Hitching a Ride in Tuscany
Oh God oh God oh God oh God. He slows to about five miles an hour and she leaps out. A two minute Italian nightmare.
An Italian Sunday bus carries her up into the hills to a small town east of Florence. She walks around the narrow streets and tromps through olive orchards, uphill and down. After wandering an old dirt road, she stops at a rustic outdoor table under a tree, and is served the local Sangiovese wine with unsalted bread, goat cheese and olives. She feels like she is on a movie set.
At 4:00 pm, it begins to rain and it is only then she discovers that all the buses are on strike for the rest of the day. Madonna Santa! Transportation strikes often take place in Italy, and usually without warning. She’s now stranded six miles from the city in the pouring rain and is taking it calmly; it’s just a part of the Italian adventure. Standing under cover of a small wayside chapel, she sticks out her thumb. The first car to come by stops for her – a very, very small car, a man driving, a woman next to him. The driver doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask where she is going, just motions for her to get in the back seat.
She has apparently caught them in the middle of a heated discussion, and as they take off, the woman continues yelling at the man and waving her hands wildly like a lunatic. He yells back. She reminds herself that they are not angry, they’re just yelling because that is what Italians do. But it does start to escalate – both the rain and the argument. Neither one of them is looking at the road, the driver needs his hands to talk, and the steering wheel is left seriously unattended as they wind down the tortuous narrow road.
The rain is roaring down now, the windshield wipers frantically trying to keep up with the torrent. The vigorous dispute in the front seat is getting louder, the driving more erratic. Have they forgotten all about their passenger in the back seat? She hangs on and suddenly become religious. (Oh god oh god oh god oh god.) Ten minutes later, they careen into Florence and the man turns around in his seat and calmly smiles, “Dove scendi?” Where would you like to get out?
“Proprio qui,” she whimpers, wiping away traces of tears and sweat from her face. Right here is fine. He slows down to about five miles an hour and she leaps out, with still a mile or more to walk, but, no worries! She’s still alive and in one piece. Grazie a Dio.
Now, from a position of safety, she reflects, shaking her head. The unexpected brawl! The man seemed to be on the verge of pulling a small loaded Beretta out of his inside pocket. The woman could have drawn a stiletto from her boot. But, hey, it’s Italy! For all she knows they were simply trying to decide which restaurant was the best choice for tonight’s romantic dinner.
". . and the steering wheel is left seriously unattended" - Nothing like going from the bucolic countryside to a ride through Hell. One's thoughts turn religious. Did you stay religious afterwords? : )
I sure like the way you write.
Now I got it. You love chaos. You are bored with seaside calm and a rare visitor. California doesn't have wild bulls running down your street does it.... tsk. Call the mayor and have it arranged. Maybe a carnival parade in front of your door, or marching bands at 6 am and 7. My excitement is the placement of one thread over another, over and over for yards and yards. YOU are my excitement. Keep writing )))))