carry-on only. “Ah, Jennifer… It also happens to my family when we leave. We often carry more things the necessary. And we forget some obvious ones. All solvable. For the rain I’m positive. Soon.” That’s how I come to see the endless details and decisions of this trip: all solvable.

The last text, as I go through the nine-hour sub day that precedes our day of departure: “When you land, send a message and then when you take the transport to Roma. Arrived at Termini train station, new message and I will come out to Cipro metro.” He is like a mother hen, no less pesky than me to my driving peeps these days: I almost want to add him on that Apple tracker map, “Find my Friends” so he can just stalk me. I gotta say though, it nice to be needed, nice to be anticipated, and looked out for. I’ve spent months trying to track and nail down and zero in. Now somebody who genuinely seems to care has me in his sights. I like it. When we do arrive, nine hour flight behind us and are still taxing I think, why not? By now it feels like I’m coming home anyway. Stephano!” I message less than minute out of Airplane mode, still buckled in. “We are arrived. We are still on the plane but we are very—his response, before I even get the text out:

“I know. Welcome.”

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