Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - all roads lead

Before I left the Florence station, there was a bit of commotion on a nearby train. I thought someone was in trouble, then ill, then I don’t know what. As soon as officials went aboard a crowd started gathering, gawking onlookers rushing from all directions out of curiosity. Suddenly I felt nauseated and felt the urge to get away from there. Looking at the floor, I walked quickly, swallowing hard in stony silence or I would have yelled or cried or both. I downed an espresso at the first café I came across to calm myself. There can’t be too many people who need espresso to calm themselves, but the hot, stong coffee moved down my throat and through my veins and capillaries, stilling my tensed nerves and muscles. Why is it that people stop and stare at accidents like ghouls? It would be different if they were running to help, but it’s just to look. I don’t know why they do it. It never bothered me before but now I can’t bear it.

This incident coloured my train trip and influenced my first opinion of Rome, which I saw as noisy and grubby. The traffic is wild and the horn honking drives me to distraction. No one moves an inch for anyone else. I walked to the Spanish Steps, dotted with young travelers, students and musicians. I had long wanted to visit the place Keats knew so well and lived next to. For some reason I’ve always had a certain empathy with Keats. I don’t know why. I would think Shelley’s tragic boating accident and his wife’s continuing devotion and creative talent would be endearing, or Byron’s idealistic heroism fighting the Greek cause. But it’s to Keats that I turn most frequently when looking through my old poetry books, now buried in Mom's and Dad’s basement and maybe (maybe?) never seen again by me. I wish I could be more like Keats:

O there is nothing like fine weather and health, and Books and a fine country, and a contented Mind and Diligent habit of reading and thinking, and an amulet against the ennui and, please heaven, a little claret-wine cool out of a cellar a mile deep – with a few or a good many ratafia cakes ……two or three sensible people to chat with; two or three spiteful folks to spar with; two or three odd fishes to laugh at and two or three numbskulls to argue with.

Why can’t I be that content?

I saw the ruins of the Forum and the elegant Pantheon. The public weren't allowed inside the Colosseum, but I did walk the whole way around the outside of it. As I walked past Hadrian’s massive tomb, I looked down at the Tiber. The river itself is rather dirty and decrepit: what deep memories it must have. My visit to the Vatican was disappointing; I couldn’t get in to see Diego Ribero’s World Chart at the library there. I was keen to see the first map that gave an indication of the true size of the Pacific Ocean courtesy of Magellan’s voyage. I always think of the Pacific as ‘my Ocean’. So many years watching its rhythms I guess, or at least from one part of it. Someday I must see other sides of that huge blue.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - florentine musings

I have spent days walking, walking. I first went to see the Genoese map of 1457, more modern than Fra Mauro’s map, at the Biblioteca Nazionale. Then I felt sufficiently ready to enter the Uffizi. The Uffizi gallery surely houses one of the greatest collections of Renaissance paintings in the world. I would need a month to see it all. This morning was devoted to the glorious icons, mostly pre-Renaissance and all glittering gold. Yesterday I ‘did’ the Botticelli’s. I know their popularity often demeans them in some scholars’ eyes, sort of like Monet’s lily pads, but maybe the reason they are popular is because they so instantly connect with the viewer. As a kid I used to think Walt Disney’s animated women were just too beautiful, and these make me feel the same way. If I could look like anyone in the world I would choose to look like one of Botticelli’s women. But then, you always said you liked my looks and so I guess I’d really prefer to stay as I am. I never used to think there’d ever be a time when I’d be satisfied to look like me!

I am inspired by Leonardo da Vinci here even more, if that’s possible. He was always a hero of mine. When people told me “You can’t do everything” or “You can’t go everywhere” or “Pick one thing and stick to it,” I’d mention Leonardo and ask “Why not? He did.” Imagine painting the most recognizable painting in the world, which I know is in Paris, but one can’t help imagining the Mona Lisa here when surrounded by her landscapes. Imagine painting her and then designing flying machines, hundreds of years ahead of their time. Science, art, engineering, he did everything it seems except write an opera. Seeing his work fires me up, makes that old desire to see the world and everything in it, the desire to accomplish as many things as I can flare up. My goodness, that’s the first time I’ve felt that way in a long time. Maybe the loss of my pack awakened something inside me. It would be nice to find something positive about the experience.

I have walked along the river Arno, across the Ponte Vecchio to the Pitti palace, and on to the Belvedere fortress with its magnificent view of Florence’s red clay rooves, looking like a Renaissance painting itself. Lush little fields with olive trees, shuttered casas up the hills looking back at me, tall black cypresses. I have been to Brunelleschi's Duomo with its stunning green, white and pink marble on the outside and its patterned floor on the inside. One room was all in wood with such amazing inlay work every wall seemed three-dimensional. To my disappointment, the Accademia Museum had closed off ‘David’ for renovation. I tried to see as much as possible through the barred windows but will have to rely on the myriad postcards and copies that are everywhere. I read somewhere that when travelling one should always leave something unseen so that one has a reason to return. “David” will be my reason to return to Florence.

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - faceless!

Horrors! I dreamed about you but you had no face! I woke up in a sweat and immediately grabbed my photos of you. It was the most horrible feeling! That I would ever forget what you looked like has become a great fear. I have to look at pictures of you more and more often it seems and I don’t know why. Oh, please, I can’t live if I can’t picture you in my mind!

Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - a new door in '84

I went to find a place that made pizza. I love real Italian pizza in Italy - it's so different from the heavy, soggy stuff at home. Behind fogged up windows I was seated squashed into a corner, but I didn’t mind. I could watch other people that way. An older American couple sitting next to me were having problems working out the Italian menu so I leaned over and offered assistance. They are from San Francisco, a city I long to see. We chatted awhile and then the waiter took our respective orders and we settled into our meals. I was just finishing mine when a small bottle of red wine arrived to my surprise, as I hadn't ordered it. I looked up uncomprehending and the waiter indicated my couple who twinkled at me, wished me ‘Happy New Year’ and saluted with their own glasses. What a wonderful gesture!

I walked back in a happy state of mine, but when I opened the door to my room, trying to be as quiet as I could, I was surprised to see it wasn’t locked. ‘That’s odd’ I thought, and then I noticed my bag was gone. I stood there pondering but the bag remained gone, so I went downstairs to knock on the landlord’s door. He opened the door with a piece of chicken in his hands, not all that happy to have been disturbed at dinner. I asked him if someone had moved my bag and he looked mystified. He came upstairs with me to have a look for himself. I had almost convinced myself that I perhaps had gotten the wrong room, but no. If it hadn’t been for the loss of my bag and everything in it, the room would have looked absolutely normal.

The landlord held his head in two hands in surprise. Then he looked at me. “Is this a trick? You have hidden your bag so you can get out of paying you bill.”

“No!” I stammered, shocked and angry. “Look, someone took my bag. All my stuff. I only have these,” clutching my coat to indicate the clothes I wore. “I have the money. I will pay. But what about my things? What will I do?”

He looked at me more a bit more kindly seeing I was genuinely troubled and about to cry. Taking me downstairs he poured out a glass of grappa. I can’t stand the stuff but I drank it in one swallow. “I am sorry to say this but I do not know what you can do. Of course you can go to the police, but they will never find your bag. This happens all the time.” He shrugged his shoulders and I believed him. Suddenly, he leapt up with a beaming smile and clapped his hands together. He disappeared into another room and returned with my guitar in his hands. “Look!” He said proudly. ”You still have your guitar. You still have your music. You could play on the streets and earn the money to buy more clothes.” I took the guitar, not able to tell him I had been more suspicious that this would have been the item gone missing, nor that I couldn’t play the thing. I did cry then.

I imagine he thought my tears were of relief, for he gave me a big hug and bashfully ushered me outside. I stood there, tears on my cheek, then slowly went back upstairs. What could I do? He was right of course. The police would only shrug, the bag by now long gone. I sat on my bed looking at the guitar sitting innocently in front of me, and completely dissolved. Big heaving sobs shook through me, all the pent up feelings that I had been trying to keep in check now bursting through. I cried and cried, feeling almost hysterical. The loss of my clothes became the loss of you and of trust and of my life as I had known it. I cried until my body was spent, bent over in pain unable to gasp and barely able to breathe. It was when the sun started to rise that I realized I had cried all night long.

I had a shower, hoping the hot water would wash away everything bad. I tried to calm myself as I knew I had to get out of there, leave this place and this city, go outside into the world and move on. I had all my money, my passport and my train pass. I had my guitar. I wasn’t injured or totally helpless, not matter how I felt. I was alive. Dammit. I was still alive and able to feel.

My carriage was smoky, hot and stifling. I opened the window disregarding the frowns in opposite seats, for once not really caring about other people’s comfort at the exclusion of my own. The sun shone in a weak wintry way as I moved south towards Florence. I had to believe there was still beauty in the world and Florence was the first place I thought of that might prove that. I arrived at dusk. I used to love that word ‘dusk’. It’s got a magical ring to it, as if anything is possible that time twixt day and night.