I
retired on July
23, 1989. Angie and I eagerly accepted an offer to join
her sister, Jo, her brother Tom and his wife, Joanne on their planned trip to Europe that
September. The tour began in London, and proceeded through France, Belgium,
Germany, and Switzerland before ending in Rome for the return home. We stayed
on for an additional week in order to spend time with Sammarco family members
who lived in Minori, Tom’s birthplace. He had visited them previously while
stationed in Italy during
WW II.
Before
departing the USA, I had
made arrangements to rent a van at the airport in Rome. When
I went to pick it up, the rental agency informed us that they did not have a
van available, but at no additional cost, would substitute their most expensive
car, a brand new four-door Lancia Thema luxury sedan.
“We
have ten pieces of luggage. It will never fit.”
“Yes,
they will,” replied the confident guy behind the counter. An attendant pulled
up the car’s trunk to reveal a gigantic well. All ten pieces went in with room
to spare.
“But
does it have sufficient power to handle the load? Five adults and ten suitcases weigh quite a
bit.”
“The
car will drive like a dream,” the clerk assured me.
Armed
with his self confidence, we began our journey southward. We stopped at Monte
Cassino, site of a famous WW II battle, before completing our journey. We
arrived in Minori on the day the town celebrated the birth or death of its
patron, Saint Trophemena. We stayed in a large apartment owned by a relative
who would not accept payment for lodging. The festivities that day and night
included a parade, dance music, and a beachfront fireworks display.
We
spent a number of days touring the area, including trips to Sorrento, the
Isle of Capri and Pompeii. My
wife’s cousins treated us royally, fed us large portions of food (Americans eat
more than other people, they informed us with certainty). We saw the two
buildings where her parents had been born. We gathered loads of genealogical
history about my wife’s family.
I fell
in love with Amalfi and had no desire to return to Arizona. Here,
a man could really enjoy everything desired. The waves of the sea lapped gently
at my feet as I strolled along the beautiful beach, restored after the war with
U. S. funds,
in restitution for the damage our guns had caused while pushing the Germans out
of that sector.
At the
end of our five days, and after many tearful farewells and goodbyes, we loaded
our luggage into the car and began our drive back to Rome. Our
flight home departed the following morning. We had allowed plenty of time to
make the drive, too much in fact. We could have left six hours later and still
would have arrived in Rome with
time to spare.
While
cruising along at 120 km/h or 75 mph on an Italian unlimited-speed highway
(equivalent to a German Autobahn), with no traffic in sight, the wish to go
faster kept nagging at me. Other cars passed us by as though we were standing
still. All my passengers were sleeping and had no inkling of what then
transpired.
Go for it, an impish inner voice
whispered to me. My foot pushed harder on the accelerator, then even harder and
yes, even harder. The speedometer indicated we were now zipping along at 160
km/h, or 100 mph, faster than I had ever driven.
What the hell, up it to 180 km/h.
Even at
this speed the car zoomed with nonchalance.
It made no noise. I peered at my sleeping passengers. They had no idea
how fast we were moving. My heart raced and I began to feel fainthearted. Then,
I threw caution to the wind.
Don’t stop now, hit that 200 mark.
With
the last bit of bravado in me, I took a deep breath and pressed down on the
accelerator. The car now raced along at 200 km/h, equivalent to 125 mph for a
few seconds before I slowed back down to 125 km/hr, dawdling along at a mere 75
mph. When my sleeping passengers awoke, they had no idea I had taken them for
the ride of a lifetime.
That
experience carried over into other aspects of my retirement life. I continued
to try new things, to expand my field of interests, and act prudently reckless (oxymoron?)
once in a while. My inner voice keeps saying:
Go for it, baby! Eat my dust, slowpoke. Retirement does not mean
slumber.
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