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.