Emilia-Romagna & Tuscany

Tybee to Savannah to Rome.

This trip didn’t exactly start smoothly. Three days in, and we’re still in standby mode. A mechanical issue grounded our flight in Savannah on Tuesday, delaying our departure for Rome by nearly 24 hours. No complaints—I prefer my planes intact—so we turned the setback into an impromptu staycation, strolling River Street for dinner and drinks. Lucky us: we had friends, a place to stay, and, crucially, our toothbrushes.

Our checked bags, however, weren’t so lucky. They flew to Atlanta without us and have since been nothing more than a blinking icon in Gianni’s AirTag tracking app. We landed in Rome early Thursday morning. Our luggage did not. After filing the missing *bagaglio* report, we headed to our family-run guest house in Trastevere. By noon, the tracker showed our bags had arrived on another flight, but they never made it to us.

With a train to Bologna scheduled for Saturday, uncertainty lingered. Do we wait? Adjust our plans? In the meantime, we embraced the city—wandering for miles, indulging in carbonara, truffle, carpacio, and pizza, and taking in a mesmerizing flower art exhibition that led us to a darkened room, where luminous flowers bloomed above us like glowing umbrellas.

Then, the air shifted. In a nearby bookstore, hushed voices buzzed—the Vatican smoke had turned white. A new pope had been chosen. The streets came alive. Locals, internationals, nuns, priests, students, and police converged in an instinctive human stream flowing toward St. Peter’s Square. Sirens wailed, helicopters hovered, and screens along the streets projected the unfolding ceremony. Running with a crowd isn’t usually my thing, but this felt different—an unmissable piece of history.

Earlier, Marco, our hotel’s kind proprietor, had hoped for an Italian cardinal. As the announcement confirmed an American winner, disappointment hung briefly in the air before surrendering to joyful cheers. The weight of history was palpable, and speculation swirled—another thing the world could blame on Trump? But I hadn’t read the news. Witnessing the moment was enough.

Back at the guest house, Friday night brought closure. As we finished a casual picnic dinner—fried cod, red wine, and squash blossom pizza—our bags finally arrived. We canceled dinner plans with Gianni’s sister Olga and reveled in the sweet relief of long-lost belongings. Marco helped Gianni haul the heavy bags up the marble stairs, laughing as he asked if I’d packed stones. “No, just books,” I admitted, recalling the five travel guides and two journals crammed in my suitcase. “You need a Kindle,” he grinned.

With our luggage secured, we strolled to Cuverie, our favorite neighborhood wine bar, soaking in the warmth of Roman hospitality—a flickering candlelit refuge. A fine ending to this chapter. Saturday morning, we’ll meet Olga and her daughter at Termini before boarding the train to Bologna, bags in tow.

Buon viaggio!Read more