My travel chum and I went to Firenze for a couple of days this past week. We shared an apartment at Casalini in the tiny village of La Romola. Maria Teresa, who runs the agriturismo there, is a friend from way back.
We arrived in La Romola Wednesday afternoon and drove to Scandicci that evening to catch the tram into centro. I’d not seen Firenze so tranquil in decades. People were in the streets, but there were no crowds. The holiday lights – turned on a day early, perhaps as a kind of tech rehearsal – are impossibly beautiful and difficult to describe or photograph, at least in a way that does them justice. That Firenze values the arts is elegantly on display though the medium of tiny, white LEDs, ingeniously arranged.
We returned the next morning to a different city. Already at the tram stop it was evident that this was the day to go into centro. The station’s parking lot was jammed to overflowing, so we followed the lines of curb-parked vehicles to a little, roughly paved, residential street, and were lucky to find a casual spot there. By the time the tram had gone three stops, it resembled a Queens-bound train during the evening rush hour. Once into town, we found crowds on the major streets so thick you could hardly move. But it was a gloriously brilliant day with a brilliantly blue sky, the air was fresh, the sun warm, and the city lolled in its own loveliness.
We strolled – not that there was much choice as to speed of travel – stopping for a beverage here, a pastry there, a light lunch. I’d never been to Orsanmichele, the church I have long heard is closest to the Florentine heart, so that was a goal for the afternoon. Then we would look for posters advertising concerts for the evening. The last tram out of town is around one in the morning, so there was nothing to require an early return to the countryside. Or so we had concluded in our innocence.
We had installed ourselves in one of the large outdoor, tourist-dependent, over-priced bars on Piazza delle Signorie when, halfway through my mini-torta della nonna, I happened to feel at my coat pocket. Hmmm. Kind of empty. I felt the other. The same. I stood up. Catherine glanced away from the Neptune Fountain with a quizzical eye. I checked the pockets of my trousers. Kleenex, two euro. I dived into my back pack, found nothing, took a breath, and announced that I could not find the car key.
Catherine remained remarkably calm. So did, I. I checked everything four or five more times before suggesting that I revisit the string of bars and restaurants that had so far marked our day. That was deemed by both of us to be a complicated but necessary response. Catherine can’t walk long or quickly, so I set off alone, avoiding the main streets as I wound through the Roman city between Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo.
As I went, I reviewed our possible options. Catherine had suggested we call the only person with a key to her apartment who has a car, ask him to search for the extra key (she wasn’t quite certain where she’d put it) and drive up with it the next morning. But first I would make sure the key wasn’t lying on the ground next to a chair where I had dropped it from my coat pocket while retrieving change or a tissue.
I moved quickly, but noted a singular lack of panic. Once the likely scenarios had played through my mind, I arrived at a point of certainty that this was a “false” emergency. That I’d left the key in the car, that the car was on a street no one would wander and so my stupidity was unlikely to be taken advantage of by a thief, and that there was no complicated rescue ahead of us that would involve grossly inconveniencing other people. But of course, one has to go through the steps, just the same. Speculative certainty didn’t mean we could kick back, enjoy a concert, then go in the dark and the cold to the car only to discover than my inner voice had been lying to me.
All the people at the food establishments we had lingered at were friendly, helpful, sympathetic. In fact, I had a great time describing the problem, searching without success, and receiving hopeful good wishes from everyone I dealt with. I’m not suggesting I would do the whole thing again on purpose, but it was more than not unpleasant, it was downright affirming.
Catherine met me on Piazza del Duomo, and we sat in the sun while she called our friend with her apartment key. She went into the bar to stand in a long line for the restroom while I watched her dog, Jake, at the curb. Jake is an adoration magnet. Not only was I not bothered at how long it took Catherine to return, I could have stood with him for hours. Young women squealed with delight, reserved men broke into smiles, older ladies stooped to pet him, babies in strollers stared, wide-eyed, hands reaching out. I exchanged glances and smiles with almost everyone who payed homage. Jake in the meantime craned his neck at each woman with blond hair who exited the bar.
By the time we arrived at the tram stop near the train station, Catherine had exhausted her allowed steps and was in considerable pain. The cars were packed, and she wasn’t able to find a seat. For two stops I watched her sink into a puddle, and practiced how I would ask the gentleman whose chair she was holding onto for the favor of exchanging places with her. I finally opened my mouth and talked. He was friendly, laughed a little, reported that he had just had a knee replacement, but that he was okay. Odd response, I thought. On the way to the next stop I reviewed what I’d said. I hadn’t specified that “the lady” was in pain, instead I had used the pronoun “lei” which is also used for second person formal address. So what I had asked may have been interpreted as a rather out-of-the-blue concern for his wellbeing rather than the request I’d intended.
In one of those sympathetic moments of internal exchange, he seemed to have replayed the conversation and come to the identical conclusion, for at the next stop he offered Catherine his seat. “I only have a couple more stops before I get off. I can deal.”
We arrived at Villa Costanza, at the other end of the line, and walked slowly towards the residential street where we had parked. When we got to the intersection, I bolted ahead, engaged by the mystery and suspense but still without anxiety. Inner reality; I left the key in the ignition. Outer reality; it would be disingenuous to pretend I don’t have a stake in the outcome. I arrived at the car and opened the door. My backpack wouldn’t allow me to climb in, so I removed it and placed it on the passenger seat. I leaned, put my hand where the key should have been and…
I pulled out the key and held it up in a victory salute. Catherine cheered. Jake looked up to see what the excitement was about. It was a false emergency after all. But the steps along the way are necessary, regardless of the anticipated result, for the learning that we hope occurs has greater value than we may ever know.