A birthday in Umbria, Italy

The big days are the most difficult.

That’s something you learn pretty quickly when you move abroad. All of the first ‘big days’ that I would be experiencing in Budapest, away from my family, were the days I dreaded the most. So far this year, there have been some pretty big milestones I wasn’t able to be a part of – my mom’s 60th birthday in June, my sister’s 30th in July, and, of course, my own birthday.

Twenty-five.

I’m not usually the type of person to go big on their birthday. The last time I had a big party was for my 21st in 2018, and I accepted at the time that it was probably the last big birthday party I would have for a long time. It’s not that people stop making a fuss of your big day as you get older, but rather, you stop making a fuss of it. This, of course, isn’t helped by the fact that I’m generally a terrible planner, and I don’t really start thinking about what I want to do for my birthday until a few days before.

This year, however, I knew I wanted to do something, if only to distract myself from the fact that this birthday was going to be so different from every previous birthday.

Even from their great distance, my family managed to cover this one for me. They called me in June and informed me that, as my birthday gift this year, they would be flying me out to visit my aunt, uncle, and cousin in Italy over my birthday weekend.

For a reason I can’t quite explain, Italy is a place that has beckoned to me my entire life. I know that might sound strange coming from someone who had never travelled anywhere up until this year, and who couldn’t possibly know what Italy would hold. All I know is that every time someone has asked me what my dream travel destination is, Italy has popped right to the forefront of my mind. Maybe it’s the carb-filled cuisine, or the idea of romantic gondolas floating through the streets, or the foreign language that seems to roll so eloquently off the tongues of its native speakers.

I knew my family hadn’t chosen Italy randomly, either. They always knew I wanted to visit, but getting the chance to spend my birthday with a part of our family who had always lived so far away from us was definitely the main draw factor.

My aunt Carol, my dad’s beloved older sister, moved to England when she was in her early twenties and never looked back. This year, she made the exciting move to Italy when she bought a Hamlet together with her daughter, my cousin, Steph.

The cluster of guest houses named Prato di Sotto (meaning ‘the meadow below’ in Italian) is nestled in the secluded green hills of Umbria, which is known as Italy’s ‘green heart’ due to it being the country’s only landlocked region. Although they had only reopened the Hamlet for guests very recently since buying it from the previous owner, and they believed it still needed a lot of work, they didn’t hesitate to welcome me for the weekend of my special day.

Arriving in Rome

Before we get into to the actual trip, we must start with what seems to be an unfortunate habit of mine when traveling to a different country: some avoidable and self-inflicted mishaps!

Perhaps it was because of my rocky experiences in Vienna, or perhaps it was because of the current chaos that seems to be associated with European travel and all the subsequent horror stories you hear of lost baggage and cancelled flights. But, for some reason, I just knew there was going to be some inevitable issues with getting to Italy.

For a start, WizzAir cancelled my flight about two weeks before I was due to travel. Not a huge train smash – I just booked a slightly later flight and let out a sigh of relief. Hopefully that was the mishap I had been predicting, minor and easily solvable.

Nope.

Two days before my flight, I decided to double check the details of my departure and arrival times. Getting to Perugia, the nearest town to where my family was, required me to take a train from Milan, which is where my flight would be landing. I stupidly assumed that the two regions would be close by, and I could hopefully book the train last minute. You can imagine my horror when I discovered that the train ride would in fact take four-and-a-half hours, AND my flight into Milan only landed at 00:15. Obviously, trains don’t run that late.

So, after a panic-call to both my mom and my aunt, it was back to the drawing board. Cancel flight to Milan, rebook new flight to Rome, which not only offered earlier flights but was also a shorter train distance to Perugia. I basically flushed about 80€ down the toilet, but at least now I could book train tickets and have full confidence in my journey. I knew exactly what I had to do and where I would be going.

Because of the stress of these last-minute changes, I think it only hit me on the plane that I was actually going to ITALY.

This is going to sound strange, but Italy is one of those places in which even the air is unmistakably distinct. The moment I walked out of Ciampino airport in Rome, I could sense an air that was lighter, more coastal. Everything smelled clean and beautiful and fresh. The atmosphere was warm, but not in the heavy, humid way that I was used to.

The journey from the airport to Roma Termini, the train station, could easily be made by shuttle bus. While waiting for my train at the station, I indulged in my very first authentic Italian gelato and tried to familiarise myself with the layout of the station. Once my train showed up on the departures board, telling me which platform to head to, I took the surprisingly long walk to what seemed like the opposite end of the station. A heads up to anyone travelling around this part of Italy: Roma Termini is huge, so don’t underestimate how long it will take to get to your next platform.

Luckily, I made it within good time, and settled in for the two-and-a-half-hour ride.

Arriving in Perugia

Roma Termini seemed even more vast when compared to the teeny-tiny Perugia train station, which has exactly two platforms – one for each train going in their opposite directions.

My cousin arrived to pick me up and, after excited hello’s, we decided to do a quick tour of Perugia, seeing as we were already there.

We drove up a steep hill which I came to realise is, in fact, the town itself, with the centre of the small village being located at the very top. This was great news for us because it meant a long laborious walk with lots of steep climbing (note: sarcasm). We found a questionably legal parking spot and started our climb through quaint, narrow cobblestone streets and quiet neighbourhoods.

As we walked, I started to wonder whether I had accidentally stumbled into the movie Eat, Pray, Love. The tiny Italian town is exactly what you saw in such films: laundry hanging from balconies, French shutter windows depicting signs of life and unfamiliar Italian calls being traded between rustic, cramped homes. It was absolutely beautiful to behold and absolutely unbelievable how people actually lived there. Where did people work, or go to school? It seemed like a faraway fairy-tale village, and I half expected villagers to burst out of their tiny doorways and start singing about their simple lives in a well-choreographed musical number.

When we eventually reached the centre of the town at the hill’s summit, we panted over to a spectacular viewpoint that looked out over the valleys and rooftops below. We each enjoyed an Aperol Spritz at a festive rooftop bar and then decided to grab some dinner at a busy restaurant that appeared to be pouring out into the street. After a bottle of wine and a delicious pasta, we carried our full bellies back down the hill towards where the car was parked (stopping for gelato along the way, of course).

We drove for about thirty minutes before reaching the bottom of Prato di Sotto’s five-kilometre-long unpaved driveway. Public transport, it quickly occurred to me, was not a thing here in Perugia. And thank god it wasn’t, otherwise we would have had to walk up that behemoth driveway. I didn’t get a good look at the hamlet in the dark of night, and evidence of my family’s recent move was still very much apparent in the form of closed boxes stacked up wall-to-wall. Needless to say, after a day of travel and only a small taste of what my surroundings had to offer, I was eager to wake up the next morning and get a better look around.

Twenty-Five in Italy

I woke up on the morning of my birthday and finally got to see my aunt, who had already been in bed when we arrived home the night before. We enjoyed breakfast together – my aunt, my uncle Will, my cousin, and I – and afterwards I headed eagerly in the direction of the pool.

It cannot be emphasized enough how much of a luxury a pool is for me after living in Budapest for an entire summer. I would kill to have a free-access pool in the city, so this was a real treat for me. I absolutely love swimming. My family called me to wish me a happy birthday, and now in hindsight I can admit that the day was permeated with a definite twinge of sadness at being so far away from them. Don’t get me wrong, though – I was absolutely thrilled and almost in disbelief to be laying poolside in the Italian countryside.

With Saturday being changeover day for the guests at Prato di Sotto, my family had a busy day of cleaning up after the guests that were leaving and preparing for new arrivals. I was genuinely eager to help out, but they insisted that I relax and enjoy my day.

I couldn’t deny that, as I swapped between basking on a pool lounger in the sun and doing slow laps in the cool water, twenty-five felt pretty damn fantastic.

My cousin Steph took a break between cleaning guest houses to give me a tour of the property: there are five homes in total, including the main house that my family lives in, although only three of the guest homes are currently available to stay in. The largest of the four guest homes, which sleeps eight people, is still very much under renovation. She walked me through their renovation and reconstruction plans for each home, including their own. Although the entire property has incredible potential, its also stunning just the way it is – tucked away in the tranquil green hills, the rustic design almost suits the atmosphere of simplicity and escape.

After an entire day of blissful poolside laziness, we headed into the tiny village below for a special birthday dinner. My cousin had made a reservation for the four of us at a very lowkey local restaurant which they had frequented several times, and which apparently served amazing food. I was certainly not disappointed, but it did make me chuckle when I realised that the whole ‘Italian-pizza-and-pasta’ thing is no stereotype. Pasta is a key part of every meal, which I am definitely not one to find issue with. It felt unreal to be seeing out my birthday with family I hadn’t seen in years, eating authentic homemade pasta and drinking delicious wine in a small village in Italy.

When we arrived home, there was one more birthday surprise waiting for me – after all, what’s a birthday without cake? We drank tea and ate chocolate cake out on the balcony under the stars before slowly making our way to bed.

I was sun-soaked and full-bellied and twenty-five and happy.

Exploring Gubbio

The next morning, we enjoyed a simple breakfast of cornflakes and tea before heading out to the nearby town of Gubbio. My cousin wouldn’t be joining us, as she had lots to sort out before her flight to London that evening – her current visitor’s visa only permits her to stay in Italy for three months at a time. There’s a lot of back-and-forth travelling between England and Italy in store for all three of them, in fact, because Prato di Sotto is only open to guests in the summer months, after which my family heads back to their home in England for the winter.

Carol, Will and I made the forty-minute drive to Gubbio and spent ten minutes trying to figure out how the parking ticket machine worked. Once we had that sorted, we began yet another climb – it seems many of the towns in this region are built on hills. Similar to Perugia, it was more quaint, narrow, cobblestone streets and picturesque views over lush green valleys. I had become obsessed with this aesthetic and how unreal it felt; how separated and different it seemed to the bustling city I’ve become so accustomed to.

We walked around quite a bit and marvelled at every view; it appeared that around every corner there was a new feast for the eyes. At some point our aimless wandering led us into Gubbio Cathedral, an ancient house of worship that holds several 16th century paintings and a baroque chapel.

We saw a little rickety train ambling through the streets, filled to the brim with tourists, and decided that this was perhaps the best way to see the town and learn more about its heritage. When it came to a stop and invited new passengers aboard, we hurriedly bought tickets and clambered on, fastening our complementary earphones into our ears and tuning into the English audio tour.

The tour guide gave a rehearsed retelling of the town’s medieval history and pointed out locations where various battles and mythical happenings took place, the most interesting of which involved the remains of an old amphitheatre that still partially stands in a large field below the hills. When the tour was over, we decided to grab lunch and a gelato.

I supplemented the rest of the daylight hours with swimming, tanning and lounging beside the pool, and spending some time with my cousin before she had to leave. That evening, in the warm haze of dusk, we sat on the balcony and drank wine while the barbeque prepared our dinner. We ate, drank, and spoke late into the night and, at some point, the bottle of ice-cold Limoncello I had been gifted for my birthday regretfully made its way to the table.

It’s on evenings like these that I really have to pinch myself and thank my lucky stars that I took such a leap of faith and made my way to Europe. I had never dreamed in a million years that I’d be sipping white wine on a scenic balcony in the secluded Italian countryside, sun-kissed and tipsy. And yet, here I was.

Walks through Montone

The next day, Steph had left for London and the three of us decided to make the most of my last full day by visiting another nearby town. Montone was considerably the smallest of all the towns we had visited – you could see the whole place on foot in about forty minutes – but it was also perhaps the cutest.

We made our way down narrow cobblestone lanes and enchanting alleys when we arrived, and this time we landed almost immediately in their only town square (if you could even call it that). We enjoyed a coffee and some of the most delicious croissants I’ve ever tasted in my entire life, and then set off to explore what has been named one of the 100 most beautiful villages in Italy.

It doesn’t take long to summit the main hill in the centre of this village, which is marked by a large courtyard with viewpoints overlooking the valleys and fields below on all sides. These views were truly breath-taking – all the shades of green, the cloudless open sky, the farmlands and thickets creating all different kinds of textures…it was enough to make me borderline emotional. Lacking a tourist presence compared to Gubbio, it was also remarkably quiet and peaceful to simply amble through the concrete corridors and hear only the sounds of birds chatting, wind rustling in the trees and the town’s grand clock tower occasionally chiming out on the hour.

Hiccups on the way home

On the morning of my last day, we had planned another day trip to Assissi, in the direction of Perugia. Sadly, we didn’t end up making it there due to business that my aunt and uncle had to tend to back at the house, but it was almost a relief to have one more day to just relax by the pool and really breathe in the essence of the place. I remember wishing I could bottle up all the sights, smells and sensations of just being there, so that I could open them up back home and relive them.

My uncle dropped me off at the Perugia train station in time for me to catch my train back to Roma Termini in the mid-afternoon. I would thank myself hours later for allocating much more time than was needed to get from the train station to the airport and, at the rate I was going, I was due to check in about three hours before take-off. This would come to be my saving grace.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly – I would drop off my bags, go through security and grab a light dinner before my flight boarded at 22:00, all with more than enough time to spare. I stood in the queue at the baggage drop-off for about twenty-five minutes, which was longer than usual, but I knew travelling Europe at the moment was chaotic and airports were massively understaffed, so I wasn’t too surprised or disgruntled. Once it was my turn, I stepped forward and handed the woman behind the counter my phone with my boarding pass on it. She looked at me, confused. She asked me again for the correct boarding pass. She asked if I was flying to Sienna. No, I replied, I was flying to Budapest. Now she was really confused.

There was no flight to Budapest – not from Ciampino airport, anyway. There was one from Fiumicino airport, which was thirty-five minutes into the city. I was at the wrong airport.

In all honesty, it didn’t even occur to me that there might be more than one airport in Rome. I simply assumed that I’d be flying out of the same airport I flew into.

Queue floods of tears that tasted reminiscent of Vienna. Was I really just useless at this whole travelling thing?

I ran to the info desk and asked them where I could catch a taxi, and they directed me to a row of cabs lined up and waiting for passengers to arrive outside. I knew these taxis would be expensive, but I didn’t really have much of a choice. From what I could see, there were no shuttles or buses going directly from the one airport to the other, and I certainly didn’t have time to go back to the train station and board the other shuttle to Fiumicino.

As I paced up and down borderline wailing and on the brink of a full-blown toddler tantrum, an Italian taxi driver took pity on me. He approached me and asked what was wrong, and I told him I needed to get to the other airport, or I’d miss my flight. He asked me how much time I had, and when I told him two hours, he scoffed. There’s no doubt we’d make it in time, he was sure of it. I had my doubts, but after drawing a whopping 70 euros from my wallet and handing it over, I guessed this was my best bet.

Google Maps assured me that Fiumicino was thirty-five minutes away but, by some miracle and some undoubtedly very illegal driving, we got there in eighteen minutes flat. The kind taxi driver did not disappoint and, although I momentarily wondered if he had maybe watched The Fast and The Furious too many times, I was just grateful when we eventually pulled up to the drop-off zone. I thanked him profusely and told him to keep the change (the ride had actually cost 62 euros).

Crisis averted, I finally breathed the sigh of relief I had been holding in for the past hour when I got to the baggage drop-off area and saw that it was still open. The man behind the counter glanced at my bottle-green South African passport and immediately asked if I knew Charlize Theron. Not ‘knew of her’, but actually knew her. Shockingly, this is not the most ridiculous question I’ve been asked by foreigners about my nationality.

The rest of the trip home was smooth-sailing, and I even had time to grab a slice of pizza before boarding the plane.

All in all, I’d say this definitely goes down as one of the most memorable birthdays I’ll ever have. And if there’s one thing I’m more certain of than ever before, it’s that this won’t be the last Italy sees of me.