It's standing-room only on this maledetto bus to Siena. Unanticipated, crowded and packed because the
train conductor is at home instead of on a train. The old man next to me is not happy about
this arrangement. Giuseppe is his name
and, upon finding out that I am a Floridian, he tells me that he has visited
Jacksonville, Florida...twice ("Jacksonville...Volkswagon,...Panama
Canal...Hamburg" is what he says in explanation, nodding knowingly as if
this clarifies everything. I'm confused,
but I don't press the issue.). And he will go on to explain to me that this bus
is miserable, this holiday is miserable, this country is miserable...and maybe
he's right.
"You like Italy?" He asks me.
"Ma, certo," I respond.
"Well you can have it, take it, it's yours."
And while I'm glad to have his permission, in some ways, I
already have.
Because a city or a country is a bit like a person. You don't get just the good parts, you get
all of it: flaws and tears and frustration--all of it. Because Italy isn't only spaghetti alla
carbonara and Chianti wine and cannoli and rolling hills and scenic beaches and
a stroll in the piazza in the evening.
It's also 3 days to dry your jeans and no direct trains on holidays and
Silvio Berlusconi and "is this bus
ever actually going to arrive?" and waiting for hours to get your permit
at the immigration office and no direct answers and no certainty about
anything...not ever.
But at some point, you find yourself falling into this
rhythm and you console yourself that you don't really need dry jeans anyway and
you scold your friend for wearing sandals in March and you learn to deal with
the uncertainty as some sort of perpetual, unanticipated adventure-game (or at
least you hope that all these lessons in patience are somehow making you a
better person). And of course you eat
your spaghetti and drink your wine and stroll in the piazza in the evening
whenever possible.
And just like that particularly frustrating person that you
can't help but adore, in spite of how crazy they make you (or perhaps because
of how crazy they make you) you love Italy and you hate it and love to hate it
and, at the end of the day, you hate to love it as much as you do.
And when Giuseppe on the bus says "take
it..." You say to yourself
"Well yes, I think I will...."
Volentieri.
