26 hours on the road with my wife, baby and dog
A brief story in 3 acts
Reading time: 4 min
A journey in 3 acts
I’m ok.
I am, seriously, but I’ve been awake too many hours in the last 3 days to write a full-length article; I hope you’ll understand.
Instead, I wanted to share the fact that even my life is following the 3 act structure.
How? I’m glad you asked.
Photo by Matt Howard on Unsplash
1st Act: Out of England
I can’t think of a better inciting incident than my alarm going off at 1 in the morning and finding my living room packed with suitcases I have no idea how to fit in my car. But I do.
We fly to the tunnel, baby sleeping, pet on high alert and wife browsing through documents to our first plot point: The Eurotunnel.
I see the queue and I reject my call to action, but my wife convinces me to carry on.
We are given a letter and a boarding time, but we’re late, and it seems that we lost the train, until we realise there’s only one direction we could possibly go and that letters and numbers bear no meaning whatsoever.
Once in France, we know life will never be the same.
2nd Act: Through France and Italy
Photo by Anthony Choren on Unsplash
France, to us, is one long empty motorway, but we reach our middle point soon, getting into a tiny flat in a dodgy part of Troyes, where my daughter cries every time my wife and I try to nap.
We also meet our first antagonist, a mischievous French who sends us to an out-of-service petrol pump, but we’re lucky enough to be saved by a kind, English-speaking man.
We stroll, we dine, we sleep another 3 hours and we leave in the middle of the night. We finally cross to Italy and, between the Alps, an evil mosquito penetrates our defence shields and we need to kill it before it gets to our sleeping baby.
We barely make it to Novara, ready for Act 3.
3rd Act: Destination
Photo by Alexander Popov on Unsplash
After a taste of the delicious food waiting for us, and driving towards Milan, my wife and I realise we haven’t faced our greatest obstacle yet; the Italian driver.
From five in the morning, flocks of Italian cars make every effort to make us crash. Seeing the signs of a UK vehicle, they think someone polite and respectful is driving.
They have no idea I’m behind the wheel.
I race them to Tuscany and win, then stop for a deserved Focaccia and Mortadella, and the last 3.5 hours stretch is just a seal on my family’s victory over 1,200 miles on the road.
Finally, as a denouement, we get to leave baby and dog to our relatives and dive into the pool, back to our ordinary world but with Italian food and sunshine.
Alla prossima
Photo by Michele Bitetto on Unsplash
