Despite the fact that I am a lunatic, my boyfriend continues to try and treat me like a normal person. Last weekend he arranged a surprise for me which included a night’s stay in an agriturismo in D’Orcia, a small city south of Siena. He referred to it as “our first family vacation” which meant we took our bastard poodle with us. When we first started dating he was full of surprises both the good kind and the really bad kind. We had a really beautiful weekend surrounded by green Tuscan hills in the middle of nowhere, it should have been romantic and perfect but I messed it up a little bit. And this brings me to the point of the story: I found the Italian version of the movie Deliverance.
I really had no idea that Italy was home to the same kind of hillbillies one might find in rural America. It made me happy that not only my native land can inbreed, and produce humans who go an entire lifetime without a dental visit. When someone says, “Italy” I would have never pictured a toothless man in overalls strumming a Ukulele, until now.
When we arrived at our vacation destination we were greeted by one of Francesco’s co-workers whose family owns the small apartment we would be renting for the night. He was wearing hunting camo, and wading boots in a very Elmer Fud fashion given his tiny, tiny stature. I introduced myself and he flashed me a big jack-o-lantern grin and then went about showing us the property while inserting random information about killing wild pigs. Because I was raised partially by criminals, perverts, and freaks I immediately started looking for weapons, and hidden areas where they keep the tourists they’ve kidnapped. “I’ll find you guys,” I thought. He invited us into his apartment. The front door swung open revealing an entire wall of photos of dead animals, guts hanging out of wild pigs lined up in the road, animal body parts dangling from random sections of wall, and of course, a naked centerfold calendar with a busty blonde on the fireplace. Yep, he was definitely a serial killer and his whole family was probably in on it. After having the privilege of seeing his home, we were shoved into his massive camouflaged SUV to take a coffee in the nearby village and see his families vineyards. I sat behind Francesco and Elmer trying to keep an eye on him and wondering for how long I’d be kept alive as a human sex doll after he’d cut off Francesco’s head.
After our scenic drive, it was breathtaking I’ll admit, Elmer took us into a cellar under the grounds of his home to show us where his family makes wine. The musty, stone-walled room was lined with large tin vats of “wine.” While the boys talked I walked around tapping them to see if they were empty, or contained human remains. They all echoed that they were empty. Elmer was very nice, and he gave us a bottle of wine, and we went into our little apartment to take a nap, but not before I searched the walls and ceilings for hidden cameras and microphones while Francesco unpacked. I wanted to tell Francesco that this place reminded me of The Hills Have Eyes, but I was worried they were listening somehow and would be insulted then barge into our room with an ax. No, no, I thought, I’ll wait until we are safely out of earshot before saying anything.
“You don’t like the surprise?” Francesco asked while we cuddled on the bed.
“I think it’s great! You’re very sweet, I’m sorry I’m just a bit tired.”
Of course, I would do that. My boyfriend puts together a surprise weekend for me, and I become freaked out and ruin everything by acting insane. But, if the guy WAS a serial killer, I would save our lives, so really being alive was just as important as having a romantic weekend.
After a short nap Francesco and I spent the day driving to small, nearby cities to check out the local sights, we drank some exceptional wine in Montalcino and took a few dozen photos of us together. He looked adorable in all of them while I looked like a homeless person who had recently recovered from a ten-year meth addiction.
Later that night we took Elmer’s recommendation to have dinner in a restaurant on top of a mountain where all of the locals go. Think KKK convention mixed with sports mania. Most of the other patrons were celebrating some kind of soccer victory with noisemakers and bullhorns. Altogether they had about ten teeth so they mostly gummed their food. They took turns giving scathing speeches against other regions in between singing their team’s anthem and talking about immigration and how it’s ruining their “culture”. Frankly, I think even a band of carnies might lend an improvement. We ordered a mix of food and then tried to hold it in as the chefs came out one at a time to publically scratch their balls or smoke a cigarette.
We went “home” exhausted. Francesco fell asleep in record time, I stayed awake listening for strange noises and trying to decipher things in the dark. I tried to remind myself that I simply watched too many scary movies and that I’m extremely paranoid by nature. I’m afraid I’m going to develop schizophrenia, and then thinking about it gives me an anxiety attack which I interpret as the onset of schizophrenia. But, the craziest thing about my paranoia is that I’m not afraid of anything “normal.” A monster under the bed? Fucking terrified. People who have been to prison for murder? No, not so much. I slept for two hours.
I awoke the next morning in one piece and was relaxed enough to even have sex nearly worry-free. I did peak over his shoulder a few times just in case someone with a hockey mask and a machete tried to sneak up behind us. I packed while Francesco was outside talking with Elmer. “Babe, he’s leaving you better go say goodbye!”, I stalled while doing something “very important” and arrived outside just as he was leaving. “Damnit, well that sucks!” I said, shaking my head with disappointment. I at least wanted to give the impression that I was friendly, and hide that I was terrified that the man might make a lamp out of my ass. When we left I felt a rush of relief pass over me. Now, I had to make it up to Francesco.
We stopped in Siena on the way home and everything seemed to settle. We walked around admiring the city, stopped in for Mexican food, I jump at the chance to eat non-pasta dishes whenever I can, and we had an overall amazing day. I’m sure it wasn’t enough to make up for the fact that I ruined the romantic weekend, but I hope it was enough that he won’t look back and wonder why he ever bothered. For me, even with my paranoia, it was worth it. But maybe I’m not that paranoid.
Just because he didn’t kill us doesn’t mean he didn’t want to. Maybe he knew that I knew?
