A different sense of place

    January and I packed our things and said goodbye to our cozy little third floor apartment in Pistoia. The heat of the last few weeks had finally broken and the sky was dark and threatening rain as we dragged our suitcases down the four flights of stairs to the sidewalk.

 
    We found a taxi to take us to the train station and the taxi driver, an older man with thinning hair and the broad, barrel shaped body that you find on so many Tuscan men of a certain age, refused to let us help load our heavy bags into the back of the car. As we drove through town he asked us how long we had been visiting Pistoia.
    “We’ve been here for a month,” January told him.
    “That is a long time to be in Pistoia,” he said.
    “Do you live here?” January asked.
    The driver nodded. “I have lived here my all my life.”
    “It’s such a beautiful place.”
    “Yes, is it,” he said. “It is a very good place.” And I could see in the rearview mirror that his eyes had gone teary.

The Baptisterium in the Piazza del Duomo, Pistoia.

    I had never heard of Pistoia until January found the apartment. Like everywhere else we’re staying on this trip, the selection process was based on the availability of good wifi, a washer, access to public transportation, and being cheaper than our rent in Oakland. It checked all the boxes. 

    What I found upon completing our time there is that it is a place I am very glad to have known, in a way that is different and more personal than merely stopping for a day or two to see the sights. Rather it is a type of knowing that can only come from investing time in a place and building a daily routine there. By doing that you make yourself a small part of the place and then are able to partake of what it chooses to offer you. Our time in Pistoia was relativity short in the grand scheme of things, but during that time we were able to create a space for ourselves. Small and almost certain to disappear the moment we departed, but a space nonetheless.

 

    Italy is overflowing with significant places that span the last two millennia of human history. They draw people from around the world who come to gaze and take selfies and purchase souvenirs and be confused by foreign customs. We saw those places, too: Venice, Rome, Cinque Terre, Florence, Pisa. Many were only a train ride away and we took advantage of that proximity. But if there is a tradeoff for having such a bounty of famous and important places, it is that it is hard to know the place unto itself, rather than as destination catering to spectators. 

    Pistoia is not a destination of any great significance, and hasn’t been for at least five hundred years, and the experience of being there felt authentic and unadorned in a way that I didn’t find anywhere else during our month in Italy. 

    One of the goals of our travels through Europe is to get a sense of what it is like to be a person in these places. What does it mean to exist there and perform the normal tasks of the day—shopping for groceries, relaxing in the park, getting a haircut.

The Jewish Quarter, Venice.

    Pistoia was the first stop on this journey and as with anything new we had to figure out what worked and what didn’t. Sometimes the best way to forge a connection in a new place is to make mistakes. We made friends with the lady who ran the grocery store in the main piazza and she helped us learn the difference between the Italian word for “strawberries”—which is what we wanted— and "beans” after we repeatedly pointed at the baskets of strawberries and confidently said, “beans, please.” 

    The lady who owned our favorite gelato shop got to know us as well, as no night out was complete without uno coppetto piccolo to enjoy as we walked home. A much easier exchange to make in Italian since the written menu above the counter gave a summary of all the necessary vocabulary.

    Whatever official government the town of Pistoia may have, it is the old ladies, the nonne, who keep everything running. They congregate on a bench in front of the church with their drastic dye jobs and patterned slacks to gossip and scowl. The old men ride by on their bicycles waving and shouting to each other, the court jesters of the matriarchy. The nonne ignore them and only whisper amongst themselves, holding court long into the evening.

The Saturday market in the square.

    There was a bookstore and cafe a short walk from our apartment where I would go in the evenings to get a glass of prosecco and a toast with bacala for 5 EUR. They kept chairs and tables out front on the sidewalk and I would sit with my drink and watch people go by and try to write a little if anything came to mind. It was a good place for watching dogs walk their owners. But mostly I would just feel what it was like to be in that place. 

    Sometimes when January was finished working and we felt like staying out late, we would walk farther into town a ways to a wine bar called Bukowski's Lair, which is exactly the kind of bar you'd expect it to be. It was on a side street, but close enough to the piazza that we could listen to the bands that would play there late into the night. The town was very quiet during the day, almost to the point of eeriness, but once evening fell it would come alive and people stayed out at the restaurants and bars until long after midnight.

A band performing in the Piazzetta Spirito Santo, Pistoia.

    In addition to getting to know Pistoia, the part I loved most about Italy was being in the nature, particularly the weekend we rented a car and drove up into the Apennine Mountains to hike. The mountains are truly stunning, with sheer, imposing faces that tower above lush alpine valleys. We started in the town of Le Regine and hiked for a while along the edge of a gorge under the shade of thick conifers, the ground to our left falling away for hundreds of meters into the valley. The vegetation in the mountains was rich and fragrant and the trail felt more like it was in the Pacific Northwest than anything I would have expected in Tuscany.

On the trail.

    It was my first experience with the European style of hiking, where you hike for a while and then stop at a hut along the trail to rest and eat before continuing. I’ve done most of my hiking in the Sierras where you carry everything you might need in your pack and the nearest civilization is a day’s walk out of the mountains. Even then it’s likely just a sketchy gas station serving lukewarm coffee and greasy hot pockets. The idea of enjoying a homecooked meal midway through a hike had never crossed my mind.

    Imagine my surprise after about four hours on the trail when we came up over the ridge and found the Lago Nero, a sturdy stone building that looked like an old stable with people resting and eating outside on the grass. Inside, the low ceiling and worn wooden tables gave the place a cozy, safe feeling. At one end there was a kitchen with a woodburning stove where several coffee pots were warming and a whole chicken sizzled in the oven underneath. Many hikers were coming and going from the lodge and everyone seemed in good spirits.

Lago Nero.

    We sat ourselves at a table and ordered bread and cheese and drank espresso from tiny paper cups. The bread and cheese were both made there at the lodge and tasted hearty and wonderful. Never has something so simple tasted so satisfying as when you’ve been climbing a steep trail and worked your muscles into a comfortable soreness and the sweat has wetted and dried many times on your back before you take your first rest. 

    When we finished eating January asked one of the staff for il conto and he looked at her in confusion. She pointed to her wallet and the man shook his head and another hiker who was standing nearby said in English, “it is free.” The sense of kindness and gratitude in that place filled me even more than the food.

    We got back on the trail and climbed straight up the slope to the peak of Alpe Tre Potenze at 6,350 feet. The final section of trail before the summit was hardly more than a deer path and so narrow that in many places we had to put one foot directly in front of the other, which makes for difficult hiking at such a steep angle. As the valley floor began to drop away, more distant peaks began came into view and beyond them the sea shimmering near the western horizon.

 

    The trail crested the ridgeline and after a few minutes more we were at the summit. We sat on the rocks for a while and said nothing because no words could communicate more than the mighty display of natural beauty before us. I am not a religious person, but I always feel a sense of reverence when I reach the top of a mountain. It is not a feeling of satisfaction in having achieved the summit, but gratitude for the privilege of being there at all. 

    There is healing in the cool, fresh air. There is clarity in the vast, open space.