Mama Mia!

I've sat in front of this computer for days staring diligently at this screen in search of the words to describe my experiences in Italy. I've come to the conclusion that there are no words that could even begin to give what I had experienced any justice. It wasn't the trip itself, or the places that I'd seen but rather the culture that I had experienced and the people that I met that will allow this trip to be the one of the most memorable of my life.

My trips aren't usually based on sight seeing and don't often carry with them any kind of itinerary, but with this trip I had 2 specific things that I wanted to take in, the Sistine Chapel and the flowing streets of Venice, that was as far as my planning had gone. Okay,okay... admittedly, before to going to Italy I hoped for and envisioned a little Italian woman coming to my aid as I wandered around the streets with my backpack lost, hungry, and tired with the offer of a home cooked meal and a place to rest... perhaps a little far fetched, may be not.















Perhaps the best part of being in Italy was having friends to share the experience with. Not long after I'd arrived in Italy, myself and 2 other solo travellers would come to form a band of friends that had gotten along so well in such a short time that we could have easily been mistaken to have known one another for years. By the end of 3 short days in Rome we had a list of inside jokes of our own stupid admissions that was at least an arms length.

First there was Anna. She had carried a backpack so massive that she had to back into door ways and when possible unlatch the second door just so that she could enter a building or room. Her backpack, I'm sure, had rivaled her own body weight. She was from New Zealand and just finishing up a one year travel spree. Of course, we needed an xy to balance out the group, plug in Nihal the American, and then there were three. As it were, an odd bunch. Sounds like the beginning of a joke. So a kiwi, a canadian, and an american walk into a bar and... well, naturally they walk out quite drunk... or fleeing some overly aggressive, semi-scary, dirt bag Italian men on the prowl-- who would have thought claiming lesbian status wouldn't frighten them off... but that's another story.





Nihal was our leader -- we had dubbed him our alpha male. He never truly felt comfortable with the title, suggesting that he thought Anna and I could do more damage than he, if need be. Nevertheless, Nihal had brought us to all of the important sights, The Coliseum, the Vatican, Monuments, the ruins...he even provided nifty little read ups about them because he never left the hostel without having his trusty Rick Steeves guide in hand. He made seeing the sights worth seeing. I fear that if he hadn't been so keen on seeing the sights that Anna and I would have simply wandered around aimlessly and simply gotten lost in shops and markets.












Each of us did however have our turns navigating. I held the night shift, as it seemed I would come back to life as the sun went down. I was in charge of scoping out drinking and eating venues... which was fine by me. It was a job that I had taken very seriously... there was food and drinks at stake here. Of course they were rather amused with my diligence and snapped a photo of my cross referencing.



After 3 nights in Roma it was time to go forth, 3 nights being my usual limit per city. As it had turned out, Anna and I had gotten along so splendidly that we'd decided to see the rest of Italy together. Nihal had a friend fly in to join him in his adventures so we didn't feel bad leaving him behind. Besides, we suspect that he wanted to ditch us because because of our disbelieve in using the public transit system. We had him walk the entire city with us causing him to limp for the next few days.

Friday morning we had hopped a train and went to Florence which is in the Tuscany area. Unbeknownst to me, I thought Tuscany was a city not an area, and in another classic moment I had leaned to Anna and asked , "Why can't I find the city of Tuscany any where on the map?"

In the absence of Nihal we had spent our days just as I had suspected we would. Browsing markets, shopping, & eating. Perhaps our most favorite passtime in Florence was sitting on chruch steps in a Piazza drinking €2.50 bottles (yes bottles) of wine, eating figs & dates until the sun went down. One day we had even musterd up the motivation to march up a hill that had been listed in our guide book to overlook the entire city. It was emphasized that we must see The Duomo, the chruch Florence is famous for...We had stood up there briefly and not 30 minutes later found ourselves back on our church steps assuming our favorite position.




The next day, finally feeling the pain from our wine, we had crawled onto the train and headed to Venice. The train ride was painful and the mood was glum, as Venice would be our last trip together. Anna would be heading off to Ireland for some St. Patty's activites and I would be flying solo. Once we had arrived and saw the flowing streets of Venice we were overwhelmed by it's charm and it had breathed new life into us. How could you not get excited when the streets are rivers?? We were anxious to explorer!





Not much had happened in Venice, apart from getting lost on the walking pathes and island hopping -- though it was amusing to see traffic lights on rivers. If I had to sum up Venice in two words they would be; Beautiful and Expensive. We'd spent only one night in Venice and then the day had come that Anna and I would go separate ways. We had decided to have a ceremonial Gelato before parting and away we went.

It was strange to find myself on my own. What was even more strange was that I could go anywhere I had wanted to go but didn't have the slightest clue. On a whim and much deliberation, I had gotten on the train and headed back towards Florence. For the entirety of the train ride I felt as though I was watching my own life afar as I leaned my head on the window staring out in a daze, I wondered what was calling me back to Florence. I would soon find out.

I had often joked that nobody gets lonely in Italy, and I'll tell you this, I never once felt alone. As my time there had progressed so did my love for their culture and a curiosity for their language. Italians have by far the most patience of any culture that I've come across, in my own poor attempts to offer some of what I thought was the Italian language, most individuals had taken the time to correct my accent and allow me to begin my sentence all over again.

Florence is a place that could cause even the most impatient to sit back and take a look at what life can truly be like. The little town of Florence had opened up before my eyes, my favorite time of the day had been the mornings. It was idyllic to say the very least, and everyone and everything had come to life. Gates had been elevated each morning to reveal the shops that had been hidden in the walls of unassuming buildings, walk ways were swept, and tables and chairs had been placed out in the Piazza's with great care and the table tops were adorned with fresh cut flowers.

People greeted one another as just that, people. Businessmen to butchers, and police officers to shop owners eagarly professed their gratitude ever so gleefully for the beginning of a new day , Buongiorno! But it didn't end there, people were greeted with a kiss on each cheek and a genuine desire to speak with one another to inquire about what the day may bring them. And when all was said and done, often times departing also resulted in 2 more kisses followed by a Ciao! As often as this ritual had been repeated over the course of a morning each person was greeted as though it was the first person they had seen that day, there had not been any lack of enthusiasm.


The markets were an amazing sight to see, it was as though the crowds had creeped up and suddenly there was no room to walk. Fruit had flown through the air, bags whisked from vender to vender, money being passed around all the while keeping track of who's change was who's. Vendors shouted in their Italian tongue over to one another making what I can only assume were wise cracks and jokes, as they'd have time for a quick laugh while they wieghed in someones produce. I sat there and watched the vendors offer only their best fruit to the buyer, and if they didn't think the fruit was good enough, they'd take it back and send you to another booth where you would get the best. The sense of community and unity that I had witnessed at these markets was extraordinary.


Wandering the streets in Italy was like reading a good book, each corner turned brought forward a new adventure and could often times cause you to completely forget what you had just been thinking about. As it were, each corner turned had also brought you deeper into the mase of streets that is Italy but it didn't matter. Streets were littered with Gelato shops, Bakeries, and Shops dedicated only to candy and chocolate. If sweets weren't your thing, you could find yourself awstruck with the monumental architectural achievements equally spread out through the country. Buildings were made with such precision, bridges spawned houses on each side, and churches were so intricate and explicit with detail that they could lure even the unreligious inside of their wall for a quick peek.



The streets were often made of stones and had only enough width to allow a horse and carriage. The buildings were old and beautiful had still remained the cornerstone of any Italian village. They were unwavering of alley ways and and had nestled the small streets away from the rest of the world. The streets were close but not cramped, shadowy but inviting. Perhaps it was the hanging linens and clothes lines that had softened their appearance or the potted plants that sat on the window ledges, what ever it was words could not give it justice.


















Buildings often housed shops on the lower levels while housing entire families on the upper. When walking on the streets in Italy it is imperative that one not forget to look up, because it is only then that you will catch a glimpse of what it might be like to be a part of this great culture. If your attentive, you will catch unsuspecting people carrying on conversations from their windows or people hanging laundry from their windows. It was like being in a colony of worker bee's, everyone was doing something and I almost felt guilty just sitting there.


Thinking back to my arrival, I remember getting off of the train that night in Florence it was already dusk. I had hoisted up my backpack which seemed heavier than I had remembered it. I wasn't exacty sure where to go, but had an idea. I was heading back to a small shop where the owner had befriended Anna & I over Pizza and wine one night. I was unsure about how I would be received but as I walked around the corner into the entrance of his shop his face lit up and I knew then that I had made the right decision, -- Ciao bella! Put your bag down, put it in the back room, is heavy, no? You want drink? Coffee? No? Let's go.

Finding this peculiar leather shop was easy -- in hindsight I think that it was meant to find me. But it was Anna who had lead the way that time. She had been pulled into this leather shop like a fish on a hook, and without warning there she was standing in a shop adoring a green leather hand bag. I've never seen someone love the colour green as she had. Even though she had walked out sans hand bag we had walked out with something more valuable, a new Italian Amici. His name was Sacha.

Each day he wore a three quarter length dark plaid peacoat, black buttoned dress shirts with another dark shirt underneath that would peer through near his collar. He had softened this look with black casual pants and unassuming black shoes. His was a stout man, but not fat. His stature, may be 5'7. He had dark black wavy hair that was neither short nor long. His mouth was thin, his lips so fine that they almost looked as though they were drawn on. He had dark skin with an olive tint and eyes that were a deep brown. The entire look would be topped off with a pair of thick black rimmed glasses, the kind you might picture when thinking about Buddy Holly -- except these were the classy Italian version. His style of dress had presented him in an almost ambiguous and inpenetrable manner but I would come to see beyond his front and meet an extraordinary individual.

Coffee had turned into Gin & Tonics, and Vodka & Soda's, we didn't stray far from the shop -- close enough so that we could keep a watchful eye, even though there had been someone left inside working. He'd run in and out of the cafe, often times giving me his cigarette to hold and coming back out with a new drink or pieces of Italian cheese that he felt imperative I sample. In return, it was my responsiblity to make sure not a soul would enter his shop without my telling him. I couldn't understand this at the time. Worried about the shop in his absence we had finally returned, drinks in hand.

I found myself a spot behind the main counter enjoying both my drink and the free Internet and not any sooner did an American couple walk in. They didn't look like much to me but I'd gathered that they were in the shop the night before. When the taylor had returned, out of breath from running with the leather goods with a custom fur neck piece I still didn't think anything of it. But when when the couple couldn't be hassled to carry their goods home and would have them fed exed I began to get the picture. Also the huge wads of various currency that this man had hauled from this pocket helped clear things up for me. I've never seen someone carry that much money while out on a stroll.

After business was finished up in the shop it was shut down and it was time to take a stroll out to run some other errans before the days end. He explained to me as we walked through the tiny streets from shop to shop that he was a wholesaler, he needed to go to each shop to collect the days take. --Most people do it once a week, for me, my father is Jewish -- is in my blood to go everyday, no? If I don't go every night they spend and can't pay. As we walked around this tiny neighborhood and small maze of streets it became apparent to me that everyone knew who he was. They had addressed him as Grande Sacha and would shout out at him to make him aware that he didn't walk past unackowledged.

I had quickly realized that as I had trailed behind him that I was in partaking in the collection business, even if just in theory. Suddenly I began to be very aware of my waredrobe compared to him and felt underdressed, should I change? I asked. -No, is fine. Was his reply. I couldn't help but wonder what they thought about me and what the nature of my relationship was with him. At random times he would introduce me to his counterparts usually when they could no longer conceal their inquisitive stares. Otherwise, I would always just walk quietly behind him a pace or two and was usually seen but not heard as I had imagined that was how it was supposed to be. Every once in a while he'd turn back to ensure that I was still there.

After trodding along behind him while he had taken care of business he had suddenly paused and looked at his watch. He complained that it was too early for dinner -- it being only 7 pm, nevertheless he began to scan the piazza for a suitable restaurant. --What time you eat at home? 5... 6? Is too early. (9-10 pm being a suitable time to eat in Italy). After we'd chosen a restaurant we had found ourselves surrounded by all of the tourists who were also out for dinner. I found myself to be annoyed with them, at some point in the evening I somehow felt that I made the transition from traveller to that of a local, therefore I rationalized that I did hold a valid complaint.


Dinner was great. He'd ordered for me which was fine by me. The owner hovered around our table, happy to have us there...to have him there. Bottles of red wine were brought to compliment our meals as serenade's filled the background of the outdoor dining area with just the right ambiance. Vendors would approach our table with a bouquet roses, he would politley tell them Grazie and shoo them away until the poorest vendor would stop by and then he would indulge. He said he only liked to buy from the vendor who needed the money, and with that, he'd buy enough roses for each server and myself.

When dinner was done the owner didn't present us with a bill, rather a handshake and two customary kisses on the cheek to Sacha. We would later return to the restaurant and drop off a custom made white leather coat for the owners girlfriend to show our gratitude for the meal. Imagine.

Just when I thought the night was about to come to a close, it was now time to go out for some real drinks. This was the best part of it all. We had gotten into his small car and had whisked through the streets of Florence. It was thrilling, considering they were barely wide enough to contain 4 people walking side by side. The maze of streets had opened up before me bringing me back to the places that I had foot patrolled only a few days earlier, only this was much better. We would slow down in front of establishments that he knew, everything was owned by a friend of his.

Our destination, I don't even know the name of it, but boy was it posh. It was filled with people my age, except it looked as though they had just won the lottery and just came off of a runway somewhere. We had walked in like we owned the place, well... okay, he did and I had followed suit. I could feel their eyes on me and I could only imagine what they were thinking, but I didn't care and it didn't matter. I felt secure in his presence by then and didn't care the least bit that I wore hiking boots, old ratty jeans, a windbreaker, and sported no hair product, make up, or extensive jewelry. I knew that I was in a place where I could have never gotten into and loved being there even more for the reason alone.

We had stayed at this particular bar just long enough. Soon we would be in the car again and the night would begin to wind down. And without question he would drive me back to my hostel and ensure that I had gotten in alright. I would be dropped off outside of my hostel doors with a kiss on each cheek and a Ciao along with the promise of coffee the next day -- I see you at 9:30 tomorrow for breakfast? no?

Throughout this entire experience it wasn't the meals, the drinks, or the venues that had impressed me the most, rather to be in the company of a remarkable person and being priliged enough to really hear what he had to say. After our meals he would order some grappa and finally let the days troubles fall away. He loved to talk and had a kind sense of humour. Once he had fooled me into thinking that Grappa was water and said to have some, it would take the taste of my expresso away from my lips...he laughed at the face I made and then quickly finished it off himself.

He would often talk to me about his family, particularily of his father. Even though he himself was a grown main he looked up to his father as though he was still a child. He would use hand gestures to describe this ex-military man's broad shoulders and height. A man with both strong morals and good looks. He'd tell me about how his other siblings were all either doctors or lawyers and that it was only he who hadn't gone on to post graduate studies.

He didn't wallow in all of this, in any event he found humour in it all and it had in fact allowed me to see beyond his ambiguous and seemingly inpenetrable demenour. He would lose himself in childhood stories over our meals and laugh at the memories that he held of his mother always yelling his name first when something was found broken or done wrong.

When I was in his company I didn't say much, for one of the few times in my life I had listened. I listened as he told me of both his achievements and of his defeats. His stories brought forth a clear message for me; don't waste your time focusing on what others can do, but focus what you can do. After all, even if he was the smallest in stature amoungst his family and didn't have the prefix of Dr. in front of his name on the streets of Florence, he was Grande Sacha and everyone loved him.

My return to Florence had in effect provided me with what I had wished for. So it wasn't the old lady who would take me in off of the street to feed me and house me, but times change I suppose. In the end, I was sad to leave, but it was time to move on. I had expressed my utmost gratitude for everything that he'd done for me. In return he had replied, --ahh, is nothing...you know my father told me that if someone does something good for you, you do something good for 5 more people. That is all, you do this, no? And that was that.

I've thought back to my experiences in Florence time and time again and there are a few things that I wonder about Sacha... and I wonder what I was a really a part of on those evenings in Florence. May be we've all just overloaded ourselves with too many episodes of the Soprano's, then again may be not.