home sweet wagoon

wagoon
Just picture this.

Two white Americans, exhausted from two days of traveling, arrive in Venice, Italy. After an hour of painstakingly attempting, with no success, to call the man whose room they are renting, they locate a bus and ride to Zelarino…(a small Italian village 20 minutes from Venice.)

They get off the bus and realize how lost they are. No one speaks much English, and they don’t speak a word of Italian…(despite the two years of Italian classes I took in high school. I really should have paid more attention…)

They begin walking aimlessly down the cobbled street, dragging their 50-pound suitcases along behind them. By-passers stare at the odd sight, but the two hardly notice. They’re more concerned that they may be spending the night on the l’autobus station bench…

A nice Italian lady finally takes pity on the two and asks in broken English where in the world they are going. After a frustrating game of charades, she turns and begins walking down the road, motioning for the two to follow.

They get to a street and the lady points for them to continue. They were looking for house number 88. The first house on their right said 1. They began their trek down the broken road, lugging their suitcases behind.

And that’s how our adventure began.

We finally made it to 88. It was in the middle of nowhere. Our “house” was a small trailer, sequestered in a weedy orchard.

It was called The Wagoon. And it would serve as our home for the next three days.
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We rode bikes to the local supermercato and bought meat, cheese and bread for a romantic picnic on the front porch of our wagoon. Let me just say that we have a great view of a tractor from the front porch…
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Oh home sweet wagoon.

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