09 Aug Speed Bumps and Stick Shifts

I’m on the brink of tears, looking up at the hilltop town of Orvieto. The sun is hanging above the honey-colored houses. A large church juts up from the old center. And I’m in a medical parking lot in the valley below. 

I had driven 45 minutes to get here—my first time driving our stick-shift car alone, in Italy. I had traversed steep hills, downshifting and upshifting. I had gotten in and out of 5th gear and avoided the tiny Fiats whizzing past me on the highway. I had even figured out how to pay the tolls, and how to take off from a toll booth located on a slant, with the dreaded e-brake start. 

When I arrived at my destination, my palms were sweaty and my heart was still racing. I took a few deep breaths and practiced what I was going to say once I entered the doctor’s office: “Buongiorno. Ho un appuntamento con il dottor [name]. Mi chiamo Jennifer.” 

I was relieved when the receptionist understood me. But then she said the words “Per settembre?” And then what I can only imagine was Italian for, “Are you here to make an appointment?” 

Once again flustered, I got out my cell phone and showed her the emails between me and the doctor. Then she showed me her phone: “The doctor is on vacation until September 5th,” displayed in Google Translate. 

August is the time of year when it seems almost every Italian is on vacation. The cities and towns clear out and the beaches fill up. Many restaurants and services are closed for most of the month, so it’s important to double check if things are open. The holiday period is called “Feriae Augusti” with the actual public holiday “Ferragosto” (also the Assumption of Mary) being August 15. 

Luke and I have noticed how quiet it’s gotten since the first of the month. Hardly any cars pass by our farmhouse anymore; we haven’t seen the neighbors for days (except for a brief moment when one of them, Riccardo, dropped off some small plums from his trees). It’s incredibly quiet—save for the sounds of cicadas buzzing. 

I thought about this holiday before leaving for Orvieto, but double checked my email with the doctor (yes, I’ve been emailing doctors directly here; apparently it’s a thing?). He definitely said August 9th. 

I responded to his email from the medical office, telling him that I was there, and that he was not. He wrote back quickly—extremely apologetic. He even offered to see me for free if “I would still trust [him].” There was even an emoji. 

Things are very different here. 

Orvieto is meant to be amazing. Known for its towering duomo and ancient Etruscan underground caves, I’ve been looking forward to visiting since we arrived in Umbria. But after the driving, the language difficulties, and the fact that I wasn’t able to get a second opinion about when I need knee surgery (something that has been hanging over my head for months), I decide to drive back home and return tomorrow, when Luke has an appointment at the same medical center. (And yes, I confirmed his appointment while there). 

On the way back, I imagine I’ll allow myself to cry. Driving in the right-hand lane on the highway, gazing at the rolling hills of straw and vines—the most beautiful towns perched on hills, I’ll unclench my jaw, drop my shoulders and just appreciate the drive.

I live in Italy now; maybe I should just enjoy my August and find another knee doctor come September.