by Lindsay Clark

Created on: March 07, 2009   Last Updated: March 08, 2009

For the last two years, I've had a reoccurring dream. I have just arrived in Florence, Italy with my parents in tow. I can't recognize a single landmark. Highways soar in the sky, suspended over modern buildings and massive tomato sculptures; sort of a "paved paradise" situation which makes me cringe.

But when I finally returned to this city of concentrated culture and passion, it was a moment of a sweet release for me, while also being one of over-waited deja-vu. My memory hardly lost a street corner over the past two heart-longing years. The perfection of the moment also came with the realization that we had a perfect Tuscan villa to get to. It's cliche for a reason; it's perfect. But first, we had to reach the driveway.

Stall. A little movement. Stop sign. And stall. Confusing street. Hit a few pylons. A hideous/hilarious curse word or twelve. Drive in circles. Drive the wrong way on a one way. Stall. Wrong turn. And finally, smoke billowing from under the hood of our 2009 Alfa Romeo.

Dad's face grew as red as the Chianti of his dreams and his mouth became that of a sailor's. When my attempts at comedy or therapy couldn't help his thirty year-old stick shift skills, he threw up his hands and flipped on the hazard lights. Since Mom was busy burying her head in the backseat luggage like a sleeping ostrich or jumping out of the "supposedly exploding" car, I reluctantly got behind the wheel for the first time in a new country, fully aware that I wasn't covered by insurance and that Italian drivers mean business. When on vacation, leave it to the 22 year-old to be the responsible godsend.

Zooming past me were the weathered Florentine Speed-racers who enjoy testing your next move and leaving you to quiver in their dust. I was scared to the point of pre-scheduled vomiting upon meeting our destination and moments of terror that caused the humming of songs from the depths of my most primal being. When you can only expect failure from yourself but seem to slip by unharmed, it feels like pure joy while running through an active and unpredictable minefield.

Once I escaped the pee-in-your-pants phase of Florentine traffic, I reached the organically lain back roads of Tuscany. Steadily crawling to each small town in second gear, I waited for the imminent, drunken fool to fly into my lane and send my Italian car flying into tree after olive tree. Foliage-covered death cliffs constantly taunted me on one side throughout the country weave, calling my name in a sexy Italian whisper.

Once

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