We had arranged for a driver to take us to the airport. Donatella had mentioned she would come to see us off and collect the keys on our last morning, but she hadn’t shown up.
At 7:45 a.m. we took a last look around the apartment, and leaving the keys on the table, pulled the door tight behind us. As we started down the garden stairs, we spotted her bustling towards us with a cardboard box in her hand, the lid slightly askew.
“Sorry I’m late!” she said. “I had some blood drawn at the clinic and they were slow.”
She handed us the box, explaining she had stopped at a Sicilian bakery to buy us some treats for breakfast. She was sorry she hadn’t arrived in time for us to eat them at the house. We told her we would gladly eat them at the airport.
The check-in line at the airport was surprisingly long, even though we were very early. We had to shuffle forward every few minutes, pushing our bags before us. During one of the adjustments, Gino jostled the bakery box and it fell, spilling our sweets onto the floor. Everyone around us groaned as we begrudgingly threw them into a nearby garbage can.
As the plane rose into the air, I watched the Italian ground slip away, misty-eyed. I knew it would be at least another two years before we’d be back to the Bel Paese.
Hours later, San Francisco Bay came into view. The city lights glittered like jewels in the crystal clear night.
It was late when we opened the back gate. We were home. Two very happy dachshunds were ecstatic to see us.
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The motto around our house is, “It’s all about the dogs.”
Throughout our travels, we see dogs accompanying their owners everywhere: in restaurants, stores, parks, on the street. It always reminds us, with a pang, about our own back home.
It’s the only bad thing about travelling — leaving them behind.
If you’ve been following this travel blog of mine, you’ll already know that our precious dog, Corky, died while we were in Rome. Thousands of miles away, there was nothing we could do. Maybe that’s how he wanted it — for us not to be there at the end.
The burden fell on my son Justin, and daughter-in-law Hilary, who stepped in as surrogate “parents” in our absence. And for this, we are forever grateful.
Corky was our faithful companion of 14 years, saved from the streets of Roseville at seven months old, and soon thereafter adopted by Gino and me.
Corky was king of the house, as acknowledged by his two younger “brothers,” Rocco and Vinnie.
Corky’s absence still leaves a hole in our hearts, but we smile at memories of him playing soccer in the backyard with a ball and his head, and how he learned to do the “stealth crawl” by commands: “James” (down), “Bond” (crawl). Every day he would greet Gino’s return from work with a goofy dog smile.
Corkles, this one is for you. Because, as we all know — at least at our house —
It’s all about the dogs.
Until the next trip, dear readers…Arrivederci!