from here to there on a shoestring. Italy.

Rome to Tuscany. 

I’d done the relevant travel preparations that were tricky, but not  impossible to organize through the Italian consulate. They had given me a  two week tourist visa, with the possibility of a one month extension. During my visa application, I had had an inkling that I might not  return home again, but I had shrugged this off as part of my excitement  for travelling. As far as my visa was concerned, I was obligated to  return after two weeks. When I said goodbye to my girlfriend at the bus stop before heading  to the airport, my inkling loomed its head once more, and I felt the  rush of the unknown surge through my blood. I really did not have a  destination other than the two physical addresses in Tuscany and yet I  felt like this was the beginning of an extended travel that could go on  indefinitely. And then?…I loved the idea that followed, “Who knows?” It  was painful and yet liberating, to know that I was doing something that  gave my life meaning, more than the everyday routine I had become so  bogged down in. Travelling always broadened my horizons and put me in  the moment, so to speak. I was on the road again, tasting the freedom  that nurtured my soul. I landed in Rome, Leonardo Da Vinci airport, late October of 2005 and caught the train to Rome Terminal station. Back at home, while preparing for my travels, I’d found a Lonely  Planet guide at the local library. Not having had the means to actually  purchase the book, I had written out relevant details and put together a  little booklet of necessary phrases to say and places to stay, should  any travel plans go awry. What I had not anticipated for, was the  difference between the two trains that run from the airport to Rome. The  regional train with its large cumbersome looking coaches versus the  Leonardo Express, a by far more expensive and luxurious looking train.  So, I had ended up taking the wrong train, thinking that I would cut  costs and take the regional one instead. The Leonardo Express looked  regional enough to me, but my assumption was met with a shocking  surprise when the conductor approached me for my ticket and by the luck  of my stars, perhaps, had let me off the hook for travelling on an  expensive train with a cheap ticket. I apologized profusely and he,  being able to speak some English, gave me a dead pan look and waved me  on without charging me extra for the trip. I got to Termini with lots of time to spare. I had made it this far  and I needed a small reward for my efforts. This was when a bar came  into sight and the thought of taking my first cappuccino in Italy. I  strolled into the bar, pushing my rucksack loaded trolley in front of  me. Not knowing how or where to begin approaching anyone for what I  wanted, I took a quick peek at my sheet of phrases and tried to memorize  what was necessary to say. A very glamorous barista, caught my eye and I tried to impress her  with my best Italian. But she did not hear me and instead shouted  something back at me. I was quiet taken aback by her approach. I had not  expected such, what appeared to be, rudeness. I managed to mumble  ‘cappuccino’ in return, unable to retrieve my memorized phrase that  seemed to be lost somewhere in the back of my mind. At that moment, I  had beauty, rudeness and shouting, flung at me all at once. I mumbled  something and tried to look confident, but my ears and cheeks could not  hide my embarrassment let alone the cold sweat that was beginning to  drip down my back and soak my shirt. Before I could get a grip on  myself, she slammed a cup of foaming caffeine down on the counter in  front of me and I could not help myself checking whether the cup had  survived the ordeal in the same manner as my nerves had. Shattered. The  cup proved the stronger of the two of us and soon coffee touched my lips  as if Italy, herself, were kissing me. I was smitten. I stood there  sipping at my addiction while throngs of caffeine addicts took their  shots and cups of all shapes and sizes got smashed and slammed about on  their daily rounds. I must say, that on that day, I truly was impressed  by the resilience of Italian ceramics. I finished my cuppa, paid the glamour princess barista her due,  grabbed my trolley and strolled out into the mass of humans pushing and  rushing from here to nowhere that I knew of. It was time to get going.  My next train was destination Pisa and I had to find out how to purchase  my ticket. I eventually found out how and where to purchase the ticket,  happy for the bit of English the ticket seller could speak and the hand  signaled directions she gave me. But by the time I got out of her  office and into the crowds, all that information had faded. I stopped  for a while, trying re-capture what had been relayed to me. Some  keywords, at least. But none came. It was as if my mind had stopped dead  in its tracks. That was when I decided to walk on, heading in no  particular direction at all. It turned out the right thing to do,  because soon after that, I located my train and made my way on board. Pisa was a long haul from Rome which meant that the train consisted  of pre-booked day coaches. After a finding my seat and sitting down, two  other people arrived one after the other, and took their seats next to  and in front of me. I said ‘buongiorno’ to them, but they did not notice  my greeting. The conductor blew his whistle and the train doors slammed  shut. We were on our way. The two people sitting near to me, a lady and a gentleman, although  having got onto the train at different times, appeared to know each  other intimately, and a lively conversation had started up between the  two of them. After a while, they seemed to be including me in their  conversation too, and I played along, smiling and pretended to  understand what the conversation was all about until it became obvious  that I was expected to say something. That was when they realized that I  was ‘straniero’ and ‘non parlo Italiano’. That did not daunt them in  the least, because they laughed and looked at each other while including  me in their gestures, and continued. I felt part of their company and  yet isolated for my lack of knowledge of their language. That was fine  with me, though. It was my first day in Italy, I was tired from my  overnight  16 hour flight via Dohar to Rome without a break and my train  journey from Rome to Pisa, and I wanted to get to the guest house where  I would spend the following two days recovering from my journey. I arrived late that afternoon in Pisa, giving a quick phone call to  my host and waited for him outside the station where he would pick me  up. He arrived in his black sports car and we headed toward the Marina  where his guest house was located on the ‘Lungo Mare’. He spoke a bit of  English but not enough for us to strike up a conversation, so the trip  was quiet and I got to see the autumn colors along the road that led to  the seaside. Once at the guest house, I first clarified my form of payment and my  host was happy to take traveler’s cheques. After this, I went to my room  and made myself comfortable. At a certain point, nature called and I  had to use the loo and take a wash afterward. Having never seen a bee  day before, I had no clue as to how to use this strange looking wash  basin which I was sure was for children. Not only that, but I could not  find any way to open the taps in the basin itself. There was nothing  more to do than to sheepishly ask my host how to use the basin. He was  quiet taken aback by my lack of first world knowledge, and I tried to  explain to him that in my country we only had flush toilets and taps  located on top of the basin. For him, it was obvious that under the  basin were two foot pedals that operated the hot and cold water taps and  that the bee day was for washing yourself after sitting on the loo for,  well, you know what. I thanked him for his help and education and took  to my Italian bathroom with new enthusiasm. When my time there was spent and it was the day of departure and the  moment to make the final payment, my host refused my traveler’s cheques  and requested that I pay him in cash. I had no choice but to ask him to  drive me to Pisa where I could do foreign exchange. This was not in my  favor though, as the only foreign exchange open on that day, was a dodgy  little place around the corner from the station. I lost money that day,  but unfortunately it was meant to be like that. My host got his cash  and I went on my way feeling somewhat cheated. Because of my heavy baggage, I decided to push through to Podere to  my next port of call, and not spend some time sightseeing in Pisa. I arrived at my next destination in time to meet my new host, who  truned out to speak English reasonably well, and our drive from the  station was a lively conversation. She could not understand, though, why  I would spend such a sum of money to come all the way to Italy for only  two weeks. Given that the exchange rate was rather high, it seemed an  expensive undertaking for such a short time. She was right, of course,  it was expensive. I had saved every penny I could muster, and had set  out on a shoe string. Only the very wealthy from my country attempted  Italy as independent travelers, the rest taking packaged tours of the  larger more famous Italian cities. But I felt that my reason for being  there was worth the financial risks I had taken to be there. My motive for travelling to Italy, began the day that, via a friend  of mine, I had met a spiritual teacher who happened to live in Sicily.  My correspondence with this particular person, had answered some vital  and existential questions that had plagued me for the past fifteen years  of my life, and he had invited me to attend a silent retreat that he  was facilitating in Tuscany. I had taken up his invitation in the hope  of finding out, once and for all, whether my yearning for inner peace  and freedom was worth pursuing or just some psychological fantasy that  had no reality other than what I fantasized it to be. I had taken the  plunge, and had come to Tuscany, ready for whatever life presented to  me.