My hosts are a young Italian linguist named Elisa and a young Finnish film director/screenwriter named Ville. Elisa says she feels somewhat obligated to host, in order to rescue poor travelers from other Italians.
After my experience with Davide, I can understand why.
Shortly after I'd finished writing my last blog post and was sitting by the dock in La Spezia, waiting for my Flixbus, a young African Italian man on a trick bike slowed down and turned his head as he passed.
"Ciao," he started to circle my bench.
I ignored him.
He stopped his bike in front of me, making it clear that he wasn't going anywhere.
"You speak Italian?"
"No," I stuffed my kindle and notebook into my bag, getting ready to switch benches.
"English?"
DAMN YOU.
"Yes."
"Can I take a picture with you? You're very beautiful."
"No, I don't think so."
"Please. One photo. To show my friends."
"No, I'd rather not," I smiled to smooth over the awkward.
"Please. Just one."
"No."
"Please... one photo with you and me."
"...okay."
The young man got off his bike, wrapped his arm around me and snapped a photo.
"You're very beautiful," he said again. "Are you married?"
"No, but I have a boyfriend."
"Oh. Does he live here?"
"No, in Colorado."
"Can I have your phone number?"
"I don't have an Italian phone," I managed to finally lie.
"Facebook?"
"Look, I'm leaving La Spezia on the next bus. That's why I'm here."
"Oh, you're leaving?"
"Yes. Arrivederci."
And I picked up Ellie and walked to the bus stop.
Italy...
The Flixbus stop wasn't marked at all, but people sporting confused looks and carrying backpacks idled in the sparse shade at the same place. So I felt relatively reassured that I was also idling at the correct random part of road the by the dock.
I disembarked the Flixbus at Parma and boarded another bus for Colorno.
It's a bummer that they don't live in Parma itself, but I will gladly pay an extra few euros and spend a bit more time on a bus in order to stay with nice people. Ever so gladly will I do this. Especially since I know that when I think back to my time in Parma next year, I won't remember the city itself. Churches and streets and markets all have a habit of blending together for me.
But people never blend together.
Elisa and Ville picked me up from one of the many bus stops in Colorno, drove me to their home and proceeded to feed me a veritable mountain of red rice with feta, aubergine and tomatoes. We talked about religion, life in Finland versus life in Italy (they both miss living in a place with things that work), and couchsurfing.
And they both made me feel so comfortable and so at home.
"Do you need a towel? Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Call me if you need anything, okay? Would you like a coffee?"
All the kinds of questions and comments that make me feel cared about.
I took the bus to Parma the next morning for a quiet day of solo exploring.
I'm finishing this post from Parco Ducale. The same Park I strolled into yesterday, lost quite happily in my own business, and was immediately accosted by an elderly man with an impressive mustache. And although I am abnormally fond of mustaches, I don't enjoy being accosted by men wearing them when I am already thoroughly occupied with minding my own business and would rather not be interrupted.
"Ciao," he started walking beside me and speaking astonishingly fast Italian.
"No parlo Italiano," I managed to assertively insert when he finally paused to breathe.
Then it happened, as it so often does in Italy, that Italians continue to speak to me in Italian even after they've been informed that I do not, in fact, understand a word they're saying. And for some odd reason or other (not because I understand or speak Italian), I comprehend exactly what they're saying to me.
It's an Italian superpower.
"What language do you speak?" the man asked in Italian.
"Parlo Inglesi."
"Oh, Inglesi! Non capisco Inglesi."
Excellent. He doesn't understand English. Maybe he'll leave me alone, I naively thought. Then remembered that a) Italians have superpowers and b) conversation isn't actually important in these kinds of exchanges.
The old man grabbed my hand and pulled me close.
"È fresco oggi."
Yes. It is chilly today. But just because it's chilly doesn't mean I want a strange old man holding on to me. I have a perfectly good sweater, thank-you very much.
I tried to pull my hand away, but he held on fiercely. With rather surprising strength.
"Cammina con me. Di compagnia."
Walk with me. For company, my brain turned the Italian into English.
"No, vado da solo" I said, desperately recalling fragments of Italian.
I GO ALONE.
"Un bacio," the man drew my face towards his formidable white mustache, and I tried to push him off. The fuzzy kiss landed on my cheek instead of "a centro," as Davide had put it.
I then twisted forcibly away from him and marched a whole lot faster.
"Come ti chiami?" he sped up himself.
"Aimee."
"Aimee... mio chiamo Franco. Cammina con me, Aimee."
"No, Franco. Vado da solo. Arrivederci."
I turned around and walked quite briskly in the opposite direction, finally managing to shake off the frightfully eager old man. When I'd put enough distance between us, I plopped down on a bench and fumed.
I suppose that this isn't a new thing for me. I've certainly been hit on by guys before. But I've spent the last year living with a boyfriend who treated me with such profound respect, and having a boyfriend around deterred the other fellows. So now I have to readjust to this world.
I'm left alone now. I lean against Ellie under the boughs of a chestnut tree and watch an old man and his grandson feed the pigeons. I watch bikers fly past, young ladies picnic, men in suit jackets with hands stuffed into pockets stroll by, men without shirts sunbathing in the small patches of sunlight, and chestnuts thud, bounce, thud to the leafy forest floor. A cocky man in a neon pink shirt spins on his heel to throw a piece of rubbish into a bin in front of me. He misses spectacularly and doesn't bother to pick the rubbish up.
I go to Modena today, to stay with an economics graduate named Salvo. He has plenty of references and lives with three Italian girls, so I'm not at all worried that I'll run into another Davide situation. I wasn't able, despite my best efforts, to secure a host in Verona -- so I'll stay with delightful sounding people in Vicenza for four days and set off on day trips from there. After Vicenza, I'll go to Padua for a day and a half, then Trieste for four days.
Then Andrej picks me up and whisks me away to Slovenia.
Finally.
It was refreshing to stay with Elisa and Ville. They had just moved into an ancient Italian home with wooden beams that looked old enough to have been around during the time of Julius Caesar. The flat was sparsely furnished, but still had everything required to be called "home".
- Kind people
-An Italian coffee pot
- A balcony
- A tea kettle
- A full spice cabinet
They washed my laundry for me while I was out exploring, even though opening my air tight, stuffed to bursting dirty laundry bag must have been equal to or greater than what the government uses in chemical warfare.
This is the life of a vagabond...
Elisa and Ville drove me to Padua and sent me on my way with hugs, banana chips, chocolate, a tamarind drink and the happy feeling that I now have friends in Colorno.
You are the kind of people who help me understand that living an open-hearted, open-minded, open-handed life is worthwhile -- even though I know there are plenty of Davides out there. Thanks for being a beautiful reminder of why I live the way I do.
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