Everyone has a favorite way to travel in Europe.

Mine is to take a tour led by an operator who specializes in guiding small groups with flexible itineraries. I also enjoy joining forces with a savvy ex-pat or local friend and improvising.

The "make-it-up-as-you-go-along" approach led me to spend three relaxing days on Elba Island, Italy, with close friends and family. My husband, sister, and I had just finished a walking tour organized by a small tour operator through parts of the Cinque Terre and points north and west along the Ligurian coast. After a rigorous week of hiking through cliffside vineyards, group dining, and touring churches and museums, we were ready to kick back and soak up the September sun on a Mediterranean beach.

Blithely ignoring the stormy weather forecast, we decided to head to the island at the suggestion of my sister's boyfriend, a Fiorentino. Simone (pronounced "see-MOAN-ay") had fond memories of swimming in the salty water off the coastline of Elba Island as a boy. We rented two small cars and picked up some American friends in Pisa on the way to the ferry. After a relaxing boat ride, we disembarked at Piombino.

We felt like Pinocchio and Giuseppe as we drove out onto the hot asphalt. Instead of emerging from the belly of a shark, we came out from the mouth of a giant, gleaming white metal whale, similar to the one in blue that was painted on the boat's side. With no accommodations lined up and no idea other than to find a travel agency in Porto Ferraio, our first stop was to inquire about vacancies.

Tour guides and German or Italian do-it-yourself tourists flocked to the travel agencies near the port. We took a more circular approach through the unfamiliar territory to find a legal parking space. The lines were flowing onto the sidewalks at all the agencies within sight of the main port parking lot. Our group of seven split up to see which pair or threesome could get to a counter the quickest. We were a little worried about finding enough room for all of us in one apartment or house. The excessively hot summer of 2003 kept the tourist trade busy on Elba Island.

Our Seattle friends, dubious at nudging and creeping their way through the crowds up to the counter Italian-style, had noticed a travel agency during their hunt for an ATM. The office was about two blocks from where we had finally parked and, best of all, it had only one other customer who was being helped at the time. Our friend Ken stayed behind in case the agent finished before we could reassemble our group, while his wife Phoebe came to get the rest of us. By the time we had collected my sister and her boyfriend, our Swedish friend Mina had embarked on the linguistic adventure of finding us suitable accommodations.

At first, it sounded bad—none of the options were big enough for the whole group. From Italian to English and back again, our rapid-fire discussion resulted in finding two adjacent apartments for a very reasonable rate within a five-minute walk of the "ugly" beach, Spiaggia Grande, near the town of Lacona.

Satisfied with our negotiations, we paid the travel agent. Up and over the hill in the middle of the island we drove. The sun was beginning to set and Simone, in the back seat of the lead car, smiled and pointed at vineyards and quarries where iron, granite, tourmaline, quartz, or opals are mined. He waved and pointed frenetically after one particular turn when a deep blue bay in the distance came into view. We later learned that this bay was famous for being the site of an ancient, haunting shipwreck. We spotted the sign for our apartments from the road and meandered through what seemed to be private gardens and yards to the office.

After getting keys to the apartments, Mina and my sister chatted with the owner's wife to get recommendations about where to buy groceries. We understood that the best way to use our Italian was to listen closely and jump in when we could. Our teacher, a Milanese woman in Seattle, taught us correct grammar—"high Italian." Few of the hosts or store owners we met in the smaller towns spoke their native language without the influence of the local dialect. Our summer Italian lessons gave us a stronger basis for speaking with the locals on this adventure; however, the use of hand gestures, smiles, nods, or frowns—a communication tradition in a country with hundreds of dialects—reassured us we were being understood.

Incoming clouds sped the approaching dusk and heightened our sense of time—evening was near. Our hostess told us of a restaurant and bar a quarter mile or so away with a convenience-style market right next door. We moved the cars to the designated parking spots, a somewhat confusing drive on gravel and dirt roads, then unpacked them with lightening speed. We wanted to get to the market before it closed for the day. Some of us were traveling on a strict budget, so we intended to make full use of the kitchens in our apartments during our stay.

Our shopping expedition was a success. We arrived at the market about a half hour before the owners were going to close for the night. We scoured the store for bell peppers, fresh tomatoes, onions, olive oil, and basil—the key ingredients to basic red pasta sauce. We also collected dried pasta, fresh fruit, a giant jar of Nutella, and ground espresso to prepare for both our meals that evening and the following morning. The guys stationed themselves squarely in front of the store's ample and, to us Americans, affordable selection of table wines. Laden with bags, we trudged up the slight hill and back to our home away from home.

By the time we made it back to the apartments, a storm had blown in. We paused before making dinner to watch for lightening and listen to the thunder. For the four of us from Seattle, land of constant drizzle in fall and winter, this tempestuous display of rainy weather was a treat, even though we knew it might interfere with our plans to float in the Mediterranean Sea the next morning.

That night, the storm continued. The winds grew strong enough that a power surge tripped the circuit breakers in our apartments and we were plunged into total darkness. And who would have thought to put candles on our shopping list? With no power, no flashlight, no hotel desk to call, and no idea that simply pressing the big red button just inside each apartment would reset the circuit, we abandoned our game of Hearts and gathered on our porches to watch the storm's fury in darkness.

After finishing the two open bottles of wine, we felt our way to our beds. The two women in my apartment tag-teamed, trying to open the sofa bed for Ken and Phoebe to sleep on. The bed, which was clearly possessed, nearly tossed me out onto the porch during our prolonged wrestling match. We finally prevailed, undressed in total darkness, and giggled our way to sleep.