"Enzo – I want to leave Florence for the day."
"I ah know, she's a bit a boring – you see her in a one a day, and then what's ah left? Americanos, and fortresse del garbaggio"
"So where should I go?"
"Well you can-ah go to a Pisa, that's an hour by a train. It's a gonna come to a ten a euros. Or you ca-ah go to Sienna, that's a forty minute by an autobuso. It's a probablemente a five euro."
"Which do you think I should go to – Pisa, or Sienna?"
"Well, that ah depend on a you. You like-a de building? You go to-a Pisa – they have-a building there. Mainly just-ah the one, it's not in a such a good a shape. You see, the founda-shion, she was ah built a by an Italians, and these ah guys, they're an always a trying to get-an a-way with some-thing." Enzo looks sadly at my feet, and begins wagging his head back and forth puppy-like.
"But what about Sienna?"
Enzo raises his head, involuntarily letting out of a nostalgic sigh. His eyes become misty; he doesn't bother to blink it away, "Si-en-a, now-ah there's ah city. If you like-ah the brick steps, e a big-ah place to a sit, e eh beautiful church-a – you a wanna go to a Seina."
"How's the pizza there?"
His face scrunches up, his lips extend as if pouting in a kiss, but go twice as far as they should, making dear Vincenzo look a bit like a doe-eyed fish. He scrunches his eyelids shut,
"It's a terrible. There's a no good ah pizza outside of a Napoli. If you find a good Pizza in Italia, it's a because somebody a Napolitino ha moved away."
Seeing as I had clearly stumbled upon an emotional issue, but knowing that in all things Enzo treads lightly, I counter, "I had some great pizza in Rome." Enzo unscrunches his face, dipping his left shoulder and throwing his hands up as if to say "well-that's the thing."
"Alora, Roma, she's a gonna be a close to Napolia. The two cities, we are a rivals, but that's a because we are like-ah freri" he snaps, "Ay, brothers. Pizza in a Rome, it's a close, but it's a still not a pizza Napoli." He wags a hand in my face that says "capisce?".
He pauses, relaxing his hand. "But everywhere else>" All he can do is stick his tongue out and down to the left, like a cat coughing up a hairball.
So it was Sienna that would be my ville du jour. I went downstairs to the concierge's desk in order to find out how to get to there.
As it turns out, the concierge bears something of a physical resemblance to me. Not the kind where we'd be confused for each other, or even that we'd necessarily be taken for relatives. If one were to itemize a face, making a list of all its features, I believe one would find that the man in front of me has the same itemization as I do. I suspect that the guy recognized the similarity as well, which made the whole awkwardness of seeing the concierge evaporate. On the other hand, maybe it was just because we were a couple dudes in our early twenties.
I find out that buses leave basically all the time, and have a uniform rate of 8 euros. I can leave anytime I want, no rush. And indeed, there really was no need to get there too early – from the sound of it, Sienna is smaller than Florence, and still more medieval.
I roll out of bed at 9 am, dress quickly, catch my traditional morning fare of coffee and donut, then head over to the station. The concierge had told me it was near Santa Maria Novella, but I hadn't taken the trouble to look at a map and determine exactly where it was. Thus, I arrived at the train station, surveyed the scene, and realized that I had no idea where I was going.
I reflect momentarily on the state of Italian. Well, I don't know much, but I do happen to know the following words. "Station" – stazione, "of" – del, and "bus" – autobus. I also was fluent in the language of pointing.
Scouting about for candidates to ask directions, I finally settle on a pair of metro bus drivers. Tightening my belt, I try to craft the best Italian sentence I can:
"Bongiorno, dove e stazione del autobus?"
One of the guys starts talking and after three words I'm no longer following. When he stops, I point toward a target, and the two reply in unison by pointing in a direction totally perpendicular to the one I had settled on. I say gratzi and head over.
Sure enough, I soon see a sign for the bus station. Walking in, I see a bus heading to Siena. I go over to the ticket counter to buy a ticket. There's a line, not a long one, but I guess it's long enough: just as I'm on the cusp of talking with the attendant, the bus begins to back up and pull away. If I had taken the time yesterday to look where I was going I could have made it – a slightly annoyed feeling settles in my stomach.
With nothing to do, I opt for bus-station people watching. Slim pickings. A group of four Spanish women sit across from me, of varying ages and weights. At the most extreme left is a very portly grandmother, dressed in typically conservative grandmother fair of fairy-blue shawl, whitish chemise, and black dress to the ankles. To her right, was a woman in her fifties, also overweight, but not as much. To her right, a smartly dressed thirty-something. And at the extreme right, a fit 24 year old in a lascivious green one piece that hardly goes further than the pantyline. Together, the group formed a veritable Darwinian progression. I think to myself – so, this is aging.
I take out my book and start reading. After five minutes, a bus for Sienna pulls up, and I go in and sit.
Taken for a Ride
We leave. Climbing over the uneven urban terrain surrounding the station proves a thoroughly unpleasant experience, if not entirely unexpected. The area around Santa Maria Novella is under heavy construction, upon which an enormous bus must bear the most burden. Up and down, left and right, teetering this way and that as the bus bolts at 40 miles per hour down whatever makeshift alleyways and passages the driver happens to find. I pray that after we leave the city the most jarring part will have already past.
The mountain highways provide no respite. My stomach flips over and over, my face, already turned a lifeless mint green, is pressed against the window. With slitted eyes I glance at the driver.
He's a man of average build, clean shaven, and with a well-trimmed buzz cut. He has a hard-nose, and pointed-chin; he scowls deeply. He also wears sunglasses, tinted polychrome, in which it's hard to tell exactly whether the color orange, pink, or green predominates. I wonder if he would keep that same chiseled expression should he take a wrong turn off a cliff. I can imagine him now, his cold-face frozen, as he hurtles our 30 ton bus off a cliff. I return my gaze to the window, switch on my iPod, and begin listening to California Dreaming by the Mamas and the Papas.
After an hour of bus-torture, we arrive. The last five minutes of the drive are certainly the worst of the trip. As we climb to the top of the hill upon which Siena rests, the gears jam, stutter, and lock. The driver bangs the gearshift like a whack-a-mole, shakes it left and right like a PCP addict playing the claw-game, all the while dancing on the clutch like a Cossack. The expression remains fixed, evermore unchanged . . . timeless. Thankfully, nausea inures me from the force of these proceedings.
Finally we stop and I descend, trembling. The sun is fierce. I need to find a place to sit. I put my hands on the curb and ease myself down. Ventilating deeply, I look up. Sun rays lick my face – not pleasantly. Like a big dog slobbering his enormous tongue up and down – I sweat, I shiver, my skin begs me mercy. I say to the sun, "My what pretty rays you have." The better to burn you with, he retorts in my mind. I have to get out of here before the vultures find me.
I get up and begin wandering down a hill with a thirty degree incline. After ten or fifteen yards, I realize that there's nothing here. I'm heading away from centreville. If I go this way, I won't hit anything until I get to the bottom several hundred yards down. I turn around and begin slowly marching over my needlessly taken steps, while the sun burns red on my closed eyelids.
After five minutes I finally hit something, a Tabaconnist/Pizza Place – only in Italy would one think to combine the two. I buy a Lipton for 2.50 euro, way too much, but I know I need to drink something, and as I'd famously learned four days earlier, sugar water helps the body with dehydration more than water alone.
Sitting in the bum pizza shop, on a barstool with my back to the tender, I realize the looks I must be getting. That of it: A young man walks into a bar with a queezy expression, goes over to the refrigerator in the corner, takes a drink and then sits on a stool talking to no one, groaning and panting. I take a sip of ice tea, burp, and realize I don't care if they're looking.
After I finish half my tea, I begin to regain my composure, a bit, so decide to leave the tabac and make for the central plaza.
Delirium at Noon
On the way to the plaza I feel whatever gains I had made begin to crumble. I tell myself, just make it to the main plaza, just make it to the main plaza.
When I get there I find a great open space in the shape of a semicircle, along the diameter is a massive building that resembles a brick version of the Fenway Monster. At the top is a large, ornamental clock. Around the rest of the perimeter, the plaza is lined with restaurant patios.
My knees are trembling, I know that if I sit on the brick plaza I have no protection from the withering sun. I have no appetite, but nevertheless struggle towards a pizza place, where I sit down.
After waiting six minutes, a waiter comes over and asks me which pizza I'd like. When she's out of sight I take out my ice-tea and begin sipping gently while eyeing the plaza.
After six or seven minutes, my unfortunately wakeful reverie is interrupted by the arrival of a pleasant Frankish-Atomic Family at the table next to mine. The principle differences between the American and the Frankish atomic family is that the American atomic family has 2.6 children and a yellow lab named Scruffy, while the Frankish has 1.8 children and a black poodle named Fifi. The Italian atomic family has .8 children and a parakeet named Crackers.
The family at my right deviated from Franco-Atomic Standards in that they had two boys, whereas they should have properly had 1 boy and .8 girls, but they didn't seem to mind.
Listening to the conversation I was somewhat amused to find that for the first time I could understand much of it. What the hell? Has my French gotten better – how? I haven't talked any French! The only exposure I'd gotten was all the plays I'd been reading, which I guess I had been reading a lot. Could my spoken French really have gotten better without speaking any French? I resolved to find out – listening in.
Soon their conversation comes around to the menu. Since the children can't understand any English, they understandably have a lot of questions; questions which the parents are not always very well-equipped to answer. In particular, they get stuck on the word "bell pepper."
"Que-ce que ce belle pehppeher?
"Je sais pas."
"Tu ne sais pas – est-ce que c'est viande?"
The man frowns, sticking out his lower lip: "Au-cune i-dée."
"MAMAN!" interjects the third year-old.
I consider saying something, "It's a red pepper, it's sweet, I don't know its exact name in French, but it's very common – you must know it." But I decide against it. To say something would be tantamount to admitting I was listening to their discussion, making the rest of the conversation awkward, as they looked perpetually over their shoulder, or in this case, to the left, at the man surreptitiously listening in. I shift uncomfortably as they struggle with the waiters English; they come away as perplexed as before.
"A red vegetable?"
"Yes, a red vegetable."
"But, what could that be?"
"I don't know – a tomato perhaps?"
"No, in English tomato is pronounced 'Toe-may-toe." It's not that." After a few hither seconds of the two staring somewhat blankely at each other, the man adds:
"Aussi, le tomate n'est pas legume. En fait, c'est fruit." The woman stares back, pouting her lips.
"Mais oui, c'est correct."
"MAMAN!" The three year old starts banging his fork on the table, while the older child busies himself with crayon drawing. The parents attend to them.
Finally, my pizza comes. I have no appetite, but know I must eat. I've only had a donut and a coffee since this morning, and while I did eat an enormous amount of pasta the night before, I was by now surely running on empty.
And yet – my appetite is zero. I'm still nauseous. And I did have that warning about Siennese pizza from Enzo to contend with. Nevertheless, I begin eating - in what we might generally call a "com'on ya sumbitch" maneuver. A "com'on ya sumbitch" maneuver is defined to be one in which a person takes a completely counter-intuitive course of action in response to a situation that risks mortal well-being. For example, a truck driver is caught careening down a mountain road with a stalled engine. If he cannot start the engine, he will surely fall off the mountain ledge. Sweat glistening in his shaggy beard, the toothpick in his mouth long since snapped in two, the driver jams down the ignition key while still in drive. Flooring the gas, he hopes that doing so will trick the engine into ignoring the manufacturer set override. The truck driver rasps out of his uncleared throat: "com'on ya sumbitch."
Or another example. Consider the fighter pilot who finds himself unexpectedly hurtling towards a swiftly approaching mountain. He slams down the throttle, engaging Mach 3, hoping against hope that the vertical acceleration will increase his altitude faster than it closes the distance to the mountainside. All the while, he whispers under his breath: "com'on ya sumbitch."
Note, for something to be a "com'on ya sumbitch" maneuver it need not succeed. Nor does there even have to be the remotest reason to suspect the maneuver would succeed (i.e. the truck driver example). With all "com'on ya sumbitch" maneuvers, it's the thought that counts.
With the grease from the pizza's tip dripping onto my outstretched tongue, intently gazing at an unpitted olive out of googly eyes, I say to the pizza, "com'on ya sumbitch," and gobble it down in one bite, spitting out the olive pit only as an afterthought. The large pizza clump catches in the middle of my throat; I lubricate its passage with my last sip of iced tea. I give the pizza a moment to settle.
Meanwhile, the Frenchies pizza has arrived and the waiter asks if they would like an extra plate.
"Pel-ate? Qu'est-ce que ce que ce pel-ate?" The man asks his wife
"Je sais pas."
"Attends" He turns from her, "What is a pel-ate?"
The waiter grows flustered and confused about what to say – her English is not strong enough to explain, and theirs probably not in a position to understand. The encounter has generated a fair amount of noise – causus beli for me to come to the rescue.
"C'est une assiette." I say.
All the adults turn to me. The older brother stops doodling, and turns his head to me. The 3 year continues drooling with his head on the table. Growing uncomfortable at the accusing glances, and not altogether sure I was heard, I clarify.
"Elle demande si vous voulez une additonale assiette."
A visible "oh" crosses their face, the man turns to the waitress, "No, no, gratzi." The two turn back to me.
"Tu es français?" The woman asks. When you speak the non-native language in a foreign country, it's always assumed you must be doing that because you're from there.
I smile, say with proud English, Chicago-born, "No, A-merican." Then I turn the French accent up to max, so excessively high that it becomes difficult even for me to understand what I'm saying: "Mais, j'étudie à Paris."
"Tu étudie à Paris?" As if to say, if you study in Paris, what are you doing here?
"Ah, cette semaine, j'ai, um, mes vacances."
"Ah, d'accord." The two nod in unison.
"MAMAN!" The child screeches. The woman turns, the man makes a "so it goes" gesture – the two return to their family.
I'm beginning to feel better – the pizza not only settled well, it appears to have settled everything else around it well too. I eat methodically, consuming ¾ of the pizza before I've had my fill. By the time I've paid my check, I feel strong again. As I step out into the sun, pushing past a table where a man collects bread crumbs to feed to birds, I feel not in the slightest withered, weary, or worn. The sun's pulsating heat is now no more than a supple caress.
Trapped in the Closet II
I go over to a retailer to find a cheap map –none exist. It's nine euros or forget it, which I do without a second thought.
In exploring an unknown place, particularlya small or circular one, the best path is undoubtably one that looks like this:
The outward spiral would be the course to follow today, and I would follow it until I spiraled out of control or the clock hit 4, whichever came first.
The strategy works well, I find lots of relevant sites, and rapidly too. The only problem is the exorbitant entrance fees. I walk into an unassuming looking building with tourists streaming in: "10 euros for the Modoci House – why would I go here when I can pay eight euros for the Medici house ? You don't pay 20% markup on Folex."
Nevertheless, although I do not go into any of these sites, I enjoy myself greatly – walking up and down little alleyways and side streets. At some point, the bottle of ice tea catches up with me, and I feel an urgent need to pee.
Conveniently, I find myself very close to a university building – I decide to try and sneak in.
Walking through the building courtyard, I notice a blonde girl in a very short shirt that exposes her stomach up to her bellybutton. Her jeans are cut so low that one can see where her skin begins to crevice into her "V." "That's obscene," I think to myself, eyes fixed on her crotch. Apparently I'd gotten so distracted with staring that I'd forgotten to stop, which nearly caused me to make the smooth move of running into a pole. I shake my head, trying to focus on what I'm doing.
The building I was trying to enter was in fact the cafeteria, a perfect place to blend n. More convenient still, the bathroom is near the door.
As I make my way to the stalls I think, "You know, it's not that she's so beautiful – after all, the look is pretty trashy. It's just that she's so sexual."
I open the door, "Oh God, and that 'V' – GEE-zus."
The image of her midsection is seared into my mind. As I open my fly, I clear my throat and mutter in exasperation: "oh, come on you son of a bitch."
Staring down at my crotch, I realized that the sight of the girl had called into action a certain part of my body that was intended to be used for peeing, and as a result, I was now too sprung to pee.
My bladder quivers, my insides lock vise-like with pain – but there's nothing to do. All that goes up does not necessarily come down, and, while up, may have trouble getting stuff out. But that was no reason not to try.
I puff my cheeks, hold my breathe, and force the air out of clenched lips in consternation as I push. No results. Well, that means I'll have to wait and hope this problem subsides soon. Standing there, enjoying the bouquet of bathroom fragrances, I tap my watch and shake my head at my head with impatience.
Eventually, things begin to look as if they're improving. The great power walks away from Defcon 2, thanks in part to the wonderful bathroom aroma.
And yet . . . it doesn't quite subside. Every time I get close to the brink of being able to pee, it appears in my head: The V. Those low slung jeans, that exposed midsection, the whole package crosses my mind; as soon as it does, I feel immediately all the ground I'd taken sink under my feet. I try focusing on something else, diverting my thoughts to an imagined conversation with Enzo.
"Brian, how was your day?"
"Bene enzo, bene."
"Did you see any nice 'V's today Brian?"
"Si Enzo, si. This ah one 'V' was a bellissimma" – damn it, there it is again. The'V'. The 'V' .
I try something else, rummaging around for something interesting in my memory.
"Were you on a flight with RyanaAir or-a EasyJetto," the golden skinned attendant in forest-green suit says, batting her lightly mascaraed, curly eyelashes. She's behind the counter, I can't see her midsection – I wonder what she would look like in a school yard with a yellow tube top and low slung . . . fuck. 'V'. 'V'. Now not only am I thinking about the trashy girl's 'V', I'm thinking about the 'V' of some random woman I saw in the airport four days ago.
Something else, something innocuous. The people in the hostel - not Enzo, I clearly can't. The heavy-set Indian woman in her late twenties – don't go there Brian, you might start thinking about her 'V' and then you won't be able to look her in the eye next time you see her. The Asian guy? Same problem. How about that thirteen year old French nymphette in the cathedral? AHH! Fuck, fuck, what am I going to do – everything I think of is sex, sex, sex, 'V', 'V', 'V'.
But then, like a vision from God, my mind's eye is awash in the polychrome. It's the tint of that driver's sunglasses. I pull back onto his face, thinking especially of his cold, callous grimace, and his hard, unsmiling nose. I breathe a sigh of relief. The terror subsides. In a moment, I get the idea of thinking about how nauseous I felt just hours ago. My bladder finally begins to drain.
My business done – I turn around, flip the lock, and open the door. I flip the lock, and open the door. Damn it, I flip the lock, and open the door. What the? Why isn't this working! I twist the lock, I pull the handle, it doesn't work. It's still locked.
Getting frustrated I twist harder and harder, pull harder, eventually with all my weight. I realize so much of my weight is in the pulling, that if the door did open I would go flying backwards. At first that makes me stop, but then I realize, no, it's not going to open anyways – so I just start pulling to pull, to express my anger at the impossibility of it not opening, at the outrage of this turn of events.
The smell of old urine and unflushed feces fills my nostrils as I begin pacing in the highly confined bathroom space. Alright, what's the situation? There are no windows in this stall, and in fact this is not a stall. In a stall, one can always crawl underneath the panel and get out. This, this is a room with a toilet – there's no escaping it.
So there is no way to get out besides the door – the door which does not open. Perhaps that means I should call for someone. Is there anyone in the bathroom? Even if there was, what do I call? I don't speak Italian . . . they won't be able to explain anything to me. Can you imagine walking into a bathroom with someone shouting in a foreign language: "Grazhe Beh-shabal! Grazhe Beh-shabal!" Would you help – or would you quietly sneak away?
The best case scenario is that the person I find knows the word "help," and calls somebody who can open the door from the outside. But how could one open the door from outside? No, it's impossible. What they'd have to do is call the police, get a big battering ram, and then knock through the door. Which will take probably three hours, if they even have a battering ram in the Siena police department. And then what? I'll get arrested for trespassing.
I stand listlessly at the door. Seven minutes have now past – I have no ideas besides why don't you give it five minutes and try again. I play with the door lock absent-mindedly for a moment. I drop my hand, turn around, plop the toilet seat down as if to sit, and then turn. The door gently opens.
WHAT? I cry in relief. I pick up my bags and stand with one foot out the door as I examine the lock. I twist it back and forth. I've solved the mystery. The lock position on this door is when the knob is turned to either the extreme left or the extreme right – the unlock position is when the knob is not turned at all, when it stands straight up. I laugh incredulously, so stupid, so dumb. I leave the university.
Horndoggin' around Town
Walking out onto the courtyard the sunlight of high noon hits my face in full force, infinitely stronger now than I remember it being only twenty minutes ago, its rays pressure-kneading my face, excoriating skin, opening pores and cremating their content – not unlike an exfoliating face massage, perhaps a bit overdone.
I look around for the girl with the 'V'. Weeding through several girls, who I'm sure had very special and unique 'V''s themselves, I finally spot her and immediately spring to attention. I move my bag so it hides my front, and then leave away, head down. What? How could an adventurer of such prodigious proclivities as Chateaubrian turn away from the most profound tentation he had yet encountered?
I admit in hindsight that perhaps I should have said something, although I cannot imagine how I would have wooed her in my present state. At the time, my thoughts focused only on the story of brave Odysseus, the greatest of all bounders, adventurers, and fortune-seekers – the only man real or mythic to whom I admit inferiority in either wit or valor. Of course, I am the better writer. Once, brave Odysseus was tested to the utmost by desire incarnate, the monstrously beautiful sirens, which nearly lured him to his death with their song. Desire can kill. The lesson was clear: With girls who show their Vees, beware, they may carry disease.
Also, I should mention, I did get a chance to see The Sirens perform live in concert when I was in Greece. They were terrible! Just awful. First, they were wrinkly, old, and wore dentures. Worse, their songs were pitchy, raspy and weak – despite the prevalent use of AutoTune. Maybe the problem was that they played a lot of songs from their Techno/Synthe-pop phase in the early 80s, and not from their Classic period before christ. Or maybe it was just an off night. Who knows? On the whole, none of their songs hardly induced any more erotic desire than would, say, listening to Lollipop on the radio. I guess the sirens were much younger in Odysseus's time, maybe that explains the discrepancy. After all, Art Garfunkle used to be great too. I guess I'll give Odysseus the benefit of the doubt.
Resuming my place on the outward spiral, I try to press on as best I can in my present state. I walk slowly, deliberately, so as not to clue anyone in about my . . . situation. I pass women on the street, they smile at me, I smile back, and think about how I've got an erection, and am smiling at a woman within arm's reach who's smiling back. I pass men on the street, they smile at me, I smile back, and think about how I've got an erection, and am smiling at a man within arm's reach who's smiling back. This makes me wonder, how many people do you think one passes in a day who are in a somewhat to highly aroused state? Probably more than one would think, especially since I for one never thought about anything remotely relating to this topic before.
I finally manage to leave the university area, turning onto an empty backstreet. I move my bag back to my side and find myself walking down a public street with tented shorts. It's kind of an exhilarating, liberated feeling. I walk in a reverie, half my mind in Sienna, half my mind sorting through faces and bodies of ladies seen and forgotten, or maybe just imagined. I have to admit, that although I had accomplished many feats of virility in my life, none of them comes close to this: an erection or semi-erection held for over an hour despite completely adverse circumstances! Who heard of such a thing? I could do anything - it still wouldn't go away. I hopped, I skipped, I danced the Hora, gyrating this way and that way down the road with a bone on, as if nothing in the world could deflate my 99th percentile red balloon. Just then, a respectable middle-aged couple turned the corner and caught me in full-view, mid-skip, with my 'V'-zone unprotected. I quickly cover up, but I'm fairly certain from the look they gave me that it was already too late. I resolved to be more careful.
When one travels in a foreign land, much of the excitement stems not from the activities one does, but rather the special asterisks one can put next to those activities. For example, I bought a pack of gum today*- IN FRANCE! Or, I got arrested for lewd conduct* - IN ITALY!
I can say that an erection carries much the same cache. I'm taking a snapshot – WITH AN ERECTION! I'm eating pizza – WITH AN ERECTION! I'm reading a note about the historical significance of this lamp post – WITH AN ERECTION!
I admit that I enjoyed the puerile prurience of this elicit, secret asterisk – that is, until it took a turn for the worse.
I happen upon a cathedral, I want to go in. I giggle with a schoolboys joy at having an erection in church, before realizing how inappropriate it was to put the words "schoolboy," "erection" and "church" in the same thought, yet alone sentence. I decide that so long as no one knows about the erection in the church, then there's no harm , and make my way in. Inside, I see that there's a metal detector, and I would have to put my bag through it – leaving me completely exposed. Visions of the guard running that weapon detector over my crotch, banging it against my penis, force me to retreat from the cathedral, to take a seat, and wait for things to calm down.
I survey the vicinity of the cathedral, and enjoy the views. Couples sitting and laughing, tour groups listening raptly to animated guides. Children playing ball and laughing.
At that moment I realize I have an erection, and I'm watching children play. With horror, it occurs to me that this is the second time today, and third time on the trip, that I have unintentionally had pedophilic thoughts. I look at my 'V' and say to it, "ya sumbitch, you really fucked me this time."
I wander some more, walking into an empty monastery where I can walk around in peace. Perhaps it was the calming chance for reflection, maybe it was the monastic atmosphere consecrated in chastity, but finally it began to relent. I can now enjoy my walk unmolested, without fear of being thought a molester
Departure
Preparing for my departure at last, I note that there were still two undone activities: seeing a notable church on one side of town, and eating gelato on the main square. I set off to do both.
Although the cathedral's exterior was impressive, at least in terms of size, the interior left much to be desired. It was like an airplane hanger in there: no art, no chairs, just open space and a big mural of Jesus dying on the cross. I guess that's all you need.
Unfortunately for me, the church did not have what I needed most then and there: a bathroom. To find one, I went to the building immediately adjacent to the church – a kind of art center. Walking up and down its halls, I have no idea if I'm permitted to be hear – certainly there aren't tourists around. I find a women's bathroom easily enough, but have no luck finding a man's. Scouring up and down stairs, I walk through the entire complex in vain. I consider briefly using the women's bathroom, walking over to it, I'm about to open the door when a woman comes out and looks at me strangely. I turn around, and walk out. On the way out, I notice that the place has really started to fill up. There's an auditorium adjacent to one of the halls and it's already packed. I begin to wonder if anyone famous was coming. I decide it's probably not worth the wait to find out.
Around the main plaza there are many gelato places. I settle on a nice looking one, and go in, intending first to use the bathroom. Somebody sees me attempting to use the bathroom without first buying merchandise, and shouts at me "Hey Bongiorno!" I turn around, buy a gelato, and then go to the bathroom. In the bathroom, I now have what has become a customary bathroom difficulty, namely, juggling all the things in my hands while trying to pee. With practice comes perfection; I walk out of the bathroom coolly eating my ice cream. I continue onto the plaza
The plaza is very nice, by now the sun has calmed down significantly. I read for a time, with half my head thinking about what could explain the ludicrous erection of the early afternoon. I consider that perhaps it was the beef I ate yesterday – perhaps it had sent hormones rushing through my system, a system unprepared for them because of my temporary vow of vegetarianism. But no, cows are full of estrogen, not testosterone – beef appeared an unlikely scapegoat. After considering several other alternatives, my final opinion was that it was connected in some way to the sun. The Light is strong with Italy, especially in Tuscany. In Rome, the force of light gave manifest to a beauty so overpowering as to suffocate man unprepared. And yet here in Tuscany, where light's force was admittedly stronger still than in Rome, one could not find anything close to the luminous beauty of Rome. As Newton says, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Since light was here, mustn't it have an effect? If the effect was not beauty, as was clear, then it must be something close. Is it not logical enough to assume that its power was being channeled through the twin cousin of beauty, Eros, in the concrete form of a sustained and unprovoked erection? I think this concludes a decisive proof.
Poor Italian men, how they are slandered! People call them sex fiends, when in fact their constitution is the same as the chastest of Britons. It is just that they are driven mad . . . by the overpowering, erotic strength of the sun.
I quickly write these most scientific of thoughtful observations in a blue notebook I had just bought for 0.99 cents. And then I head off, intending to see a last church and then get on the bus.
The church is utterly unremarkable, although it was the only site I visited that was not on top of the hill. This gave me as good a chance as I'd gotten to see the real Siena, I think. Children playing soccer with a police officer, old people with canes talking shop, shopkeepers sweeping up before they close down for the day. A nice place.
I head to the bus and find that the station is underground. The only way to get there appears to be an old elevator. I get in the car with two very Russian looking people in their late 30s. The woman looks wilted, suffering from the heat. The man has large brown, horn rim glasses – the kind that went out of fashion in the 70s, and that the over seventy continue to love. The elevator door closes. We don't move. The woman looks at her husband. The door opens. We look at each other, press the button again. After another minute, the door closes, and we begin going down. I take a risk and say in Russian, "Incomprehensible." The man looks at me incuriously, then goes back to looking at the door. The wife smiles. We get off, and head together to the ticket counter – the Russian briskly leading the way. For the first time in Italy I find a well-staffed counter. And yet there are no customers. Of course, they've moved all those missing attendants in Rome here to an air-conditioned basement in Sienna that is visited by ten people a day. We call it, Italian Market Efficiency.
I separate from the Russians, though still listen in to see if they need help with English. It appears that the man has it pretty well covered. I buy my ticket.
With 50 cents left in my wallet, I decide to buy access to the toilet. After popping in 0.20 cents, the machine locks, and I have no way of clearing it. A man sits behind the gate, I ask his help. He doesn't want to give it. I stand around, playing with the machine long enough, and he is finally motivated to action. He gets up, let's me in, and I gave him my thanks. I get on the bus.
The bus takes a much more scenic route than the one I took getting there. It goes through many, many tiny towns, picking up people going to Florence for the evening. The roads are better, and so is the driver – the ride is as pleasant as can be. After an hour and change, I get off. I'm back.
The Last of the Americans
For dinner that night I go to a little corner of Florence south and west of the Uffizi, less touristy than the downtown proper, like the area around my hostel, but not as dilapidated. The restaurant I end up at is in the courtyard of a church. Trying to court the line between modern sleekness and traditional hominess, the restaurants interior has stainless steel tables like at Chipotle, while the patio has benches where one sits arm-to-arm with other diners. I take my seat next to a British couple, and order a large meal of Gnocchi with a side of white beans – Tuscans are known throughout Italy as the bean eaters, so I thought to try something traditional.
I pull out my copy of Les Mains Sales (Dirty Hands), which is proving a fantastic read. The interaction between the maladjusted, disaffected young bourgeois intellectual and his impulsive, malfeasant wife is really enjoyable. "But why don't we kill him?" she says, "I'm so bored – I've already read all the books you gave me. Let's kill him, it'll be fun!"
The food comes and it proves to be the best meal I ate in Florence, and probably the best in Italy as well.
While eating, I notice a very oddly dressed American girl of approximately my age. She wears duct-tape colored shorts that go only a little bit lower then her butt cheeks. The shorts are connected to overall-like straps that go up and around her shoulders. Near her stomach, the straps widen a bit, but leave her side and her somewhat pudgy stomach exposed. She wears a white shirt with a deep, if off-center 'V', cut off just below her breasts, leaving her ripe midsection exposed. On the whole, she was not unattractive, but she was a little too proud of her flabby stomach. On the other hand, maybe it's the right strategy. Instead of trying to disguise a tummy, draw as much attention to it as possible, so as to show confidence, and, at the same time, weed out potential seekers who will be turned off by the inevitable realization that she's not as thin as she looks.
She was standing with a lanky British guy, also of approximately my age, not five feet to my left, leaning against the restaurant wall. They were waiting together for a table - I eye them, leery as I realize that they must be waiting for my spot. I remain unfazed; after all, if time waits for no man, why should Chateaubrian? I chew thoughtfully.
Out of the darkness comes a man in his late fifties, with a face half-Kirk Douglas, half-catcher's mitt. In a ratty orange shirt and loose designer jeans, he smokes a cigarette, which he puts out as he walks up to the girl. She screeches happily, "Daddy." The man hoarsely and earnestly replies, "Hey sweety." Introductions are made.
After a short time it becomes clear that the man is a movie writer of some kind, since the daughter congratulates him on a "script" of his which she said she read and liked. After a few more moments, it is revealed that the daughter wants to be an actress. With loathing growing like a gallstone in my spleen, I begin to believe ever more firmly that these are indeed Jewry from the most debauched crevice of the Diaspora: L.A. There was always something wrong with that bunch. It was in Los Angeles that the Jews ran the mafia, in Los Angeles that Jews made Hollywood so as to better disseminate socialist propaganda to an unsuspecting United States, in Los Angeles that Jews engineered the beating of Rodney King – which I could care less about, of course.
The more I listen, the more I become upset with their decadence. Now she's talking to her father about her sexual exploits – having sex with a strange Italian man the first night she arrived. He smokes and listens, calmly supportive.
Writing as I am in an era when the only culture exported from America to France takes the form of prolonged car commercial or apocalypse fantasy, I myself admit to having considered, at some point, that the only way I might be able to support my noble proclivities would be by writing for Hollywood pictures. True, that would entail taking orders from Jews, but even the Sun King had his Richelieu. The decadence of these two began to change my mind about the plausibility of this alternative. As I look into the nooks and crannies of that old brown catcher's mit, I wondered if this face would be mine should I go to Hollywood, if this daughter would be mine should I sell out. Perish the thought.
I finish my meal, pay the check, and stand. The Americans jump on my seat, the man looks at me out of recessed sockets, weary brown eyes. He says to me "Bon soir," whispering ever so gently under his breath – don't do it kid.
Hell is other people, but only if they're from Los Angeles.
That was to be the last conversation among Americans I would hear in Italy. Tomorrow it was off to Milan, a new city, a new life, but, like Sienna, juste pour un jour.
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