by Marcy Gordon
At some point during the hour, a large man driving a Mercedes stopped and delivered a frail-looking gentleman in a lawn chair into the conversation. The older man, once a regional sheikh, according to the boy with thirty words, wore a time-carved scowl as ancient as the mud buildings, but that seemed less flexible.
He spoke few words, none of which I understood. Even if I possessed elephant like infrasonic sound abilities, I’d still be at a loss. But when I stood to leave I tilted my camera to show the sheikh a photo I’d taken of his cranky, craggy expression. He squinted, focused and paused. Then, similar to the changing course of a mighty river, the lines in his face shifted, revealing a broad, improbable grin.
No interpretation was necessary.
Spud Hilton is the travel editor of The San Francisco Chronicle, where since 2000 he has written about, reported on and been hopelessly lost in destinations on six continents. His attempts to divine, describe and defy the expectations of places—from Havana’s back alleys to Kyoto’s shrines to the floor of a hippie bus in Modesto—have earned six Lowell Thomas Awards, and have appeared in more than sixty newspapers in North America, several of which are still publishing. Spud also writes the Bad Latitude travel blog at SFGate.com and plays cornet in an early New Orleans traditional jazz band.
PEGGY EXTON JAFFE
Pricier than Prada
There is a high cost to living La Dolce Vita.
For now, I ignore the mail piled in the foyer, take my shoes off, and absorb the warmth of the terra cotta floor. Outside the living room window, a carpet of dandelions welcomes me like a light parade. How I love being in Tuscany in May—the lavender-laced air, hills stretching skyward, birds serenading amidst the hum of tractors.
While straining to keep my eyes open after yesterday’s overnight flight from L.A to Rome, I thumb through the mail. On top of the stack, thick with outdated TV guides and newsletters from the village church, is a bill from Siena Ambiente, the garbage company. I rip open the envelope, read the statement twice. What? 581 euros, just for bags. With my head throbbing, I phone Marco, my accountant, for an appointment.
That afternoon, at Marco’s office, we exchange the customary, “Come va?’’ and “Bene, bene.” Our heels click on the granite as he leads me from the waiting area into his spacious, cantaloupe-colored office.
Once we’re seated, Marco says, “The post office was supposed to forward your bill for rifuiti here.”
“Exactly—this payment was due five months ago.” I hand him the statement. “How can a few dozen sacchetti cost over 500 euros? That’s equivalent to $800.”
He idly taps his pen against a marble paperweight. His eyes, a shade darker than his blue shirt, soften, but his words sound like a recording. “The fee is according to the square meters of the house.”
“Even for one person?”
“Doesn’t matter—ten people in one house would be charged the same. This is Italia.” He smiles as if this is as reasonable as ladling tomato sauce over pasta. In a deeper tone, he adds, “Remember, unpaid garbage bills are like tax evasion here.”
The thought of being on the Finanza Guardia’s “Wanted” list sends prickles down my spine.
“Siena Ambiente is only open from 3:00 to 6:00 Mondays and Wednesdays. I suggest you go there now.”
During the five-minute drive from Marco’s office in Montepulciano’s Piazza Grande, down a steep, one-lane road, my foot hovers on the brake pedal. Perspiration drips from my hands as I inch the car around one corkscrew turn after another high above the valley floor.
Once on level ground, I square my shoulders and march through an arched stone entrance into Siena Ambiente’s modern headquarters. While waiting in line, a white-haired man rants to the clerk about charges on his statement. How reassuring to hear someone else with “garbage” issues.
After he storms away, shaking his head, I approach the clerk. She peers at my bill and then at me through her Gucci frames. “You must pay in your Municipio, Pienza.”
“On the statement, this is the address.”
“No matter, you cannot pay here.”
The next morning, I forsake my usual puttering amongst the roses, now brimming with white and pink buds, and leave for Pienza by nine. My car knows the way by heart. I whip around the first of six hairpin turns, vaguely aware of the cypresses marking the bends in the road. Hopefully I can explain the late payment without subjunctive verbs.
While walking along Pienza’s cobblestone thoroughfare, Corso Rosselini, past balconies of flowers and laundry lines flapping from second story windows, a store display catches my eye. I pause. There, among designer purses and scarves, is a pair of open-toe, red leather Prada pumps. The price tag is two hundred euros less than my garbage bill. They are stunning. If only … I sigh and push on.
I huff up four stories of the town hall, my sandals thumping against the uneven stone stairs. Upon reaching the bookkeeper’s office, the door is locked. In the dimly lit hallway, the hours of operation are posted: Wednesday and Friday, 9:30 to 13:00. I should have known—Italia-today is Tuesday-chiuso-closed.
On Wednesday morning, I retrace my route. This time the bookkeeper’s door is ajar. A young woman, wedged behind a huge desk in a closet-sized office with a small window overlooking terra cotta rooftops, greets me with a cheerful, “Buongiorno.” She scans my bill, checks her computer, and then concludes, “This is not where you pay.”
“What do you mean?” I shrug in disbelief. “Why did that clerk send me here?”
“Possibly, she is incompetente.” A grin brightens her pale complexion. “The correct office is near the Church of Saint Agnese in Montepulciano.” Perhaps sensing my frustration, she adds, “You can pay at the ufficio postale in town, but you need cash.”
I yank the statement off her desk and leave with a curt, “Grazie.” From the town hall, I head to Monte dei Paschi Bank’s local branch. Along Corso Rosselini, I wade through throngs of German and American tourists. Any other time, I’d linger and be charmed as they are by structures still vibrant after 500 years.
At the one open bank window, I place the slightly crumpled garbage bill on the counter for the teller to read. “I’d like to transfer funds from my checking account to pay this.”
“Please, your ID.” I pull my checkbook and passport from my purse. While the teller searches his computer for my account, I glance upward at the bronze crucifix on the wall behind him. If this is a sign assuring comfort or salvation, I’m ready. But once the teller lifts his head and speaks, I realize it’s not to be. “That transaction can only be done in Montepulciano, at your home branch.”
“Aren’t the branches linked by computers?”
“Yes, but I cannot help you.” He brushes me aside and motions for the next customer.
What a jerk. I shove the bill, checkbook, and passport into my purse and walk out on the verge of a meltdown.
Dashing back to the car, I’m barraged by scents of baking bread and simmering sauces drifting from windows above the shops along Corso Rosselini. My stomach is growling. As I pass Latte di Luna, a trattoria known for its succulent grilled duck, I almost cave in. But overriding my mounting hunger is reaching Montepulciano before 1:00, when commerce comes to a halt.
At three different points along the winding road from Pienza, men wave red flags for me to stop. I slow. There’s no construction. After proceeding a few hundred feet, I’m stopped again. What’s going on? The men are wearing chartreuse vests. On the back of their vests, C-R-E-W is emblazoned in bold black letters. That’s not Italian. Who are these guys? Why am I the only car out here? In the distance, I spot a man toting a video camera. With my foot glued to the brake, I yell out to the wind. “Come on, for godsake, let’s get moving. How can you close the whole road to photograph some poppies?” My hilltop village, a frazione or “suburb” of Pienza, provides the backdrop. UNESCO designated this valley a world cultural heritage site. “O.K., it’s beautiful, but come on already.”
Outside Montepulciano�
�s city walls, a sign reads: production of the Twilight Saga, New Moon, until May 30. That explains the guys in chartreuse along the road and the lack of parking here. White tents, generator trucks, trailers, fire engines, police vehicles, and more chartreuse vests cram the municipal parking lot.
While trudging up the road to the bank, the scent of roasting pork wafts overhead. Again, I suppress thoughts of food and quicken my step to reach the bank before the lunchtime closure. The New Moon cast and crew have overtaken centro. For the filming, large red banners adorn the town portal. Storefronts are veiled behind urns of blood red geraniums. Up ahead, an actress in a hooded blue cape poses below the clock tower.
The repeated chime proclaims half past the hour when I step inside Monti dei Paschi. What a relief to see the teller who usually handles my banking. He calls me to his window. “Buongiorno, Signora.” With one hand curled beneath his trimmed beard, he listens to my saga and then nods. “It’s true you must pay with cash.”
“Can I pay here?”
He clears his throat. “No. You have to pay at GERIT.”
My mouth drops open. “What?”
“It’s the collection agency for public services.” Pointing toward the street, he continues, “Turn left and go about two hundred meters—next to the Finanza Guardia.” He counts out five one hundred euro bills and four twenties and lays them on the counter. As I clench the cash, those beguiling red pumps in the Pienza shop window flash before me.
I dart through GERIT’s front door at 12:50, ten minutes before closing. There’s no one in sight. “Buongiorno, buongiorno,” I repeat with increasing volume. Finally a tall blond woman appears at the counter, takes my payment, and gives me a receipt two inches square with faint purple type. For 581 euros, I insist upon a legible document to certify I reached the finish line.
With a bonafide receipt from GERIT tucked in my purse, I stroll back to my car. The street is empty now apart from the production company. As I cross in front of the Church of Saint Agnese, a lanky man strides past, presumably an actor. He is robed in black, his face chalk white, his lids ghoulishly dark, and his lips engorged and red. I find his appearance no more surreal than my eight hundred-dollar garbage bags or this three-day ordeal. It strikes me that the extraordinary is in fact ordinary in Tuscany. That is the reason I stay.
After a twenty-five year career as a clinical psychologist in southern California, Peggy Exton Jaffe followed her bliss and moved to Val d’Orcia in Tuscany, where she has lived part of each year since 1995.
BREGE SHINN
Thank the Good Lord for Duct Tape
Leave the lipstick, take the duct tape.
I awake naked in Prague. I’m on my bed but there are no sheets. The pillowcase is gone. I scramble to my backpack for something to wear, but there’s not a stitch of clothing to be found. Confused, I look in my travel-mate’s pack, but she too has no clothes.
I vaguely recall giving all my clothes to the hostel’s owners for washing the day before.
Trying to assess the situation and retrace my steps, I light my last cigarette from a crushed pack and take a look around. No one is here. Alyssa, my travel mate, is missing and her bed is without sheets as well. I look down from the loft to the sparse, but clean, room below. There are four other beds and, again, the sheets are missing.
My head is pounding. I take a long drag and exhale a plume of dark gray smoke. The familiar comfort of nicotine makes me feel queasy today. I find a sneaker and use its bottom as an impromptu ashtray. I am sitting, without so much as a thong, holding a cigarette butt. Thank God I treated myself to a Brazilian in Paris last week.
Over the pounding, I hear the laughter of Alyssa down the hall. She has a voice that can carry through city blocks—it can make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end while your whole body tenses in trepidation of her Leo-like need for attention. As irritating as that quality has become throughout many months of travel together, I feel a bit of relief now. If I can follow her voice, perhaps I can learn how I came to be in this au naturel state.
With little on hand to cover my naughty bits, I must improvise some coverage if I want to find answers to the multitude of questions whirling about in my mind. There are two pillows within reach and a roll of my trusty silver duct tape in my pack. Taping the two pillows on top of each other lengthwise, I make a short puffy skirt and slip it on. I consider ripping off smaller pieces to make pasties, and cover at least part of my top half, but decide against it: the pain of ripping them off later couldn’t possibly be worth it. I descend from the loft via a shaky wooden ladder and catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror: thank the good Lord for duct tape.
My arms wrapped around me, hands firmly cupping my exposed breasts, I make my way down the hallway towards the cluttered and ever-crowded common area. My body feels heavy. My heart thumps with a seemingly irregular beat. My bare feet toddle along a dampened carpet.
Alyssa’s voice becomes louder as I approach the paint-chipped doorframe. I hear other, indistinguishable voices around the bend. I take a deep breath and peek around the corner. One by one, each person turns to look in my direction and stops speaking mid-sentence. Dead stares. Pursed lips. Eye rolls. I am openly and collectively judged.
I step into the room and reveal my avant-garde, duct-taped ensemble. The roar of laughter is so piercing that I can’t help but throw my hands up over my ears. Jaws drop.
Tits: always a crowd pleaser.
I plop down on a threadbare green sofa and cross my legs. I try to keep a miniscule amount of dignity by not revealing any more of myself than I already have. Still laughing, Alyssa throws me a pillow to cover my top half.
Another backpacker, a good-looking, muscular, twenty-something—who seems oddly familiar—squeezes my shoulders from behind and messes with my hair in a too-affectionate tussle. I am annoyed. He tells me his name is John and asks me how I like my coffee.
“Black,” I manage to mutter.
After a good bit of ribbing, and three extra-strength aspirin, my fellow backpackers begin telling my twisted tale.
It all started at Joe’s Bar. Right off the Charles Bridge, on the Vltava River, crammed in among Prague’s souvenir shops, there is a small non-descript white building with a neon sign flickering in its corner window. This is the home of Joe’s Bar: a three-story, happy-hour-loving, backpacker bar.
For the equivalent of loose US change, you could buy one tall, and delightfully cold pilsner of Czech’s finest ale and one chilled shot of well vodka. If you wanted to splurge, a shot of absinthe—the green-eyed monster—was all of twice the loose change. Of course I would want to splurge.
I danced. I sang. I played pool. I became friends with a visiting professional soccer team from Bavaria. I lit my nipples on fire—my infamous party trick—for a laugh.
After a couple of hours, I felt the room begin to spin. I left my group and snuck off to the upstairs restaurant. Seated at a corner high-top table, with full view of the restaurant, I ordered cheesy nachos.
The next thing anyone knew, I was on the floor—physically sick with cheese still in the corners of my mouth. The servers were screaming, the fellow patrons thoroughly (and understandably) disgusted, and the police were called. I was immobile and out cold.
Word spread quickly of the drunken young American woman upstairs. Alyssa and my new best friends—the orange-clad Bavarian soccer team—sprang up the stairs to the rescue. My limp, dead-weight body was carried out of the bar and onto the street. Unable to stand, and barely conscious, I was placed face down on the hood of a nearby car while Alyssa and my orange heroes went back into the bar to collect bags and jackets.
The owner of the hood, and the vehicle on which I was most likely drooling, entered the scene. He gently reached around my back, cupped each breast, and lifted my body off his car. He placed me face down on the cobble stone street, then drove away. Tit’s always a crowd pleaser.
After a long ordeal finding a cab driver willing to take me, we all (minus the soccer
team) made it back to the hostel safely. I asked to take a shower.
A fellow hosteller placed me fully clothed and seated upright with knees at my chest, in the corner of the shower stall. He turned on the water, adjusted the temperature, and closed the glass doors behind him. Then, he, along with everyone else, went out on the deck to relax and smoke a thank-you joint, courtesy of my purse.
After a considerable amount of time had elapsed, the same hosteller who had helped me into the shower decided to check on me. He opened the bathroom door and saw that I was unconscious; my heavy wet clothes covering the drain, the water level directly below my lower lip. When he opened the stall, the water rushed out in a wave, flooding the hostel.
The hostellers jumped into high gear, stomping on the sheets, pillowcases and comforters in an attempt to save the saturated carpets. My wet clothes were peeled off of me and thrown on a clothesline to dry. Then my new hero threw me over his shoulder and carried my stripped body up the ladder.
“So who got the show?” I ask.
“That would be me,” John says, with a big smile.
By the time the storytelling has ended and my duct tape ensemble, complete with side-boob view, has lost its appeal, the common room has cleared out. John stays behind and pours me another cup of coffee. As the throbbing in my head begins to subside, an overwhelming feeling of shame and remorse for my over-indulgent and destructive actions flood in. I am the reason many people hate Americans.
I hear a clamor in the hall, followed by a gasp; then screaming. I don’t understand a single word of Czech.
The hostel owner, a tall, thin middle-aged woman, enters the common room. I sink lower into the couch, clenching the coffee mug as a life preserver. I want to bolt, but I cannot move. I sit there in silence and wait. She pulls on the bottom of her red knit sweater. I hear her sigh heavily and with conviction. She scans the room before speaking.