Karen Goes to Italy

I have just returned from one of the most beautiful spots on earth. Nine days in Italy: three in Piemonte for a wedding, and six in Lake Como with the family. Everything was sublime, and I can’t complain, not because there wasn’t anything to complain about, but because Karen ruined it for all of us.

You know Karen. She could have been Heather, or Susan, or Laurie, but was identified as Karen a few years ago, much to the distress of real Karens, a white, entitled, middle-aged woman who is always asking to see the manager. At her worst, she’s a racist, sexist, classist anti-vaxxer with a gun. At her mildest, she’s a woman with expectations who speaks up when they’re not met; in other words, me.

The problem, and it really wasn’t that big a problem, not in the end, was with the place we rented. I like to book quirky, out of the way places that promise unique experiences. Our first family trip to Italy brought us to a teensy little town at the top of a steep mountain in the wildest part of Tuscany, where hawks flew by at eye level, and wild boars rummaged through the forest below. In England, we rented a 14th century Benedictine priory that featured a ping pong table in the main hall, which I’m sure was not original. In Vermont, we leased Rudyard Kipling’s home Naulakha, where he wrote Captains Courageous and The Jungle Book. Apart from the bare necessities (hoho), the bathroom boasted the original 125 year old bathtub and toilet, still in use, so yes, I can claim to have bathed in Kipling’s tub.