The Long Way To Como

As I peeled my head off of the flattened pillow, I knew I had made several mistakes. The sun had only just risen yet I already knew I couldn’t wait for it to go back down. As one does, I began recounting the drinks I had the day before.

Champagne-filled spritzes at the pool all afternoon.

Pre-ceremony Negronis.

Post-ceremony Negronis.

Bottles of Tuscan red wine.

Upon reviewing the captain’s log, the situation only became more dire while I stared directly at my unpacked suitcase, its contents strewn about the room. Each piece of clothing a separate reminder of everything that led up to that moment — a swimsuit still damp on a chair outside, my green linen suit thrown on a chair, one sneaker nowhere to be found.

The position I assumed prior to our journey.

We needed to leave Tuscany early enough that we’d still catch sunlight at our final destination: the five-star sanctuary that is Villa d’Este.

Locate the Advil Liquigels. Find an espresso. Dress comfortably. Don’t panic. The to-do list seemed all too easy.

The Jeep we’d rented would be our trusty steed. With the trunk filled to the brim and our CarPlay still not fully functioning, we said goodbye to the bride and groom before setting our sights on the beauty and relaxation of Northern Italy. All that separated us from paradise was a five-and-a-half hour drive, a pitstop in Modena for sandwiches and a glass of rosé, and the worst hangover I’d experienced in my 30s.

“I’ll start the drive,” my wife said as she looked at me heavy-breathing in the passenger seat. “Are you… are you okay?”

Unfortunately, I wasn’t.

I have never gravitated toward road tripping through Italy versus taking a train or flying. In fact, I’ve been averse to driving pretty much anywhere for my entire life. Regardless of the fact that we were driving on the same side of the road as back home, the idea of weaving between zippy Italian drivers on a highway with signs I couldn’t read beginning to weigh on me. And I wasn’t even behind the wheel.

I began by trying to figure out where to look. I knew I couldn’t stare down at my phone but staring through my passenger window yielded the same nausea. Staring ahead only reaffirmed my thoughts about Italian drivers: they are way more comfortable on these highways than I ever could be.

“Two hours,” I thought. “You just need to make it two hours.”

Of course, two hours would land us at our pitstop, Modena, where we had isolated a small sandwich shop that we wanted to try. The idea of eating anything seemed out of the question, but I knew I couldn’t go through the day malnourished.

Each minute that went by felt like one single grain of sand dropping from the top of the hourglass to the small pile at the bottom. My heart skipping a beat with every Fiat Panda that cut us off in transit. My brow damp with sweat caused by nothing but anxiety.

With nowhere to turn, I knew only a soundtrack could possibly help propel me to a semblance of normalcy. In an attempt to achieve what I can only describe as a ‘mental vibe,’ I defaulted to a playlist I'd saved for far more relaxed moments: Natasha Oakley’s Capri Piazzetta playlist from her wedding the year before.

Take me away, Dean Martin and Carlo Buti. Allow me to close my eyes and imagine the Cypress trees swaying along the coast of the lake. Anything to distract me from the sweats and headache caused partially by my third Negroni, but primarily by the heavy pour of Super Tuscan before returning to my room.

“I thought they said you couldn’t get hangovers from wine in Italy,” I labored. But I guess no one ever mentioned anything about 10-ounce Negronis.

The summer sun had reached its zenith at a time when I needed anything but. The prospect of rolling a window down to get some fresh air was denied by speed at which we were going. I wanted to reach our final destination; my wife most likely wanted to shed the dead weight sitting next to her. Some situations demand a “divide and conquer” strategy — this, unfortunately, was not a time to be fighting separate battles.

Little did I know, pulling into Modena wouldn’t offer me the salvation I was seeking. Instead, we traded one stress for another. While we had a brief reprieve from Mario Kart’ing through the Italian highway system, we now had to find parking. With a complete and utter lack of hubris (or even competence), we pulled into a street spot that looked relatively safe. Hardly being able to form words anyway, the idea of asking an Italian tow truck driver for mercy simply felt like too tall of a task.

“I think it’s over here by this market,” my wife pointed, “From what I read, it’s on the left.”

My appetite, zapped. My stomach, tumultuous. My pride, shattered.

“Well I need to find a bathroom,” I thought to myself, “and this place is so small that I don’t see one.”

“There has to be one inside the market,” I was told, “go walk around.”

I looked through the meat cases and the fresh tomatoes. I observed the locals doing their daily tasks. I imagined what it would be like to set down roots in Modena and have this be my normal, albeit without a crippling sickness derived exclusively from deeply-colored red liquids.

With some concern that one didn’t exist, I eventually found a bathroom to help ease my pain. With a few face wipes and some incredibly deep breaths, I knew it was time to re-enter society.

“Okay, I ordered one of each sandwich,” my wife told me as I began to sit down at our al fresco table. “And I got us some Lambrusco too.”

Fuck.

While I’m not unfamiliar with hair-of-the-dog tactics, this simply didn’t feel like the time to deploy that method. Unfortunately, when you’re in Italy, “When In Rome” begins to carry a lot more weight.

With four sandwiches on paper plates in front of us, we began to weigh our options. The bubbles in my Lambrusco were taunting me with every burst. “Come on!” one yelled as it popped. “The water’s fine!” another exclaimed before its death.

I looked through my sunglasses and saw my wife take her first bite. Even with her eyes closed as she chewed, one could tell that her experience was out-of-body.

“This is the best sandwich I’ve ever had in my life,” she vouched. “Here, take the other half.”

Unfortunately, that other half was not the half of something that could complete me in that moment. I stared at the sandwich wondering how I’d be able to get a single bite down, let alone the entire half.

Modena is largely known for the meats, hams, and salamis. When weighing a train to Como or driving, the idea of eating this exact sandwich in Modena was our selling point to rent a car. If I didn’t take a bite, I’d be selling myself short of not only nourishment for my decrepit body but also the experience that we’d already sold ourselves on.

The crunchy bread combining with the melted cheese that was hugging the ham closely… bellissima. Whether you believe in it or not, I’m here to tell you that fate does exist. In this moment, the universe put me in front of this sandwich. It also led me to temptation in the form of a lightly shaded Lambrusco, but that was just one small battle in an otherwise widespread war.

When it became evident that my body could only tolerate one-half of a sandwich and two-thirds of my modestly poured wine, we knew it was time to seek to-go boxes for the rest of our delicacies. With our provisions in hand, we lumbered back to our car.

“Please don’t be towed, please don’t be towed, please don’t be towed.”

Once I saw the Sixt decal in the window, I knew our horse and carriage was alive and well. It was now time to turn the page and complete the three-hour journey to the hotel.

Throughout my life, I’ve learned several things about my hangovers. This has allowed me to guide my hangover as I see fit, largely avoiding the things that make me feel terrible. One of these things is simple and straightforward: eating. With a belly full of salty ham, homemade bread, and a skosh of bubbles, I had inadvertently set myself up for disaster.

What I’ve also learned is that no matter what happens throughout a hungover day, drive, or journey, I will never let my hangover allow me to throw up. Today would be no different despite slight concerns, but this only meant that there would be another battle waged in my stomach for the duration of Modena to Cernobbio.

“So I take it I’m driving the rest of the way?” I was asked rhetorically.

With my head held low and my spirit even lower, I joked, “No, I got it.”

Getting back on the highway felt like getting on the ice during a five-minute major penalty kill at the end of a Game 7 Stanley Cup game where we had the lead. Nothing had actually gone wrong this day besides my actions catching up to me from the night before. But with cars flying around like headhunting defenseman, every movement felt like a moment where everything could fall apart.

Flat tire. Wreck. Wrong turn. All these possibilities flooded my brain while my wife reveled in the best sandwich she’d ever eat. I, however, began to understand the gravity of all that I had robbed myself of by overindulging the night prior.

“Un sogno romantico,” Buddy Greco sang through our Jeep speakers, “Venezia e il sole splendido.” And while the sun may have seemed splendid to him, every extended tunnel we drove through felt like a weighted blanket over me. Tired of squinting through my sunglasses, a little shade seemed to be my only cure-all.

As it goes with these drives, you look at the clock once and can’t believe how little time has gone by. The next time, maybe ten minutes. After that, maybe three. Every once in a while, 27 minutes.

Before I knew it, we were within an hour. My wife being deeply annoyed with me as I twitched with every passing car, the view of Lake Como couldn’t arrive soon enough.

“I’m never driving through Italy again,” I proclaimed between songs.

“You’re not even driving through Italy,” I was reminded.

It was best I keep my mouth shut. While retrieving half of a sandwich from the back seemed like the best way to do so, I still couldn’t bring myself to eat more than a couple hundred calories before arriving on the property.

In life, you have moments that stick to you like glue. While most of these moments revolve around deaths, births, and achievements, this was considered to be less important than those yet just as influential.

While zoned out in the passenger seat, I hadn’t realized that we had exited and were only minutes away. I saw a flickering light through some bushes leading us down a hill.

“Wait, are we here?” I asked aloud.

“Oh, we’re here, baby,” I was assured.

Villa d’Este’s garden. Or, at least, one of many gardens.

The lake glittered like a pile of diamonds. The air no longer smelled of Italian petrol but of fresh lemons and bergamot. The road felt smooth as its regional silk. In that moment, I knew I’d never forget the feeling that overcame me.

Despite being dead weight on our modest journey, what awaited me inside the property lines was as highly anticipated as a childhood Christmas. Heal me, fresh-squeezed lemonade, and allow the floating pool on the lake help to soothe my soul.

Hangover be damned, paradise found.