Where is that tower, again? (Letter #5 from Italy: April 24, 2013)

We’re headed to Pisa. Before we left Canada, several people advised me to keep my expectations of Pisa low. “Get off the train, look at the tower, get back on,” was their advice. We will see for ourselves. When we tell Francesca we are headed to Pisa, she encourages us to spend a couple of hours. “There was a couple who stayed here recently – they were from New Zealand – funny people,” she says.  Judith pipes up, “I’m from New Zealand.” Francesca is quick to respond. “Oh, yes. But they were from New Zealand – and funny.” She says when she told them of the things they could see in Pisa, they looked at one another and agreed, “10 minutes.” We go with an open mind.

We deliberately get off at the Pisa Centrale station (rather than Pisa S. Rossore, which is closer to the tower, because we want to stop at a tourist information office next to the station and ask a few questions about the other destinations in our roster. Unfortunately, the Pisa tourist information only gives information about Pisa). However, we’re happy to walk to the tower from here and enjoy the sights along the way. We both agree it’s a lovely city, far exceeding my low expectations. 

Rick Steves’Florence & Tuscany has been our constant companion, but we’ve read up on Pisa and tucked it away in my bag. We ask a passerby how to get to the tower. The points and says, “Go straight.” If ever there was a time it was impossible to get lost, this was surely it. We continue straight, figuring that at some point, a tower will become obvious (as towers are wont to do).

Every block we walk, we become ever more certain that we are getting closer. Finally, we ask another passerby. He points us back in the direction we came. I am distressed by the way he is waving his arm repetitively in a way that suggests we have far overshot our destination. We pull out trusty Rick again as we turn back and retrace our steps. At every block, we ask a different person, “Tower?” We refuse to get lost again.

Within a few minutes, we find it. Its clean white contrasts against the cloudless blue sky. It is truly impressive, in the unique way that only a building that leans five degrees (15 feet) can be. 

I pity the architects and builders; it began to lean within five years of the start of building (it was built over two centuries by at least three different archtects, Rick tells us. None could fix the lean). Not exactly the sort of accomplishment you want to include on the 13th century equivalent of a resume. However, one wonders how many tourists Pisa would draw if not for the architectural oddity.

After admiring the tower (we don’t feel the need to climb it), we visit the cathedral, the bapitistery (who knew there were structures built just for baptisms?) and a museum.

We head for the Pisa S. Rossini station, just a few blocks away (admittedly, even armed with a map, we happily accept directions from a few people along the way, including a sweet teenage boy who is clearly happy to be able to use his English to direct us). Our plan is to hop on the train, stop in Lucca for supper, then catch the train home to Minucciano. The best laid plans…

The view from Lucca (Letter #4 from Italy: April 23, 2013)

Our initial plan for today is to head to Pisa. When we get on the train in Pieve San Lorenzo, we confirm with the conductor that we need to get off in Lucca and change trains. When the train pulls up to Bagni de Lucca, we get off and nod at the conductor. He nods and waves as we get off. Within a few minutes, we discover that Bagni de Lucca is not the same as Lucca, and we have gotten off too early. No problem. We will walk.

We follow the signs to Lucca (again, no distances noted). Not for the first time, we suffer under the “it can’t be that far” delusion. However, we have adopted the motto “no wrong way” and enjoy the exquisite sights along the way, the most notable of which is the Ponte della Maddalena, a beautiful stone bridge dating back to the 14^th century. 

We cross the bridge and enter a town we think might be Lucca (it is not). It is the tiny village of Borga de Mozzano. 

We stop and ask a couple of Italian men who are engaged in conversation how far it is to Lucca. Their initially wordless expression tells us it is farther than we anticipated.

“Auto?” one of them says, turning an imaginary steering wheel with his hands.

“No,” I say, pointing to my feet optimistically. They laugh and shake their heads no. I ask for directions to the nearest train station, which, as luck would have it, is just down the street. We check the schedule (20 minutes until the next train), and grab a quick sandwich and our first gelato at a nearby café. We are soon back on the train on our way to Lucca. Pisa will have to wait until tomorrow.

Lucca is a charming city, still protected by a fortress wall, although, as Rick Steves’ book tells us, it has not been under threat since 1430. Atop the ramparts is a wide path for walkers and cyclists overlooking the city.

We rent bikes and cycle the ramparts, stopping to take photos or simply admire the sights.

At one of our photo stops (to admire a palazzo below), I notice a young man, about 16, explaining in somewhat hesitant English the history of the palazzo within view. A man videotapes his explanation while a woman stands nearby and whispers English translations when he gets stuck for a word, much like a prompter behind a theatre curtain. 

The teenager tells of how the original owners of the Palazzo went bankrupt and had to sell. He finishes and looks to his teacher, who prompts him with a “Follow me!” that completes this segment of the video. They turn to move on.

“We enjoyed that!” I call after them. The woman turns, clearly pleased. “You understood it?” I assure her we did. She explains that she is here with her class; they are creating an interactive English tour of Lucca that they will post on the Internet. She calls out to the boy in the video, explaining in Italian that we understood and enjoyed this portion of the tour. “Thank you,” he says with a smile. We leave them to finish their tour, as we continue ours of this beautiful city (bella citta)!

"No camminare" (Letter #3 from Italy, April 22)

I go to the “Centro Storico” (the village general store) first thing – my new morning routine. It’s proximity (only a few steps from our door) makes it a convenient pre-breakfast stop. I pick up a couple of tomatoes, some garlic, onion, canned tomato sauce, bread and cheese (stracchini – mild, creamy and delicious). I no sooner return home than I realize I have forgotten to buy butter (burro). In less than two minutes, I am able to make a return trip with butter in hand (1 Euro, 30 cents for half a pound:  a deal, we think, until we find a full pound in the city of Aulla for not much more than that. We buy it too. A person - if I am said person - can never have too much butter).

After breakfast, I return to the store again to ask if there is an Internet Café nearby. There is not. The nearest is in Aulla, approximately 30 minutes by train. We had planned on going to Aulla anyway, so I thank the few people who have chimed in to answer my question. Betta, who works at the store, seems concerned. “Treno, treno,” she says (train, train). “Si,” I respond. “No camminere,” (no walking) she says, shaking her head and marching on the spot, swinging her arms. I wonder if she and the other villagers have heard about yesterday’s adventure.

We head to Aulla for the afternoon, where we find one Internet Café but get spotty Internet. Oh well. We wander the streets a bit, taking our lives into our hands at times (Aulla has little regard for pedestrians – sidewalks, where they exist, are narrow and close to traffic, and crosswalks are more decorative than anything else). We stop for pizza supper and then take the train home. Francesca has been by and left a note on our door: “I passed by to see if all is ok. If you need Internet, you can come to my place and see your mail, no problem.” I suspect she has chatted with the villagers I talked to this morning. Once again, I can’t help but think we Canadians are the source of much entertainment. 

The Journey to Equi Terme (Letter #2 from Italy: April 21, 2013)

We decide on our destination for today – a little village called Equi Terme, just four kilometres away from Pieve San Lorenzo, where we are staying. “It’s walking distance,” I say, and we decide that a gentle walk to the home of a thermal hot spring is the perfect way to ease into our vacation after sleeping in (a rest well earned after more than 24 hours in transit) and a leisurely (and very late) breakfast of bread, cheese and coffee on our sunny terrace.

We pack our swimsuits, cameras, water, money and a few other essentials, perhaps most importantly, a map
(Judith and I have divided responsibilities: I am keys, train schedules and minor Italian translation; she is maps and coffee-making). 

We set off into the Italian countryside. About 30 minutes into our walk, we stop at Il Re di Macchia, a ristorante, and indulge in a delicious vegetarian lasagna. The only non-locals, we interestedly observe the 20 or so Italians seated at the table behind us (We think they may have been attending the confirmation/first communion of the children in our village, which wrapped up just before we left the apartment. The bishop visits the village once every two years to perform the ceremony). They are in animated conversation, and we notice they are not distracted by smart phones as often seems to be the case at North American gatherings now. 

After lunch, we continue our journey. We soon come to a sign listing a number of destinations, including Equi Terme. The arrow points right. And so we continue. 

We keep walking, reflecting on the fact that we seem to have been walking for quite some time; surely we must have walked four kilometres or more by now. However, we followed the sign to Equi Terme (which, I should note, did not include an accompanying distance) so must be on the right track.

We come to a crossroads, neither listing Equi Terme as a destination. Based on the other destinations listed, and cross-checking against our map, we turn left (none too confidently). We walk a short distance more and it begins to rain – light, pleasant rain, but rain all the same. We decide to turn around and ask a couple of men we’d seen standing outside a small building nearby if we’re going the right way. When we reach the building, the men are no longer outside, so I knock and open the door. Inside are several tables of Italian men, playing cards. One of the men, standing facing the door, motions with his hand for us to get out (or so I think – it now appears he was gesturing to “come in” – I have been tripped up by this gesture a couple of times since we arrived in Italy).

We stand outside for a moment, perpexed, when he comes out to see what we need. 

“Equi Terme?” we ask. Judith holds out the map. The man points to Equi Terme on the map. 

“Si,” we say. “Which way?” We point first in one direction then the other, and shrug. 

He points one way and gives us a very long, involved, Italian explanation. Then he points the other direction and does the same. We're no further ahead.

“This way or this way?” we repeat, pointing in each direction. He repeats his explanations (or something equally long and incomprehensible to us). 

Then he says something that leads us to believe he is trying to tell us we can go either way  - progress!

“Shorter way?” we say, gesturing with our hands. He points in one direction and says “seven kilometres” and in the other direction and says, “10 kilometres.” While it’s a far cry from the four-kilometre walk we envisioned when we started out a couple of hours ago, we opt for the seven-kilometre route.

The rain has stopped by now, and we are back on our way. We haven’t walked much farther when we realize we have walked into a valley and the next phase of our journey goes straight up (Judith had commented a few minutes earlier how the bulk of our walk until now had been downhill. We suspected we'd have to pay for that at some point). 

We get part way up the hill when a little red car with an elderly Italian gentleman inside (one of the card players) pulls over on the side of the road. “Equi Terme?” he asks us. 

We respond, “Si.” 

He motions for us to get in the car and says something that makes us think (accurately or not) that he’s on his way home in the direction of Equi Terme, and will drop us. We accept. Note to Mom and Dad: This is not so much hitchhiking as it is accepting a ride from a kind, old Italian man (albeit a stranger). Frankly, continuing to walk seems the less intelligent choice at this point. We get in. 

Kind Italian Man talks non-stop at first; we understand almost nothing (I heard him say “dove,” which means “where,” but beyond that I am clueless). Judith points to grape vines outside and says, “grappa,” which as it turns out, is not the word for grape, but is an honourable guess. I suspect we’ve only confused Kind Italian Man. “What’s Italian for olive?” Judith asks me, wanting to comment on the olive groves. I search frantically for “olive” in my phrase book, but it’s not there. Judith makes no attempt to guess at its Italian translation. Probably just as well. Kind Italian Man stops trying to talk to us after that, clearly having realized the futility in it. We ride the next few minutes in silence.

He pulls over on the side of the road in a little village, which we presume is near his home. He points straight ahead to direct us onward. “Grazie, grazie,” we say, unable to express our gratitude any more eloquently. “Prego,” he nods, and we continue on our way. It seems we have come several kilometres from the point at which we were given the seven-kilometre directions, so it can’t be far now. Our legs will be ready for the hot springs when we arrive.

We keep walking. And walking. And walking. Finally, we see a sign for Equi Terme (Note to Italians: We love your country. Adding distances to your signs would make it virtually perfect). We continue. We see a couple more signs as we go, again with no indication how much farther we have to travel. My bladder has been full for at least the past hour, so am anxious to find a bathroom (while I could find a discrete spot off the road, it’s not my preference). I see a sign ahead, “Ristorante.” Phew. They’ll have a washroom. Judith sits on a nearby stone wall while I seek out the restaurant. Only there isn’t one. Just a sign, and a building that looks like it might have been a restaurant once. We continue on.

Finally, we reach a large Equi Terme sign – right in the middle of a crossroads. There is no arrow. Equi Terme could be right; it could be left. After a few moments of indecision, we choose left. We are soon rewarded. “Benvenido a Equi Terme,” the sign reads, and I cheer. 

Our excitement is short-lived. We soon discover that most things, including the hot springs, are closed (partly because it's not high season yet, and partly because it's Sunday).

There is nothing for it but to seek out the train station and head home. 

We stop a local gentleman: “Scuzi. Stazione treno?” 

He turns to his teenage son and asks him to direct us. “Straight,” he says, pointing up a small hill, “then left.” 

I decide to show off my very limited Italian. “Left. Sinestra,” I say with a smile. “Sinistra,” he corrects me with kindness. “Sinistra. Sinistra,” I say, grateful for his correction and his directions, “Grazie.”

We follow his instructions and find the train station with ease. After a short wait, we board the train, relieved. Off speeds the train through tunnels built right through the mountains, depositing us safely home to Pieve San Lorenzo in a mere seven minutes.

As it turns out, Equi Termi is just four kilometres away from Minucciano. By train. And 14.1 kilometres by foot (Google maps tells me) – a four-hour walk, give or take, with a leisurely pace, many stops and a drive from Kind Italian Man. Yet, if I had today to do over, I wouldn’t change a thing. Because today (and maybe every day) the journey matters more than the destination. 

Letters from Italy, Intro and Letter #1: Meeting Betta

There is a time before a new adventure or journey begins where everything is a question. Who will we meet? What will we see? What stories will we gather and then sow? What will we  learn – about ourselves, about the world, or part of it? What words, phrases or images will continue to make us laugh or move us in years to come? There is something magnificent about the questions, a space where all is possible and the universe holds the answers, waiting for us to discover them. My trip to Italy (April 19 to May 5, 2013) – a voyage made with my good friend Judith - is one such adventure to me. What follows - in a series of letters - are some of the answers. Since we had little access to the Internet while we were away, I will post them now - one each day - as if they are actual letters arriving in the mail after I have arrived home.

April 21, 2013, Letter #1: Meeting Betta

It is our first morning in Pieve San Lorenzo, the small medieval Tuscan village (population approximately 600) that will be home for the next two weeks. Having undertaken a hefty voyage to get here (24+ hours) and having arrived at about 10:30 p.m.  Judith and I don’t rush to get up and ready in the morning. I am up first (I wake to roosters crowing, although no doubt I’ve slept through their early alarm), so decide to explore the village and forage some bread and cheese for our breakfast. I bring my Italian phrase book with me (this has quickly become my don’t-leave-home-without item).

“Panetteria” is “bakery” in Italian, so I wander the village looking for one. I find a “bar” (I first strike this off the list but then see, according to my Italian phrase book, that “bar” is Italian for “cafe.” A good start.) I go in and ask the woman behind the bar if there is a panetteria “vicino” (nearby). She directs me to Alberto’s, which is a ristorante (not useful for me right now, but noted for supper later). I return home empty-handed and run into Paola, the woman who owns the apartment where we’re staying.

“Panetteria?” I ask her. She speaks very little English (we made accommodation arrangements through Francesca, who manages the property and speaks good English). Paola motions with her hand, and I think she’s saying, “You stay here. I’ll be right back.” When she starts out and I don’t follow, she comes back to collect me (proving even hand signals are not universal). She points to the “Centro Storico,” the general store, and says it’ll be open soon.  She then proceeds to go get the storeowner. She introduces me to “Betta” (I think that's what I heard) and I follow her into the store. Sure enough, she has pane and formaggio. She tells me the cost – five euros. I give her the money. I am about to say farewell, but want to be sure I personalize it. I’m pretty sure Paola introduced her as “Betta,” but I don’t want to get it wrong. “Betta?” I ask, meaning to confirm her name. She then launches into a long explanation (in Italian, naturally) that I suspect is not confirmation or correction of her name. I hear her use a word that sounds as if it has the root “negotia*” in it, and I wonder if she thinks I’m trying to haggle on price. “No, no!” I exclaim, and give her a thumbs up, which does seem to be universal, or at least understood here (we’ve used it a few times already).

I return to the apartment, where we enjoy sumptuous bread, cheese and coffee (two more cups. I’m usually a decaf girl but I seems that’s sacrilege here; I'm not even sure it exists. I fully expect to return home addicted). I warn Judith that “Betta,” or whatever her name is, may now think we’re greedy Americans who don’t want to pay a fair price for bread and cheese. “I’ll just pretend I don’t know you,” says Judith, unfazed. It seems as good a solution as any.

*I later find out that “negotio” is another word for “store.” I still have no idea what Betta was saying, but feel slightly more confident I have not offended her.

TOW TOW TOW, Merry Christmas!

Yesterday was a festive marathon. I was invited to three festive gatherings, so impeccable timing (not my forte) would be key to getting to, and enjoying (not rushing), each of them. 

The first was a potluck gathering with friends and their kids - a great time. I arrived first (uncharacteristically), so parked at the very top of the long, narrow driveway. We had to leave in the order we arrived, so I was the last to make my way out. 

I debated backing all the way down the driveway onto the busy street or trying to turn around (our gracious hosts had already told people they could turn around on their lawn if they needed to since it's really the only way to go out frontwards). I started backing down the driveway, but decided part way down I'd be better off trying to turn around. I turned into the lawn (I thought) and tried to back out. My front wheels started spinning. I tried going forward, then backward, but before long, all of my wheels were spinning. I opened my door, only to find that I had driven into their garden and was firmly stuck in the muck. 

I sheepishly called my friends to tell them I was parked in their garden. Nathan came out to try to give me a hand, but our efforts were futile. There was nothing for it but to call a tow truck.

I went inside to use the phone. Sam, who's four, said, "Why did you drive into the muck?" (good question) and proceeded to advise me I shouldn't have done that (a solid point). 

I called a local tow truck company and explained my predicament. The woman on the other end of the line laughed heartily. "And what is the address of the place you are stuck in the garden?" she laughed. I told her. "And how will you be paying to get out of the garden?" Visa, I responded. "And what kind of car did you get stuck in the garden?" she giggled some more. A Toyota Yaris. "OK, well he's just finishing up a job on Caldwell Road so he'll be out shortly to get you out of the garden," she said, still laughing as she hung up the phone.

The tow truck arrived fairly promptly and thankfully, the operator removed my car without any judgment or mockery (at least not that he displayed outwardly - I suspect he's seen worse).

On the bright side, the event did provide me with a good story to tell at the following two parties (which I did make it to, albeit belatedly). It also reminded me I really need to rejoin CAA (I'll do that today). Best of all, four-year-old Sam was delighted to watch from the kitchen window as a real tow truck pulled my car from the muck. All in all, I'd say that was $75 well spent.

Getting comfortable with awkward

“Get comfortable with awkward,” a good friend advised me recently when I was stressing over the contrast between confident, witty Margaret and the less sure-of-herself me whose been known to make the occasional appearance, even if only visible to me.

I had to ask for clarification. I don’t like awkward. Who does, really? It’s…well, you know…awkward.

If Awkward were a person, I’d avoid him. And I don’t mean just lower-my-gaze avoid – I mean sprint-in-the-other-direction avoid. I suspect I’m not alone.

The thing is, the window for awkward is generally situations that are new or different (where confidence has not yet moved in). Think of babies when they’re learning to walk. They’re all wobbly and unsure and – you guessed it – awkward. Of course we find that awkwardness cute – we encourage it – because we know it’s part of the experience that gets them/us to walking. If there were no awkward, no struggle, no learning, first steps would be no big deal.

Life throws us plenty of awkward curveballs – people we’d rather not talk to, situations we have no idea how to navigate, questions we didn’t see coming and don’t know how to answer, moments when it seems everyone around us knows exactly what to do and we don’t have a sweet clue.

I once arranged a photo shoot where I snapped photos of 15 hospital board members only to realize at the end of the shoot that I actually hadn't taken a single photo. Awkward. (And I offer this mild example of awkwardness only because I'm wary of bringing out the big awkward guns - Trust me - I've got them).

That - my friend assures me - is the perfect opportunity to get comfortable with Awkward. Settle in, sit back, look him in the eye and invite him for tea. Because along with Awkward can come Genuine and Vulnerable (who, although intimidating, has redeeming qualities and loads of opportunities). And if we skip over Awkward, we could be missing Awesome.