It'll Be Fun, They Said (A Love Letter)

What a long, strange trip it's been

Sep 22, 2024

Streets in the charming hill town of Montone, and the spectacular green view from there.

Hello lovies,

One day over a year ago, my business/teaching partner Debbie and I had a brilliant idea—we’d do a writing workshop in Italy. We’ve held workshops in France for years, and added England to the list in 2022. But writers have been asking to go to Italy for years and so by god, 2024 would be the year to do it. And, since we were returning to our beloved Céret, France for the first time since March 2020 (when we had to leave in a rush due to the pandemic), it would be simple to schedule the workshop in Italy for the same month.

And not only that, but we could drive from France to Italy! What could be more fun than a European road trip? It’ll be fun! So much better than flying from one place to another on one of those crappy little planes. Did I mention how fun we thought it would be? We rented a villa on the outskirts of Perugia that we thought would be wonderful—over the top Rococo Italian designs, twelve self-contained apartments, the city nearby and rolling green fields, too.

The first blow to our plan came when we priced rental cars. Renting a car in France and returning it in Italy is crazy expensive. But never mind! We had a plan! We would rent the car for the duration of our France workshop, then drive to Nice and drop it at the train station. From there, we’d take the train to Sanremo, across the border in Italy, and rent a car there.

Having an overactive romantic mind, I pictured Nice as the paradise I’d heard it described as. Not. At least not in the part we found ourselves in. It’s a huge city, much of it comprised of grimy apartment buildings. It’s busy and crowded, too, which we learned as we tried to find the Europcar offices in rush-hour traffic, navigating by my phone, which was quickly running out of battery power. After an hour of driving round and round, we found it. By then, we’d already missed our trains to Italy, but a kind woman at the tourist information office told Debbie that our tickets were good all day.

We boarded a small regional train to Ventimiglia and then an even smaller train to Sanremo. Wrassling luggage on trains is never fun but on the tiny trains it’s a real hassle. We always found people to help, however—a lovely young woman in Ventimiglia carried my suitcase and carryon up the stairs for me. The walk from the tracks to the exit in Sanremo is quite possibly the longest in any train station ever. By then it was eight o-clock, dark, and out front there were no taxis. Did I mention we desperately needed a bathroom, hadn’t eaten in hours, and were so tired we couldn’t think straight? Two nice security guards took pity on us and called a taxi.

But then our luck changed because we arrived at the most wonderful Villa Sophia hotel, where we had reservations. It’s located in a former convent on a private compound next to the sea. The nuns now live across the way. Witless and disheveled, we were greeted by the wonderful Stefano, who was everywhere all at once.

A rushed photo of Stefano, in his ubiquitous brown suit. The Villa Sophia grounds show in the background.

We asked him if we could get food at the hotel, since the closest restaurant would require a walk of quite a distance. At first he looked very stern and concerned but then he got on the phone. Turned out the chef had a couple of fish dinners left. And there was wine, glorious wine. The hotel was quirky, evidence of nuns still everywhere, and Stefano quirkier. But we fell in love with the whole place. My novelist mind was churning with ideas for setting stories there. There was a fabulous breakfast the next morning and then off we went.

My son the bicyclist informed me that Sanremo is the site of a famous bike race (Milan to Sanremo) and I can see why—we climbed up, up, up, through the city to get to the freeway. And thank you dear lord that Debbie was driving because the mountainous roads terrified me. Many of them on high up trestles, and I swear there was a tunnel every few feet. We must have driven through fifty of them this trip.

The rest of the trip was fine, but for one minor little teeny problem. A few days before we left France we’d learned that, for reasons we can only speculate, our glorious villa rental had closed. Yes, the very place where writers were to gather—as well as several others who had rented out extra apartments. The place we had rented the year before, putting an exorbitant amount on our business credit card and taking months to pay it off. Yeah, that place.

Stress, panic, and anxiety ensued. But thanks to a quirk of texting or who knows what, a former employee of that villa contacted us and said he had a better place for us to rent. We took a leap of faith, and landed here:

And, honestly, the photos do not in any way do this place justice. The interiors are tile floors, beamed ceilings, old-world-ish furniture, and Umbrian charm, yet with updated bathrooms and kitchens.

We also entrusted Alessandro to pick up two carloads of writers from the train station. We’d never met him, only communicated through text, hoped he was presentable. Sue, one of our writers, asked for more info on him so they could identify him. I said we didn’t know! We hadn’t met him in person. So it was a huge relief when she texted, “You should have just said he was young and handsome.” And indeed, he was. And very suave as well. And incredibly helpful—especially in communicating with the owner of the villa who does not speak English.

Anyway, we are here. And as you read this on Sunday (or so I hope—the time change still confuses me) the first day of our Italian workshop will have concluded. We are excited about our writers and the work we have cut out for them.

As for me. My writing. There’s been so much going on with trying to find the new rental (and I didn’t even relate the story of the snafu with our Perugia rental which ended up with us canceled it and staying in a lovely hotel on the top of a hill instead) that the brain bandwidth is less than zero. But the other morning I got up and wrote morning pages and the world—or at least my creativity—opened up.

So here’s my bit of writerly advice this week. If you’re stuck (or even if you’re not) go back to the basics. Try morning pages. Here’s a link to how to do them (you really don’t need instruction, just go the page and write). And then let me know how they work for you.

Wordstrumpet

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