The journey by train from Parma to Modena was simple and easy. Italian trains are quickly becoming one of my favorite modes of transportation (although hitching in Scotland will always win). They're simple, there's always an actual station (as opposed to the bus "stations" in Austria and Switzerland), plenty of room, great scenery, some of them are double-deckers and there's often a screen in each coach that tells you exactly where you are.
I'm quite fond of knowing exactly where I am. Probably because it's such an anomalous event in my life. Most people wake up and wonder what time it is. I wake up and spend a good fifteen seconds figuring out where the hell I am. Especially these days.
My next host, an Italian fellow named Salvatore, met me at Modena's train station in front of the McDonald's. I'd received a couple of nice invitations to stay with hosts in Modena, but Salvatore won me over with what he'd written under the "Philosophy" section of his couchsurfing profile.
"When you have to take a hard decision, flip a coin. Why? Because when the coin is in the air...you suddenly know what you're hoping for."
Salvo led me to his apartment, gave me the tour, and let me settle in. After about twenty minutes together, I felt like we were well on our way to developing some rapport.
Which is one of the things I miss the most when I travel alone. Rapport. Knowing how to make someone laugh. Feeling the tiniest bit of connection.
"That's an awfully big door," I said as we left his flat.
"My mother says I'll grow into it," Salvo, a good inch or two shorter than me, replied with a smile.
We strolled around Modena for hours, dodging bicyclists as Salvo pointed out the museums, libraries, and restaurants at which I "needed" to eat.
"If I were to eat at all those restaurants, I'd have to stay for two weeks!" I laughed in protest.
All this took quite a while. Modena has 16 cinemas, 25 libraries, and one of the oldest universities in Europe (at which Salvo had studied economics). Modena is also famous for Ferraris, Pavarotti, Lambrusco, balsamic vinegar and the current #1 restaurant in the world.
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| This is Osteria Francescana, a modern take on Italian Cuisine, Massimo Bottura is the head chef, and is famous for dishes like, "The Five Ages of Parmesan," and, "Oops! I Dropped a Lemon Tart!" |
Salvo and I discussed (in length) our best options for dinner, and then decided to just go out for an aperitivo. We both ordered glasses of lambrusco and were then able to help ourselves to the buffet of delicious Italian snacks.
I wish Boy was here to tell me more about this wine. It's fizzy like champagne. Probably because of a second fermentation the the way I do second fermentations when I want to add juice to my kombucha. I can't believe this is how my brain works. When I try to think about wine, I just end up thinking about the mango kombucha I used to make in my closet. If Boy were here... he might say that it's... it's raspberry and.... pepper. Or he might say that it smells like vanilla and tastes like plum. Everything in the wine world seems to smell like vanilla and taste like plum.
We strolled back to Salvo's apartment slowly, basking in the soft light from lanterns that seemed to float.
What a magical place.
When we finally made it back to Salvo's flat, I cocked my head critically at the mammoth front door as he opened it.
"Salvo, if you're moving to Parma for work in another couple of weeks, you're going to have to grow very quickly if you want to fill this doorway by the time you leave.
After sharing some pomegranate liqueur and limoncello with the roommates, Salvo and I retired to his room, where he tucked himself into bed, and I tucked myself into his obscenely comfortable couch, drawing a thin sheet up towards my chin.
I can't believe it's almost October, and Italy is still so warm that I hardly even need a sheet.
"Buona notte," I said to Salvo.
"Buona notte," Salvo said to me.
I messaged Boy on facebook for a few minutes, checked my workaway account, and sent Marco a message on couchsurfing.
So, I had already booked a Flixbus to Verona (before I realized that I didn't have a host), so my bus arrives in Verona at 17:00 on Saturday. Then I'll hop on a train to Vicenza and meet you there? I could take one of the cheaper train that leaves at 17:59 and arrives at 18:39.
Thanks for everything."
I hope he gets this in time... other than Andrew in Dundee, this is the most last-minute I've ever been with a host. But Marco seems really easy-going and helpful, so I'm sure it'll be fine, my optimism felt forced.
But that's okay. Boy's not here to wear the optimistic boots ALL THE TIME, so I suppose I should force my feet into them every now and again.
I closed my laptop, gently placed it on the floor beside Ellie and shut my eyes in total exhaustion.
Why do days seem so much longer in new places?
However, the sleep was short-lived. Not so long after I'd drifted off, I woke to the sound of soft snoring. Snoring that slowly grew louder and louder until it reached a quite incredible crescendo.
Then stopped abruptly.
I giggled quietly and fell back asleep.
The many joys of couchsurfing. What a serenade.
I was serenaded multiple times that night. For approximately ten minutes every hour, like clockwork.
"Did I snore last night?" Salvo asked when he woke.
I giggled again.
My host had to work that morning, so I explored Modena on my own.
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| I've never seen so many bicyclers over sixty years old in my life. Italy is positively rife with them. It's marvelous. |
I joined Salvo and his roommates for a quick trip to Bologna that night.
What a loaded city for me. The last time I was here... was in 2011. I'd just finished my yoga teacher training in Spain, and Svetlana treated me to three days in Bologna as a sort of congratulations for surviving. Svetlana... I'm still so... so heartbroken. So... tortured that I was never able to say goodbye to you. When I was just starting this precarious life of adventure, I used to feel that you were my biggest supporter... a strong, beautiful, intelligent woman who understood me and all of my dreams in a way so few did back then.
I think about you so often. If either of us were in the least bit religious, it would be comforting to say that I'd see you again in a different place or plane or reality.
But I can't take comfort in the possibility of other lives.
All I can do right now is remember you. I can remember how you looked so at home in Italy. How you said you wish you'd been born here -- that you were meant to have been born here. I can remember that beautiful blue dress you bought for me, with such airy fabric and crocheted flowers on the sleeves. I can remember how when we walked through Florence, you developed the worst blisters I'd ever seen on both your feet, but you never complained. You just kept walking. I can remember practicing morning yoga together on the rooftop of our hotel in Bologna.
You were my first student. Your support made me feel like I could be a teacher.
I miss you. This city will always be especially beautiful and melancholy to me because of our three days.
I was somewhat absent for the rest of the night. As Salvo was the only fluent English speaker in the party of eight (and he somehow ended up at the other side of the dinner table), I sat quietly with my thoughts as the table of happy girls chatted avidly in Italian.
Salvo and I spent my last morning and afternoon in Modena doing some essential shopping, dropping by Modena's enormous volleyball court and picnicking in a park.
He drove me to the bus station and hugged me (and Ellie) goodbye.
"Next time I come, we'll eat at Osteria Francescana," I promised Salvo. "I'll start saving up for it as soon as I can."
I felt a little silly on my bus from Modena to Verona.
Marco still hasn't written me back. Which makes sense, 'cos he said he'd be camping. But I don't know for certain whether or not he can even host me. What if he doesn't check couchsurfing today? Then I get to Vicenza early evening and have no place to stay. I have his phone number and the number of my next host, but suppose Marco decided to stay out camping for another night and my next host is busy today?
It'll work out. Even if neither Marco nor Denis can host me and I find myself in Vicenza with no couch, it'll still work out. I can find a hostel or go back to Modena or go on ahead to Padua or contact Andrej and tell him that I accomplished some remarkably stupid planning and need to come to Ljubljana a wee bit early.
Marco met me at the train station, drove me to his home, washed my laundry, made me a pumpkin risotto and opened a bottle of wine.
See? Worrying would have been entirely useless, I thought as I tucked myself into the bed in Marco's spare room. Not that I'm certain worry is ever useFUL. There are times I feel justified in worrying, but I don't think anyone looks back at a horribly stressful afternoon and says, "Wow, all that anxiety I had? It was really so useful! Wonderfully helpful. I should panic more often!"
No. Nobody does that.
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