Are You Looking for Truffles?

I am not one of those paranoid people who thinks that everyone is out to get them. In fact, I am the total opposite -- I bank on good karma. For the record, I also have the most amazing parking juju ever. My friend Melanie (who has never met a door prize she has not won) swears it is because I give God the giggles but, regardless, I have great luck most of the time and am, therefore, ridiculously trusting.


Which leads me to Milan... In my old job as a software goddess I traveled all the time (seriously, over 500,000 miles a year). One of my roles was to keep our clients happy by wining and dining them. I know, it sucks but someone has to do it. So, I am with new clients in Milan and this man comes up to me, asks me to dinner, I accept and he agrees to pick me up at my hotel at 8. No worries, I do this all the time. I am practically a professional.


He shows up at my hotel in banger car. I mean a total jalopy. Which would be fine but shouldn't the Program Manager for a major Italian plastic company have a car with all its door handles? But this does not deter me; into the car I hop. {This is where my Hubby starts his safety briefing about situational awareness. This is when I start tuning him out and start daydreaming about my cute shoes. Sadly, this is not our first rodeo so we both know the roles that the other one plays}.


We leave the Autostrada and get on a smaller road. Fine, fine. We are making small talk and I realize that THIS GUY IS NOT MY CLIENT. Holy shit, Joy, you are in the car with a total stranger. Not that my client was not a stranger (clearly) but at least I had his email address. This is just some random guy who worked down the hall from my clients and wanted to have dinner with me. At this point I realize two things: 1) I need to focus when people are doing introductions and 2) I need glasses.


I am trying not to panic but I keep hearing my mother's voice in a loop saying "Don't get in the car with strangers, even if they offer you candy." Somehow I heeded that advice as a 6 year old but, here I am in my late 20s in a car with a stranger; no candy necessary. By the way, we have now left the paved road. Yep, we are on a dirt road in a forest.


I am TOTALLY CONVINCED that my karma points have run out and I am about to become some sad headline. The passenger door does not even have an interior handle (I did mention the car was a total banger). This is a bad movie plot and I am living it. So, in Penelope Pitstop fashion, I start digging in my purse for some kind of weapon. For those of you who don't know my hubby, his specialty in the Marine Corps was weapons of opportunity. Like how to kill people with a paper clip or some such. Apparently, this kind of knowledge does not leak out across the pillow so I am bewildered and panicking. Can I over-schedule him with my Palm Pilot, make him stress out and have a heart attack? Can I lipstick his face and hope that he dies of embarrassment? I got nothing other than a pen and a perfume sample. My brilliant plan is to throw the perfume in his eyes and then poke him with the pen. Yep, Chuck Norris would be shaking in his boots at that move.


Basically, I am waiting to die because even I know this plan sucks. We are now on a goat path headed to AN ABANDONED FARMHOUSE. Swear to God, I am not making this up. I am in a car with a stranger, armed with Chanel No 5 heading to an abandoned farmhouse. Even I, Captain Oblivious, know this is bad. He is still chattering away like nothing is wrong but, of course, nothing is wrong in his world. I am the one who is about to be chopped to bits and fed to feral pigs not him. Are psychopaths always flirtatious and chipper? We pull up and I start plotting my escape.


But, of course, I have to wait for him to open my door since I don't have a handle on my side. He comes over, opens the door part way and I shove it open and start hauling ass. Well, "hauling ass" might be an exaggeration. 1) I am built for comfort not for speed and 2) I am in ridiculous shoes which look great but they are not intended for a forest escape. So I am screaming at the top of my lungs (and this is one thing at which I excel) and running (not my strong suit). He is JOGGING (yes, let's insult me before you chop me to bits) to keep up with me asking me "What is wrong? Where are you going? Why you yell so much?" I am now wondering if I should just stop so at least my corpse won't be all sweaty with smeared make-up when I hit a tree root and wipe out. I mean I am FLATTENED and skid to a stop at the root of a tree.


He gets on his knees beside me and asks "Ohhh, you are looking for truffles. I see. Let me help." I am shooting tears out horizontally and hoping to be able to write a farewell note and he thinks I am looking for truffles like some French pig. NOW I HAVE HAD IT! "What the hell are you talking about, you moron. I am running away or I was until my stiletto got caught in a root."


Eventually, once he stops laughing, I realize that he is not trying to kill me. Ohhh. "Then why are we at an abandoned farmhouse off of a goat path in the forest?" He helps me up and we walk to the other side of the farmhouse. Complete with parking lot. Full of people. On a patio. Eating, drinking and making merriment. No wood chipper. No shallow graves. No feral pigs. Just some prosciutto.


Now I feel like a total ass, I have grass stains on my pants, dirt in my hair and I have broken a heel to boot (does Nordstrom's return policy cover mad dashes from potential psychopaths?). During dinner he asks a couple of times "so you're sure you don't want to go truffle hunting with my family this weekend? You can tell your very funny story to them."