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Revenge Is a Dish Best Eaten Cold
Holidays are a classic test of a relationship or a friendship - the dream holiday as kiss of death. My partner very nearly scuppered our trip to Tuscany before it even began.
"We're going to Italy at Easter," she said brightly to a rich friend and her hubby over Saturday morning coffee. "We're borrowing a farmhouse from old friends. Why don't you come too!"
I aimed a kick at her ankle but got the table leg instead. I muttered, "Are you out of your *mind*?!"
She patted my arm, "It's okay. They won't be able to come, it's only two weeks away. They'll just appreciate being asked."
You may have noticed the description: "rich". The thing about rich people is that they can change and make plans at a moment's notice. And the thing about the little known husband of a friend is, are they - as a travelling unit - *really* who you want to be with on a precious trip to Tuscany?
Our rich friend was sweet and gentle and much liked by both of us. Away from the pleasantry of Saturday morning cafe coffee her husband turned out to be something else. We landed in Rome and Husband insisted on driving the rental car and backed straight into a car park pillar. After wasting precious hours of daylight replacing the car and arguing with the Hertz signor, I said "I'll drive, you're looking tired."
He wasn't looking tired, he was glaring daggers, but off we went. Yet he might as well have driven even though sitting in the back; I could feel his breath on my neck as he navigated every lane-change on the way north.
Although a seemingly civilised man in Sydney, in Italy he revealed himself to be a direct descendant of Mussolini. Going anywhere or doing anything became a nightmare of intense, hostile negotiation and precision planning. Our carefree fortnight in the old farmhouse (with fresh milk and cream delivered daily) quickly turned into an ordeal that a UN ambassador would have found difficult.
Having sneered at our choices of cultural destination and eateries for close to a fortnight, we were finally on our way to the fabled frescoes of wherever (have blocked it from memory) and lunch at yet another slow food gem Husband had fossicked for and found. At his insistence we dallied over lunch in the proper fashion while he lectured on Giotto and whomever else. The sense of anticipation was acute - they had missed these frescoes on a previous trip because of a church ceremony, this was going to be *it* - artworks of a lifetime.
We finally made our way to the site and arrived at the doors just as they were being closed. Not only were they being closed, but they were not scheduled to re-open for three years - while UNESCO restoration happened. It had been much-publicised, apparently but not in Husband's guidebook, and we missed them by ten minutes.
In retrospect, those ten minutes were the best of the otherwise near-ruined holiday. I wish I could say my partner has never again issued an impulsive invitation, but at least none have been a reenactment of Dante's Inferno.
