From Firenze to Bagno Ripoli with Love

With Jack Keroac's On the Road gripped tightly in my hand, still wet from pouring out the flower vases water to avoid it spilling on the bus, I took my seat and prepared for the journey to Bango Ripoli. The seats were white with yellow stains from use and had Italian swear words and hearts carved in the plastic. I was prepared. The heat of the cabin was unbearable. And the beer I had bought from the unusual lady in the square was worth it. I only say unusual because of her appearance. A purple shirt was plastered against her skin with harder areas, caused by dried sweat and dirt, visible under her armpits and back. She was short, plump, and had a faded pink blotch of makeup on each cheek, which only accentuated my first impression of her being a clown. But she is the owner of a side store bar filled with odd paintings and articles of clothing and her insight on the midday heat couple with my trip to the Tuscan hills ended in me purchasing two cold Italian beers.
Bango Ripoli is southwest of Florence, and a 35 minute bus ride away. Because Florence wanted to change its buses out for newer ones its shut down its direct route in fear that the distance that one bus would have to travel would cause it to break down earlier. And they only buy in bulk for the discounted price.
I had no idea who I was going to meet. All I knew was her name, the address of her old-folks home, and that she was a friend of my mothers during our stay in Firenze. Florence Stoneman, Villa Santi Monica via di Rosano 44, Bango Ripoli. This was the kind of adventure I look for. Just Do It. I know thats the motto for Nike but it is just so damn applicable that I don't feel the need to be creative. And with flowers in hand, book under my arm, and beer in a grocery bag around my neck I began my journey.
The first bus 23b took me to Sorgane, a small town outside of Florence that I wouldn't have stayed in if you had offered to pay me. The people were true tuscans and didn't speak a word of english nor did they want to learn. I had a vague idea of where Di Rosano was. It was, from what I gathered, a long highway street that connected a town in the higher hills to Sorgane. And covered roughly 12km. The next bus was due to arrive within 30 minutes so I sat down on all to familiar curb and read. I guess if there was a name to describe someone doing what I have been for the past months it would be curb-sitter. The countless times I have posted-up on a block waiting for my next form of transportation have become not only part of my traveling stories but part of me. Thirty minutes passed and although the people and the bus seemed to aviod me the sun was not. I opened the bag and cracked the first beer. When you don't carry lighters or bottle openers you have to be clever when it comes to opening beers. My unique trick only works with two bottles, and maybe subconsciously thats the reason I buy two, A decision that I never regret. I picked up one and then with just enough force I rubbed the cap of the other on the glass neck of the first. The more rubbing and twisting you do the better. Finally, after you hear the carbonation release and the cap can twist around, you can easily pull it off with your hands. And as if it was my first beer in years, I slowly sipped it coveting each time the gold liquid touched my tongue. On the Road could not have been a better book to bring.
After the beer and a couple chapters of my book, now covered in ink with leaves of grass hanging out to mark significant pages, the bus came. I didn't know how far down I had to go on this bus but somehow, someway, I managed to hop off inquisitively to peek at the sign. It read "Villa Santa Maria", and enthusiastic because my stroke of luck I pranced up the hill almost forgetting my small bouquet of flowers.
Nursing homes are all the same to me. They are all white. All the help wear pastel colors, as if the old eyes cant handle vibrancy anymore. And they all smell like disinfectant and jello, a combination that even the most detailed writers would find troublesome to describe. Right away I exhausted my Italian phrases. "Como sti?. Ciao. Buon' giorno." And the helpers used all their english, "Hello. Who here for?. Sit outside." Florence must be a sensation because at the first mention of her name the workers all became very pleased and told me to wait while she finished her desert. The veranda at the home was ideal, and I guess if I had to be cooped up in an old folks home it would have to be in Tuscany. The flowers were opening up, the rows of olive trees made the most intricate designs on the hills, and the smell of fresh air was everywhere. So here I was, waiting for a women I had never met, with a bouquet of flowers. I continued to read as I waited and as if she told the nurse to wait until the exact moment I finished a chapter she was pushed in on her wheel chair precisely on my last word.
The smile on her face was bigger than I thought anatomically possible. Her shawl and fleece covered her body but her straight-gray hair bordered the most important part. The joy Florence emitted to someone she had never met was heart warming as well as heart breaking. She doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve a bad hip on day like these. But after 20 minutes of chit-chat about my family and stories about her parents, I concluded she did deserve a cappuccino.
I navigated my way through the all white, all identical halls to the machine and waited inline. Everyone looked at me like I was about to give them a hug and remind them that I was their grandson, but I guess thats just the nature of these places. The machine was automatic, and cost a euro for a coffee. The man in front of me counted his coins and proceeded to put them in the slot. Each movement was very intentional, very concentrated. The eyes at that age lose their energy and the focus he used foreshadowed my own aging process down the road. The cup filled, and the machine made a loud "Baabeep! Baabeep!" to signify it was time to take the cup. But because the cup slot was so low it took roughly twenty seconds for the elderly to bend over and get it. A twenty seconds filled with "Baabeep!" For one euro, the coffee was shit. But with the company of Florence Stoneman it was a hell-of-a-deal. After an hour and a half I transitioned the conversation to our goodbyes and rushed outside in hoping that the bus driver would prove to be stereotypical and arrive late. No bus. I was right not the dot and there was no bus. I did whatever any travel-confident teenager would do in my position and sat down to crack open my other bottle and read. Half-an-hour passed. No bus.
My mom always recommended that we not pick up hitchhikers but I don't remember her saying anything about hitchhiking. With my thumb in the air, the sun beating down, and condensation accumulating on my brow and beer, I continued to read. The cars driving by were for the most part locals leaving work and heading home, not wanting to be bothered by the likes of an American. But once in a while you would see the tourists whipping by in there rent-a-cars or their BMW's from their second home in tuscany. Their faces covered in sun cream and their kids in the back disregarding the beautiful Tuscan day. My tan will be my memory, and the marks on my pants from the curbs I called home will be proof. After each parade of cars passed, and the open road behind them signified that a red light somewhere down the road had flipped on, I made my move. Ambling along to road to the next turn off. Slowly but surely making ground on my trip to Firenze but consciously not looking too able to walk the entire stretch without the assistance of a car. Each curb meant a swig of beer and more reading. Finally after an hour I was picked up by a older lady who spoke no english but blasted american pop music. Her car was a small, egg shell white, Buggy from what looked to be the 60's. The seats had be recently reupholstered but the stench of cigarettes remained. In the 14 minutes to Sorgane she smoked roughly 8 cigarettes and, from what I think I saw, coughed two out. When we arrived she saw a friend she knew and like clockwork I changed cars and was off to Florence with another total stranger. I arrived mid-afternoon. No one was home and I had no key to open the door. So just like any travel-confident teenager I bought another beer and sat in the sun reading On the Road.

-Chad A. Dokken

Location:Piazza della Santissima Annunziata,Florence,Italy