How Italy Saved Their Marriage

By Susan Pohlman, Scottsdale, Arizona

As appeared in

It was the last week in May 2003.

My husband, Tim—a highly successful radio executive—and I were hosting a six-day business junket in Italy for the clients of an L.A. radio station.

Ever the dutiful wife, I helped Tim ensure that approximately 40 clients had the time of their lives in Florence and Portofino.

We were here to do a job, not to search for romance under the Tuscan sun. I was convinced those days were long over for us.

As we explored Italy, my lawyer back home was exploring my strategies to exit a marriage that in reality had ended years earlier.

We had landed at our emotional ground zero after a series of spectacular fights about who was working harder, who was ignoring the other person, who was the more invested parent, who was spending what and who didn’t care about being married anymore. We were tired of each other, tired of wondering what was missing, tired of pretend­ing we were happy and tired of trying to work through our differences in therapy.

After over 20 years as a couple, we had become stock characters in our own drama. And our two children, 14-year-old Katie and 11-year-old Matt, were suffering the consequences of living in an environment of silent rage.

I could remember how hopeful I’d been when I chose the Bible passage I wanted read at our wedding, the one that urges us to “look at the birds of the air” and “consider the lilies of the field” and ends with the admonition, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness.”

Our pastor wondered about my choice—after all, there are plenty of verses about love—but I wanted our priorities set right from the beginning. We would grow like the lilies, trusting in God.

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Now in Florence, that seemed hopelessly idealistic. We had mortgages and bills to pay, children to raise and careers to manage. Who had time for lilies and birds?

For the sake of developing relationships with people who could positively affect future radio budgets, I was helping Tim arrange a perfect tour of the city, printing up maps so our charges could easily navigate its narrow cobblestoned streets.

But there was no love in what I did. Tim and I were a team in name only.

One afternoon I wandered off alone. I was not prepared for the unexpected tears that sprang to my eyes in the Duomo, the cathedral of Florence, overwhelmed by its huge scale and Godly beauty.

I didn’t expect to be charmed by the medieval alleyways, palaces and churches. I was struck dumb when I entered the fourteenth century Basilica of Santa Croce and saw the tombs and monuments of famous Florentines like Galileo and Michelangelo.

What was it about these courageous and innovative men who didn’t shrink back in fear when the odds were stacked against them? All of a sudden, Florence wasn’t just about artwork anymore.

I awoke on day four of the trip in a hotel called The Miramare in the town of Santa Margherita Ligure on the Italian Riviera. While Tim slept, I sat up in bed and gazed out the narrow window, the white curtains billowing in the sea breeze.

I watched a lone sailboat turn from gray to orange to white as it cut its way across the expansive harbor, bathed in the light of the rising sun. I felt strangely calm, peaceful even. “Hey, you,” I whispered to Tim. “Wake up.”

Tim slowly opened one eye and peered at his travel alarm clock perched on the bedside table. “But we just went to bed,” he groaned.