Her Art Pt. 03

Her Art - Part 3 - An Art Tour Launched in Style

Chapter 10 - Florence

Three confused weeks later, we were headed to the airport. The women felt terribly rushed. I felt anxious to get on with the great journey.

Ten days ago, I had said, "Place everything you need for three months on the road here in the middle of the living room. When everything is gathered, we will make adjustments."

They gave me irritated looks, knowing that my adjustments were not going to be to their liking. I realized, early on in the process, that a van-like vehicle was going to be required in Italy. This changed the dynamics. If we identified a suitable rental, then several large boxes could precede us to Pisa or wherever it was that the vehicle would be rented.

I pulled the lawyer with contacts everywhere down on top of me on the sofa and kissed her soundly.

"What mischief are you up to now?" Her look was half smiling and half parent with unruly child. I applied a second and gentle kiss. "I need a world traveler's instincts and contacts. You are the ideal person." My hand was doing naughty things.

"We are either having loving, or planning. Not both at once." Her knee advanced dangerously.

"Considering our artistic aspirations, this is not a backpack trip. Look at that pile. A van of some sort must be procured in Italy, and some of this sent ahead."

Head on my shoulder, she relaxed totally. "You are right, as usual."

A voice from the doorway asked, "He is after you for favors?"

We held out arms and gathered Anita in. Beth said, "He looks at the pile and tells me it is not going on our backs as though we were teenage hitchhikers."

"Hmm. Too too practical. You have a solution?"

"Smart kid that he is, I am being drafted to use my firm's contacts in Italy to arrange for a suitable vehicle and pick a carrier to send most of this ahead."

* * *

Sitting in a limo with three attractive women in travel clothes, I smiled. This very minute, seventy-five pounds of photographic gear, art supplies, and winter clothing was winging its way across the Atlantic to the Florence airport, where we would find our reserved van and retrieve the goods.

I poked Beth, "Think we will ever see those two boxes again?"

Three sets of eyes frowned. "You, tour-guide-apprentice, will be responsible for replacing every item if the boxes have gone to Moscow instead of Florence!"

I relaxed and closed my eyes. The trip was starting well.

An hour later, we were boarding a Lufthansa widebody jet and settling into business class seats. Beth's corporate travel person had arranged this, for a considerable sum. She had also mandated that a group moving around Europe should invest in the largest permissible carryons, and lower our expectations to that amount of space. Beth had said at dinner, "She gives good advice. A lost bag overseas is an enormous pain. We are not taking ball gowns, after all!"

I settled back and marveled at the wonders of corporate travel. Leaving at dinner time in California put us into Frankfurt in the early afternoon, with a nine hour time change. A short layover and a two hour flight had us in Florence.

Despite my call for modest accommodations, I had been overruled by Beth. "It is past the peak tourist season and we are going to begin the trip in appropriate style for the distinguished artist and her entourage. We have a suite with two bedrooms and two bathrooms at the Savoy!" She cut off my protest with a kiss and a whisper, "It is my treat. No complaints allowed, especially since I am paying!"

Taking another sip of the complimentary champagne, I kissed the hand next to me and asked, "Is it your wish that I behave like the pack leader on this trip?"

The hand pulled me near for a kiss. "Yes! I am not your mother for the duration! You must imagine and assign roles to the artist's party!"

Dinner included an excellent chunk of beef filet, along with an acceptable Italian Red. Finished off with a smidgen of dense chocolate cake and I was out like a light.

Engine noise changing and cabin lights coming up roused me. I had slept through more than eight hours. My brain reminded me of the assignment to find new names for the trip.

As we waited to board the Florence flight, I used the airport WiFi to search for appropriate identities. It didn't take long. I waved the women to my seat.

"Henceforth, I am Antonio de Luca, noted guida escursionistica, with experience all over northern Italy. This woman here is Anita Tomassini, expert direttore aziendale, who will handle our arrangements and funds."

Pointing to the twins, I said, "These artista are well known proprietors Hannah and Audrey Ericson of the Atelier Waterloo, with galleries in Paris and New York."

They clapped enthusiastically, "Wonderful, Antonio. We are so appreciative of your timely arrival."

Still in Business Class on the Florence flight, there was more bubbly. This time, probably prosecco, in order not to insult the Italians. I toasted the clients, using school boy Italian that caused laughs from neighboring seats.

Marie was tracing a finger nail down my palm, causing problems elsewhere. "Antonio dear, what about the names in the passports?" Her smile was almost a giggle.

I leaned close, "Signorina, in Italia, we have no problems, just solutions!"

She laughed and cuffed me. "Diavolo!"

She kissed my ear, "Don't I wish I deserved to be a Signorina. In Florence, it had better be Signora."

I whispered back, "Mai!" and closed my eyes. Our hands stayed together.

At Arrivals in Florence, there was a limo driver with a sign for us. I signaled him and checked his English, which was fine.

I gave him the name of the van rental place and said we needed to stop briefly to doublecheck the reservation.

"Si, Signore." Moments later, we were on our way to the Savoy, with stop at van rental.

Our passports and an important looking piece of paper produced instant action at the front desk. All paperwork had been arranged, it appeared, because we were immediately shown the way to the elevator and taken to the Repubblica Suite, with a glamorous view of the famous square.

The three of us looked accusingly at Beth. She stared back.

"Just this once, we are splurging. Don't worry your little heads about it."

Holding Beth high and walking to one of the bedrooms, I said, "This one is Audrey and she has sinned!"

Signora Audrey, sprawled on an expensive quilt, looked very sinful, but said, "Showers before playtime."

I was invited to check the liquor cabinet while the ladies bathed privately. "Va via," echoed in my ears as I tried to recall more of my Italian classes.

I opened a six year old Brunello without looking at the price. It was excellent. Fit for a king, I thought to myself, luxuriating in a five star hotel where a premium red no doubt had a price fit for a king. I had read recently that Kings tended not to pay their bills. English Kings George III and IV had to be bailed out by Parliament more than once. I wondered if King Umberto paid his bill when he stayed here in Victorian times.

My reverie was interrupted by three perfumed bodies arriving in magnificent embroidered terry robes, obviously fit for a queen. Anita sat next to me for a sip of my wine and giggled in my ear, "This is ridiculous!"

"Direttore aziendale, will we avoid bankruptcy?"

Laughing, she relaxed on her back in my lap and puckered for a kiss.

"Antonio, she says it is covered by her secret funds!"

The twins joined us on the down sofa, obviously enjoying five star luxury in their fancy robes.

"Signori, what is your pleasure for dining? Our body clocks will not be on this time for days."

"We must go for a stroll in the Italian manner. The guida will select the route, which must take us by the David. Afterwards, there can be antipasti and apertifs on the terrace."

The artista gave us an imperial smile as if all questions had been answered. I nodded and departed for the shower.

Outside on the piazza, there was, unfortunately, no way for us to avoid looking like tourists. On the other hand, on a truly fine sunny September late afternoon, we had lots of tourist company. Using the map on my phone, I hustled us to a less crowded street headed to the Accademia Gallery, where stands the seventeen foot product of Michelangelo's artistic genius.

Like others, we stood in awe before the giant man statue. Marie clutched at my shirt and I wrapped an arm to steady her.

"It took him over two years to do that. Two years!"

Having done my homework, I whispered back, "But he was in his twenties and strong. Every morning, equipped with freshly sharpened chisels, was a fresh challenge!"

I detected a guard motioning us onward. One did not get to tarry at busy times.

Hannah/Marie pounded lightly on my back, "Art, Antonio, ART!"

It was nearly dark when we reached the hotel, where it turned out that our artist had invented a nonexistent terrace. There was an elegant inside bar, but the women said cocktail hour could be hosted better in the suite with its view over the square.

There was a tussle over whether we deserved gin or champagne. Champagne, the real stuff from Epernay, won. I poured and made the first toast.

"To the beautiful woman whose art has inspired us to visit Florence!"

There was silence as four Americans sipped their bubbles and absorbed the view of a thousand years of important history.

Antipasti for four arrived and was more than enough to deal with our supper requirement.

Beth looked at me, "Antonio, is there a program for tomorrow? We don't acquire the van until the day after?"

"Signora, I am able to advise that the hotel has made available to us, by special arrangement, a private tour of the Uffizi Gallery in the early morning before regular hours. Would it please you to accept?"

Marie walked over and punched me. "You terrible ruffian. Am I pleased to view 'Virgin and Child' and 'Birth of Venus,' and I don't know how many others?!"

I carried her, squirming and shouting, to the very large four poster bed, where a four person scramble took place. Finally, jet lag arrived and bodies crept together. I slipped out and completed arrangements for the Uffizi tour. We were to assemble in the lobby promptly at seven. This translated to ten pm in California and I rolled my eyes. Speaking of which, the women needed to be rolled out at six and injected with strong black coffee. I quickly made arrangements for continental breakfast at six fifteen.

Teeth brushed and minus clothes, I returned to the four poster nest. A muffled voice asked, "When do we get up?"

"Promptly at six, lovelies."

"Oh god, what sacrifices we make for art."

Thankfully, it was light out when my alarm, which was directly next to my ear to ensure I got up, went off. With a quick pass through the bathroom, I was ready for the room service delivery a few minutes later. Quickly pouring several cups, I ventured to the dressing area, where impressive clothes were going on impressive bodies. The coffee was gratefully accepted.

"Jason, we have decided no makeup for this hour except minor lipstick. Is that acceptable?'

My blazer, with its no iron finish, was on top of black tee shirt, pressed jeans and shiny loafers. I felt underdressed for my escort duties. By six-thirty, fresh croissants from the cart were being consumed. By six forty-five, we were out the door, complete with purses and wallet.

It turned out that, for the extravagant private tour fee, we also were to be guided by an art professor from the local university, doing a bit of moonlighting with the rich Americans.

The hotel van took us quickly to the site of the famed gallery next to the river. For nearly two hours, Riccardo provided background and provenance on the Medici collections, dazzling us with their preserved magnificence. I thought of Cosimo and his sucessors, living well and patronizing the finest artisans of their eras.

The fact that so many lived poorly to sustain art could, temporarily at least, be pushed to the back of my mind.

Back in the suite after providing Riccardo with a generous extra amount to his stipend, bodies with glassy eyes lay on the down cushions and moaned quietly. Leaving them to their naps, I hastened to the Concierge, advising that my women needed a hike to help with their jet lag.

"Si, across the river." He pulled a detailed color map with trails marked. We could gain altitude for fancy views if the sun stayed out. There were even little stars marking refreshment kiosks.

I entered the room noisily, "Trail shoes, ladies. Departure in twenty minutes on foot."

"No, no, no. You are too cruel."

"Up, up. Dinner is at one of the best restaurants in Italy and you must work an appetite."

Anita bulldozed me. "We can dress as we would at home?"

"Si, the Florentines will indulge their American cousins."

In a few minutes, I found myself pressing Euros into the head valet's hand and asking for a taxi van to take us to the place I pointed to on the map.

"Si, signore." It occurred to me that there was virtue in staying in an expensive place where your needs were handled well. It would not always be thus on our trip.

The trail was aggressive, but Anita bounded upward. The twins, attracting attention in their short shorts and blond hair, were in the middle. I acted as rear guard in case any errant males decided to get too close. Or worse, a little voice said.

I patted a tight derriere, "The guidebook says it helps to stay in direct sunlight. Something to do with circadian rhythms."

A harsh voice said, "We will rhythm you later."

A softer voice said, "Thank you for getting us out here. The view is terrific."

Indeed, the river and the city lay below, stretching into the hazy distance. It was hard for a young American to imagine it all starting as a Roman garrison founded by Julius Caesar in 50BC.

It turned out that the first kiosk was the last kiosk. The women declared that one hour up was enough. Their eyes dared Antonio to object. I humbly acquired Italian sodas and returned to the table. A table with more of the fantastic view.

I asked Anita, "Did you have luck with the express agency?"

"You question the business manager's skill?" She had the loveliest stare and mouthed, "Love you," at me.

Waiting for the tease to sink in, she said, "It is arranged that the important boxes will be available for loading into the van at 9:30 tomorrow morning. Is that satisfactory?"

Considering that she was now occupying my lap, the tour guide had no comeback except a soft kiss. The others hissed.

Next, I asked Beth, "Your travel person says we are reserved for four nights at a farmhouse in Aquilea, north of Lucca. The artist will imagine Summer and the rest of us will stay discreetly out of the way?"

The rest of us looked at Marie, who closed her eyes and whispered, "I am drowning in art. Stuff me in the van and take me to the next stop."

Looking at them, it was obvious that a super fancy dinner, going on for hours in the Italian style, was not in the cards for my ladies. I signaled to Beth and walked a few feet away. Wrapping my arms around her, I whispered, "Mom, this group is not fit for a three hour dinner. May I cancel?"

Hugging back, "My son, my lover, you are doing such a great job. You are right, the fancy dinner is for a better time. With another early start, we will fade soon."

The phone connected me to the hotel Concierge, to whom I explained that it would be intolerably rude for the Americans to fall asleep in a quality establishment and would he be so kind as to cancel with our great regrets. He graciously agreed to take care of our problem, saying there was probably a wait list to absorb the cancellation.

We made our slow way down the hill, watching the sun sink toward the horizon and bathe the city in golden light. It was a special moment and no one talked. At the bottom, they said walking rather than riding to the hotel was fine.

Marching into the Savoy lobby, we were definitely out of place among couples and families dressed to the teeth for dinner out. Anita whispered, "I would collapse trying to do that!"

In the suite, bodies discarded hiking shoes and shorts, falling onto down cushions and asking for nonalcoholic drinks.

Looking at the room service menu, I suggested, "Pizza in an hour?"

"Si, si," came back at me. The person in the kitchen assured me that two different kinds of house special pizzas at 7 pm would be no trouble. Bodies were limp so I wandered off to the shower. I had only been under the water for a minute when a twin body embraced me from the rear. I would know those tits anywhere.

"I heard you talking to Beth. She is happy?"

I turned around, "Very. What about you?"

After a long kiss and a thrust of her hips into mine, she replied, "My sensibilities are overwhelmed. Thank you so much for getting us here. A day or two at Aquilea will do wonders for all the thoughts of the Seasons circulating in my poor brain."

There was a poof and some expensive soap at hand for me to use on the artist's body. I had barely rinsed it off and she was collapsing quietly into my arms. Dried and folded into one of the fancy terry robes, I delivered her to the down sofa.

"Any more customers for the special shower service?" I smiled at the limp bodies. Anita and Beth crooked their fingers and indicated the space between them.

"You have guided nobly today. The pizza will arrive soon? There is quality beer in the cabinet refrigerator?"

I pulled them close and worked tired muscles with my fingers. "Signori, a good day indeed."

Pizza with the local beer was to die for. Bodies revived and spirits rose. Beth was showered with compliments for having arranged such a wonderful start to the art trip. A second night in the four poster was bliss.

My arrangement with the head porter was that a hotel van would take us to the rental place at eight promptly. I took a chance that the women could pack in an hour and arranged for continental breakfast at seven. Which meant a six-thirty alarm. In the morning, everything worked fine except that my ladies decided the tour guide needed some romancing, and I was attacked in the giant bed. However, the important part of me was limp.

"What is this, Antonio? We are not paying for limpness!" Their sly smiles were sinful. I counter-attacked at once with tickles, bites, kisses and lion roars. Bodies twisted and arms beat on me.

"I promise to deliver at the next stop!"

They tried to stare me down, "The next stop! What way is this to treat your women?"

I was saved by the arrival of the breakfast and its needed coffee. With some breakfast in them, I received soft kisses and hugs. "Jason, this is just too too nice."

As we approached the rental facility, Beth whispered in my ear that I was not to object to the cost of a high end Mercedes camping van, which was astronomical.

"It is part of support for Marie. Allows us flexibility moving around. If there is a special place, we can stop overnight nearby." She pinched my ear and asked quietly if I understood the situation. This was mother talking to son, I realized, and nodded dumbly. The little voice in my head said not to sweat the small things. Besides that, if the fancy vehicle quit on us, there were lots of Mercedes places along the way.

Our good luck continued as we were greeted with open arms at the air freight depot. The two boxes of our goods sat on the loading dock looking pristine. I was asked if they needed to be opened to inspect for damage. I looked at the women, who shook their heads no, and said the same to the smiling Italian manager.

Our luck diminished as our route west took us directly into a dark bank of clouds that proceeded to dump lots of rain in our direction. The big wipers on the big windshield were busy. The several navigators decided a stop for lattes was needed to allow the rain to let up. I concentrated on driving and they navigated. In mid-morning, despite the rain, we were halfway to Aquilea, which was just a dot on the map. The navigators were maneuvering us through Montecatini but gave a shout as they discovered we were about to pass La Loggia cafe. It even had a parking lot that the van was able to enter. A quick dash and we were in a warm cozy room with a hostess already asking in English what drink we preferred. Shortly after, there was a cart with stacks of heavenly pastries.