Poggio

I left Vienna on an overnight train, and once again the ride lulled me to sleep before 10 p.m. Coming from Venice I was lucky and didn’t have anyone in my cuchette. The trip back South, though, provided me with three Austrian roommates. An older couple headed to Venice for the weekend and a university student headed to Bologna to visit a friend. I left the station with the couple, who were immediately checking their watches to see how inefficient the time would be. We picked up the student in Linz, after I had fallen asleep, and I was immediately irritated that this newcomer had agitated my sleep. I was awake for maybe five minutes, irritated because I thought it was three in the morning, and I said nothing. The couple banged around for a while and student got her bags situated. I rolled over and let the trains rocking do its thing.

Later in the night – when it really was 3 a.m. – I was woken up once again. Full of attitude, I was thinking to myself, there are no other small, uncomfortable seat beds in here, so why is someone at the door?

They started talking in German and I got pissed. I assumed he was selling drinks or something. Are you kidding me? You want a freaking tea at this time of the morning? Jesus Christ. Once again, and with more pronunciation this time, I flipped over to go back to sleep. That’s when I was tapped. Oh my God! What do you want?!

The man gruffly asked for my passport. Ohhhh. Ok, here is my only official identification. Take it. Keep it if you would like. I’m legit. Just let me go back to sleep. After a minute, my passport was return and I was back asleep.

I didn’t process anything until the morning. I was cordially talking over breakfast with my three roommates that I was so angry with the night before, and they all thought it was strange that this man wasn’t in a uniform. I hadn’t even noticed. I’m glad I didn’t let him keep it after all. Who knows what it was all about, but people just shouldn’t disrupt my sleep. It makes me reckless.

We arrived over an hour late. The couple was uneasy from the moment they woke up. When we finally arrived, the student and I hung out while waiting for the train to Rome. We ate some disgusting gummy candy that I had been so excited to buy at the grocery store the day before. We chatted about travel and language. I helped her figure out her ticket, and we were off to our respective destinations.

I got on a full train to head back to Tuscany. I immediately pulled out my book. I knew I had at least an hour and a half before it would be safe to talk to anyone... the trip was three hours long, and I didn’t have an hour and a half’s worth of stuff to say to anyone. So I read and enjoyed myself. In Bologna, however, I was given no choice but to stop reading and start chatting. An Italian man from the South asked me what my book was.

Here we go. Not only was he going to speak Italian, he wanted to chat in Sicilian and swallow every other word. And contrary to many Sicilians, he didn’t want to speak loudly. No, he wanted to look down and ask a lot of questions. But I got through it. There were a few “Come?”s and “Scusi?”s (huh? and pardon?), and there were definitely a few times when I smiled or frowned because I had no idea what was going on and couldn’t ask him to repeat himself again. If he looked somber and I didn’t understand, I assumed it was about his wife Teresa. Maybe they weren’t doing so well in their marriage? Maybe the baby that is due in five months is keeping the mother sick? Maybe he is wondering if I have a husband? I couldn’t tell, so a somber nod seem appropriate. It got me through. We talked about the book and about travel – he has a brother like me who saves and travels and repeats. He works too much to travel, but he would like to. His son, a fifteen-year-old troublemaker (who has a cute school picture that I have now seen) wants to travel and probably will. He’s smart, he just doesn’t want to stick with stuff. By the time I got off, he knew I had family, I knew he had family and we both knew we were very different creatures. But both interesting and interested.

With that, I got to Florence. I then took my non-showered, unrested self to Poggio a Caiano, the small town I lived in after studying in Florence three years ago. I took the same bus I took often when I was here before, and it was like slipping back in time.

Chiara, the wedding planner I lived with, picked me up at the stop. After a big hug, we were off to the house to start laundry and check email. She had some questions about requests that she couldn’t understand, and I needed to shower. We unloaded, then headed back out to find Leo – her now 8-year-old son. Like clockwork, we went to the school to wait with all of the other Italian parents for the kids to get released. I saw the same parents who asked how I had been. I saw Milva, who was Chiara’s co-planner (if such a term exists), when I was there. She hugged me and held me and smiled at me. It felt nice to be back. Leo remembered me, but Elena and Mattia – Milva’s kids – raised their chins with a shrug. “Chi e questa?” (Who is this?) they wanted to know. But they warmed to me quickly.

We rode around town with me asking questions. Isn’t that where we went to the printer once? Isn’t that where we got gelato after going to the lake? Isn’t that Milva’s house? Is that the house you called a Horse House rather than stable and I thought you were talking about a whorehouse? Yes, I was back in my neighborhood.

When I first came, Leo was five years old. He was shy, and I was shy. We played soccer some, but didn’t talk to one another a lot because we couldn’t understand each other. He prattled in Italian sometimes, but mostly we coexisted. On particular nights when he didn’t want to go to sleep, tickling and wrestling wars would turn the living room into a danger zone. But it was all giggles and yelps.

Now Leo is older. After school he plays soccer with the boys in the playground. Everyone comes out every afternoon. Leo’s grandmom is there, and we come a bit later. Other parents mill about, watching their kids and talking about their kids. And the food their kids have eaten. And the homework their kids don’t have or don’t do. And the soccer their kids play. It’s very cute, but after a while I want to have a kid to talk about. And then I realize that something doesn’t fit.

Chiara wants me back. She wants me – or any diligent (laugh) person who speaks English – to come stay with her. As much as I love Poggio, I wouldn’t be able to do it on the same conditions. I’m a 23-year-old trapped in the life of married with children. When I stayed here, it was get up, take Leo to school, come back, check and respond to emails, sit outside and talk about idioms and grammar quite literally Under the Tuscan Sun, go to the store to look at overpriced shoes or shirt, go to the grocery store to buy dinner, go to the yard to watch Leo, fight with Leo about what time to come back home, make dinner, watch TV, go to bed. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Variation on the weekend included birthday parties, shopping and school field trips.

As much as I would love to be back here to learn Italian and experience the culture deeper, I couldn’t do it again under someone else’s terms. I would want to get an apartment and a bicycle, and I would want to be able to come to work rather than live at work. I would want to go see Leo & Co. in the yard when I want to. The work was great because I did learn to teach and be patient, and I learned Italian through recognizing Chiara’s spoken mistakes. But I would need to discover the under-30 crowd that must exist somewhere in the greater Poggio area. I would want to have nights where I cook for friends and drink wine and don’t end the night by watching Rai Uno with poorly dubbed According to Jim episodes. In short, I would want to have my life.

I think it is possible. This short stay has been wonderful... it has given me enough time to see and visit with everyone without getting restless. But to come again for a few months? Only if my Saturdays are available for life beyond birthday parties where everyone eats over-salted fries and pizza and talks about who is going to sponsor the kids’ soccer team.