Reluctant Relaxation

Actually, I’m never reluctant to relax. But today I leave home to go to London, to meet my friend Jo, with whom tomorrow I will fly to Italy for a week in the (currently fierce) Tuscan sun.

Well, actually, I suppose it’s my love of lethargy that’s partly to blame. I would prefer to sit around the house than pack and travel. But I do want to see Tuscany. And I’ve paid for it now, so there’s no going back.

It has suprised me today, however, how unwillingly I go. I’m nearly ready now, just need to shower (forgot to put the switch on last night – I crashed into bed before nine – so couldn’t weash first thing) and pop to the bank round the corner to make sure there’s money in that account for my monthly contact lens direct debit. Then it’s off to the station, renew my railcard, buy my ticket and offski.

One huge dark cloud (a metaphorical one, as opposed to the many real ones that have passed by here in recent weeks) has been over me since last weekend. Jo gave me a phone number and a name, and asked me to let the guy who owns (?) the place we’re staying at when we’re getting there, and arrange picking up the key. Well, it’s true that I speak marginally more Italian than my friend, but I really wasn’t prepared for that. Fine, I have plenty of language books to fall back on. Except the crucial ones have vanished. I searched every likely place and they were absent. This was most annoying. I cobbled together sentences and extracted possibly useful vocab from my dictionary, and from a number of websites, plus the two guidebooks I’m taking. I was utterly distraught – for reasons totally illogical.

I’ve been like this before. For example, when I had to ring the woman in charge of the university accommodation where I was living in the second year, before I arrived, to organise picking up the key (!). That was in English, but it terrified me. I use the phone dozens of times a day at work, sometimes taking cold calls from clients. But something about ringing a stranger really presses my bad button. The fact that the person at the other end most likely spoke no English just added salt to the wound.

Well, I finallt called yesterday lunchtime – I had to come home from work (not willing to use my mobile, needing all the info on my computer, and not able to use the phones at work). No answer, twice. I was going to try again in the evening, but due to the financial markets suddenly dropping a long way yesterday meant I didn’t get home until seven (after picking up something to eat). Since that meant it was eight in the evening in Italy, and I was exhausted, I decided to leave it till this morning.

Well, it was as bad as I expected. A woman answered, and it seems the man I needed to speak to wasn’t there. She spoke not one word of English, and the few attempts at sentences I made led to a number of incomprehensible replies. I have informed Jo, but I don’t really know what I can do. I think we’ll just have to turn up and hope for the best. It seems a bit silly that accommodation organised and advertised by a British website has no means of communication other than verbal and foreign-language. Even an email address would have been great.

I guess I should prepare to leave now.