By Sarah White

In 2010, I self-published Write Your Travel Memoirs: 5 Steps to Transform Your Travel Experiences Into Compelling Essays, which included five how-to chapters and, to provide an example, my six-chapter travel memoir about a trip to Italy’s Cinque Terre in 2008*. I am serializing that memoir here over the next several months. The book is available on Amazon.com.

Meanwhile, I welcome your submissions to True Stories Well Told during my “travel memoir takeover.” Let’s fill that queue for after the series ends. See submission guidelines here.

Chapter 1. The Gift

“There won’t be any presents for you this year,” my brother-in-law begins, over the phone. It is Christmas 2007, and my husband and I are staying with another of his brothers in Chicago. As happens every holiday, the oldest brother calls in from Virginia,  and we have a nice holiday chat.

“Really, we have everything we want or need,” I say, not sure how he expects me to respond.

He continues, “The brothers have decided to combine your Christmas and anniversary gifts this year. Marcella told me you guys want to go back to Italy. We’ll pay the airfare. You’ll have to handle the rest.”

“That’s tremendous!” My heart starts packing, but my brain hesitates. There is a hurdle to overcome. Could we really accept a gift so generous? From people who had done so much for us over the years? You bet.

But what will we do with our elderly fox terrier, Fred? His decline has tethered us close to home. We haven’t ventured out of state, much less out of country, in years. “I can’t wait to go. Thank you, thank you all. Here, let me put Jim on.” I hand the phone to my husband.

We’re approaching our twenty-fifth year of marriage. In truth, planning trips to Europe is hardly realistic right now. In addition to the dog situation, I have just returned to freelance writing, and Jim is working only part time as a pastry chef. But I want to slip free of our cares. I am eager to play at being the people we were twenty-five years ago, full of bohemian bonhomie, unconcerned about health insurance, retirement funds. Or even the people we were fifteen years ago on our first trip to Italy, in love with everything we saw, heard, and tasted. Italy has been the third partner in our marriage ever since.

For some years I’ve had my heart set on seeing Italy’s Cinque Terre—the section of coast south of the expensive Italian Riviera where little fishing villages cling to cliffs. I’ve chosen the end of April for our trip, angling to catch the wildflowers in bloom on the west-facing slopes. From 365 days, we hoped to choose the five or so that would deliver a bigger, better version of our original honeymoon in Wisconsin’s Door County, where the dwarf irises and ladyslippers enchanted us.

If we can go, that is. Jim and I are round-the-clock caretakers now. Over the last year Fred has weakened and developed a limp. His needs are few: a spot in the sun in the yard on a good day, a spot on the sofa otherwise; a few walks to relieve himself, a meal at sundown, usually small portions of whatever we’re having. My husband has taken to planning our menu around what will make a nice dinner for Fred. (We’ve been eating a lot of rice and beef.) We’re aware we don’t have many years left together; we’re making his sunset as pleasant as we would wish for ourselves. Child-free, we have lavished our love on this family member who has been our baby, then our friend, and finally our grumpy old boss.

We tried kenneling Fred just once. When we went to retrieve him the chorus of howls hit us too hard, and we never went back. Instead, each time we’ve traveled we’ve left Fred home alone, with friends lined up to visit. But our circle of friends has grown smaller, and Fred’s needs have grown more complex. Now we want to spend ten days in Italy. We need a new solution.

House sitters. My old college friend Dave and his partner Elaine both work from home at a country crossroads an hour south of Madison. Might they enjoy a stay in our little cottage near the lake, with free high-speed Internet, premium cable, and dozens of restaurants nearby? With a cute little fox terrier as major domo?

Jim has never met the couple, but Fred and I have camped with them a couple of times. Just down the street lives my camping buddy Jane, who has been one of Fred’s favorite people since puppyhood. She can be the expert on all matters Fred for Elaine and Dave if needed.

After discussing the house-sitter idea with Jim—who private as he is, puts up surprisingly little resistance—I float the idea to my friends.

Elaine stops by the house to talk it over. Fred greets her happily, even though he is nearly blind and deaf. I show her around the house and yard, then we walk down to the neighborhood pizza parlor to talk. I point out amenities as we go—the world-class botanical garden, a great coffee shop.

“Is there a tennis court nearby?”

“Let me think… yes, beyond the gardens, I believe so.”

Elaine and Dave agree to the job.

I begin making lists for them—This Old House, This Old Neighborhood… This Old Dog. His habits, needs, commands he recognizes. But oh, such denial… not a mention of the latest development, that we have been carrying him upstairs to bed. He has slept at our feet for fourteen years. I do not mention that he will probably expect the same of Elaine and Dave.

Jim and I prepare for departure. I shop for new clothes; he stocks up Fred-meals in the freezer. Just as I was surprised he didn’t protest against outsiders living inside our walls, I am now surprised that he doesn’t express concern over how Fred will adapt. If he is worrying, he’s keeping it compartmentalized like the frozen dinners.

Elaine stops by for one more walk-through. We show her how to work the TV remote, give a quick tour of the kitchen. We work out the logistics for departure.

The timing is a bit awkward: we need to leave the house on Sunday about noon to catch the bus to O’Hare. She and Dave can’t get to town until closer to 4:00. So we tell Fred the plan, give him a hug, and leave.

We make our escape with our denial still intact. By the time Fred wakes from his nap to find strangers moving into his home, we’ll be boarding our flight to Rome. By the time we are in Fulmicino Airport watching businessmen gesture into their cell phones, waiting for our connection to Genoa, he will be one day into his role as Dave and Elaine’s dog. What, in his elderly confusion, will he make of all this?

© 2024 Sarah White

*I self-published Write Your Travel Memoirs mainly as an experiment to test the print-on-demand workflow before offering it to my clients. I had the content, from workshops I had taught for Story Circle Network’s online classes, and enjoyed adapting it to book form.