Once all the anxieties, monotonies, and imagined catastrophies drain away, my vacation memories take on a warm, pleasant glow. The trip I took to Italy two summers ago was far from relaxing. I had two emotional blowups as an overzealous travel-companion dragged my exhausted body through France and Italy all along the way battling for accomodations with the other post-college crowds of Americans and Australians.

One night we couldn't find a cab, the trains weren't running, the hotels were full, and the phones had been turned off for the night. I couldn't stand the idea of an entire night spent roaming the streets despite our magnificant outdoor accomodations: a peaceful, warm, small town looking out on the Meditteranean. I wish I could have been more easy-going.

Around 3am we flagged down a convertible full of young Italian men and begged them for a ride to the nearby town we were staying at. They declined, but returned a few minutes later and beckoned us to get in. I was exhausted and mute, but my extroverted travel partner discovered that they spoke French. He launched into an extended conversation about TV shows, sports, and how much he was enjoying his visit to Italy. They were exceedingly polite but drove like macho maniacs down the twisted curving roads surrounded by vineyards and lemon trees. I don't remember how exhausted I felt anymore, but I do remember the dark warm air and the comfort of being in a fast car headed towards a place to sleep.