by | August 7, 2026
A Girls Getaway That Got Away From the Girls: Prissy Elrod Takes on Europe
Five hotels, four countries, three friends, two airlines and one off-the-rails overseas adventure
It was a cold January morning when I spotted an email from my favorite tour company: 50% off a fall culinary jaunt through Naples, the Amalfi Coast and Capri. My past trips with them—Abruzzo and the Adriatic coast—combined cooking, sightseeing and collecting new friends. I phoned my longtime friends Jane and Gayle. By noon, we were booked.
Naturally, Murphy’s Law RSVP’d too.
Two weeks later, I learned that your passport should be valid for six months beyond your scheduled trip dates before entering Italy. Mine was teetering on the edge. Before booking anything, I needed to renew it. Renewal, in theory, is simple: form, fee, mail. Done. In reality, it became Act One of a travel drama I couldn’t have scripted myself.
It began in early February at a Leon County records office, where I learned passport renewals were no longer processed there. A clerk pointed me to U.S. Travel Docs online. I followed every instruction, paid for expedited processing and mailed my application—along with my still-valid passport—the following day. Then I waited.
By March 5th, my application read: “In Process.” And there it stayed. When I finally reached someone on the phone, I was told my application had been filed as routine instead of expedited, even though I’d paid for the latter.
“It’s approved,” the agent said, “but you need to pay for expedited return shipping.” Wait. What had I already paid for? Another $80.36 was charged on my credit card. I told myself we were back on track.
Then came the April email: “Your application is on hold pending payment of $160.” I had already paid. Twice. No one could explain it. I was told to send a money order. A money order?
So I went to Publix, bought one and mailed it to Virginia, along with yet another Priority Mail fee. By then, I had spent $461.86 on what started as a single check box labeled “expedite.”
April turned into May. USPS confirmed delivery. The State Department claimed they had no record. “Expedited isn’t guaranteed,” one agent told me.
That’s when I decided I was done being polite and I called my congressman.
Within an hour, someone from the office called me back. I laid out the entire saga: dates, dollars, receipts and my thinning supply of patience. She was kind and clearly familiar with passport chaos. Twenty-four hours later, my passport was hand-delivered to my front door. Just like that.
The reimbursement? Still pending. I’m not holding my breath. As it turned out, this fiasco was only the beginning.
The Stage is Set
In the past, I’ve played travel concierge: planning and escorting groups across the United States, Europe and Asia. By June, I volunteered to organize everything: flights, trains, hotels and excursions. Jane and Gayle handed over credit cards, points and full trust. Gayle had one request she repeated often: “I need first class; I have to lie down.”
That’s how I met Norris. Who later became Beckford. Then disappeared. Let me rewind.
He was a travel concierge for a supposedly reputable company I won’t name. Norris was helpful, patient and persuasive. He suggested we fly Turkish Airlines from Atlanta to Paris via Istanbul. “You must see Istanbul before Paris,” he said. “Three nights in a five-star hotel, compliments of me.”
Atlanta to Paris via Istanbul made no sense. So naturally, we agreed. We reviewed the itinerary, approved it and handed over our credit cards. He directed us to communicate via WhatsApp, an app often used in Europe to send text messages and make calls, and booked us with a ticketing agency named ASAP Tickets. Both were tools I wasn’t familiar with. Four weeks before departure, I emailed to confirm everything. No response.
I called. “Norris no longer works in that department,” the woman said. “He’s been promoted. And he now goes by Beckford.” I let that sink in for a moment. Call me crazy, but most people don’t change their name with a promotion. I called Jane, “You need to come over,” I said. “Something’s amuck.”
Within the hour, we were conducting what can only be described as a forensic investigation. The link to our itinerary? Dead. Norris’s email? “This page cannot be found.” Turkish Airlines had no record of us. No tickets. We were nowhere. With four weeks until departure, in peak travel season.
Two agents and a manager later, we were rebooked with different flights and prices, and a long layover in Istanbul. What should have been an eight-hour trip turned into a 33-hour odyssey from Tallahassee to Paris.
Norris or Beckford, whoever he was, didn’t just vanish. He took our itinerary with him, along with his free hotel.
Mic Drop
We landed in Paris at midnight, checked into an airport hotel and left early the next morning for our train to Aix-en-Provence. I dragged my 49-pound suitcase and carry-on, my handbag dangling, back to the airport, only to discover we were at the wrong one. Our train left from Orly airport, not Charles de Gaulle.
Heads up: Never give me a microphone inside a closed vehicle.
-Prissy Elrod
By whatever miracle, our tickets were refunded in time to rebook from where we stood, befuddled. We boarded, along with three heavy suitcases and three carry-on bags, and packed ourselves in for the four-hour train ride.
In Aix, I had chosen a small hotel tucked into the rhythm of the city—the kind of place that doesn’t announce itself but quietly gets everything right. After what it took to get there, it felt less like a reservation and more like divine intervention. We wandered the city of a hundred fountains, followed the scent of bakeries and did what the French do best: sit, sip and see.
The next day, we toured the hilltop villages of Lourmarin, Bonnieux, Roussillon and Gordes while in a van with a handsome Italian as our guide. I was carsick just looking at the van, so he put me in the front seat, practically sitting on his lap. He narrated the village histories with his microphone as we traveled the winding roads, his commentary engaging.
I, being myself, added my own commentary as he drove and talked. “Oh yes, I’ve been there…” I would say.
At one point, he handed me his microphone. “You tell the story.”
I resisted, but he insisted. So, I gave it my all. Heads-up: Never give me a microphone inside a closed vehicle.
Only later did I learn I was my own audience. He had turned the microphone off when he handed it over to me. After six hours of touring, the entire van of occupants sitting behind me had closed eyes. I gave him five stars for being funny.
The Grand Finale
From Marseille, we flew to Naples. We arrived confident and organized. That ended quickly—our cab driver spoke only Italian. I handed him the Airbnb address and he nodded. Soon, we were inching down what appeared to be a pedestrian walkway lined with cafe tables. Diners sipping wine barely looked up as our car squeezed past their appetizers. A man shouted, “Questa NON è una strada!” Our driver shouted back at him, swerving. I called the Airbnb owner and handed my phone to our driver. What followed was a full-volume Italian standoff.
“SINISTRA!”
“NON È POSSIBILE!”
They argued as he kept driving. Jane braced. Gayle went silent. An hour later, we arrived. Seven hours later, we checked out and left for the next week’s scheduled plans.
During our stay, we joined a tour where we learned to make gnocchi, Neapolitan pizza, octopus salad and Torta Caprese. We toured Pompeii and Herculaneum, standing at the base of Mount Vesuvius while we sipped wine at a vineyard.
We visited Capri and the Amalfi Coast by boat, my least favorite mode of transportation. Both days, the sky was perfect blue, the coastline stunning and the water was rough enough to make every mile feel longer. I relied on sheer willpower on those outings, chewing my homeopathic Travel-Eze tablets like Tic Tacs. Two times we slipped away from our group for Michelin-star dinners. We were naughty but the meals were nice.
By the end of the trip, we had traveled by planes, trains, boats and vans across four countries—two airlines, five hotels, with more security checkpoints than I care to count. On the flight home, Gayle slept flat with a smile. Jane played word games on her phone. I paced and chatted with the crew. They repeatedly offered me a cocktail, perhaps an attempt to make me sit down or sedate me.
Our “girls getaway” got away, and not exactly in the way I planned. There’s an old Yiddish proverb: Man makes plans and God laughs. God must have been howling at us. And eventually, we did as well: not during the passport purgatory, the Norris/Beckford disappearance or the Italian taxi shouting match on what was most certainly not a road. But later, over wine, in retelling the moments like we meant for it all to happen. That’s the magic of old friends. They don’t make the trip smoother. They just make the chaos worth it.
For more of Prissy Elrod’s adventures, click here.
About the Author
Prissy is a professional speaker, artist and humorist, and the author of two nonfiction books: “Far Outside the Ordinary” and “Chasing Ordinary,” the sequel. She was born and raised in Lake City and now lives in Tallahassee with her husband, Dale.
