An Italian stroll

 I had a real "Italian" day. 

Late this afternoon, I went for a walk in the older part of our village .  As I was strolling down one of the tiny streets admiring the view of the Tuscan hills, I saw that a fellow older man had his garage open and was puttering with something.

 I stopped to admire his work and his small but tool-packed shop. With my very minimal Italian, I indicated my admiration for his polished and fully tricked-out Piaggo 50cc Ape. “Ape” means “bee” and is the 3-wheeled truck version of the Vespa, which means “wasp”.  It’s sort of a cross between a Ford F-150 and a golf cart. No old codger could resist one – which is evident here by the number of gray heads put-putting around Boccheggiano. 

It was a sign language and partial phrase conversation, but fun. I think he told me his name, but he may have meant the name of his Ape. We both understood “arrivederci” as I wandered on.

Down the street, I came across a young fellow who I knew spoke minimal English from the time we met at the village sports bar. He was helping a friend move – by standing back and giving advice. We shared a chuckle as I walked by.

Then up the ancient grooved stones of the pedestrian lane to the big church at the top of the hill. There are lots of potted flowers in the small piazza that Cecile and I found on another evening stroll are mainained by a wonderful lady I only knew Teresa. As it happens, she was trimming plants as I walked by and welcomed me with that oh-so-Italian enthusiasm.

Our chat lengthened into a long talk and espresso at the nearby patio table. I texted Cecile, who walked up the hill to join us.

Teresa Zurzolo is the former director of the international Festival of Constante Cambiamento in Florence. She had a long career in transcultural cultural programs and is semi-retired to Boccheggiano where she writes and promotes programs in art, literature, dance and the development of culture. She speaks excellent English and has invited us back for dinner and to meet others from the village. She is an amazing woman.

But it was getting late, so we had to return to our apartment to make dinner. Just as the pasta water was boiling, however, we ran out of gas.  Like many Italian apartments, our stove is fueled from a blue butane bottle in the adjacent cabinet. But it was after 7 p.m. Saturday, so I thought we were in for cold cuts until Monday.  But on a chance, I walked down the hill to the bodega, which sells butane and always has a cluster of empty blue tanks outside the door.

I was distracted though, but the orange-trousered volunteer paramedics chatting outside the village mutual aid society office. When I used Google Translate to ask where I could borrow a wrench to change the tank, I got an English reply from Sasha, one of the volunteers.  She not only went to her house to get a wrench for me, but called the now-closed store and arranged for them to let me in the back door to get gas. That meant I wouldn’t have to wait until Monday, as the bodega is closed on Sunday.

Great! I jogged – or actually wheezed – up the hill to our apartment, put the empty tank in the car and drove down to the store. Big smiles and nods from the store lady showed me where to pick up a full tank and where to stash my empty. No real talking, but plenty of communication.

And now I’m back home, cooking with gas and feeling pretty cocky.