Roadtrip

Positives and Negatives

I wrote down a huge list of positives from the trip the other day. I turned the page and began writing a few bullet points for negatives I had in mind. Then I realized- each one was just a simple complaint or me whining about the temperature. There haven’t really been any downsides to this trip. Sure, there have been hardships- but nothing we haven’t overcome that has made us better as a team or better as individuals. This section is now just positives. I don’t want to moan about the weather or how something was unfair. I want to tell stories and fill readers in on details from the trip!

Time for a Story

We sit there, necks sore from trying to sleep in the kind of contorted positions that only an acrobat could pull off, in the back of a Volkswagen van. It pulls a boat, a competition boat specifically, prepped to sail the southern coast of Italy for some sort of World Championship. I put my book away and watch the mountains dissolve and blend into the city of Florence- or as the Italians say, Firenze.

Our drivers are three German fellows. Two wear wide-rimmed glasses and the third wears sunglasses of the Elton John variety. They departed from an area near Hamburg, Germany and had been driving for over thirteen hours. Each one was a machine, though, and the mixes they burned into CDs kept them in high spirits- especially a light remix of the Band of Horses’s Funeral.

Firenze was our destination.

We enter the city with the boat trailing behind. Traffic became difficult to manage, as the size of the trailer and van combined was nowhere near optimal for rampaging through a metropolis. The Germans apologize for this, and we pull over. After a series of solid handshakes, good luck wishes, and farewells, Chris and I part from the trio that had taken us on the long road from Innsbruck. We watch the Volkswagen turn the corner of the rain-washed asphalt and then set our minds to locating the nearest street signs and figuring out our bearings.

Onward.

Motor bikes, drizzling rain, and a variety of spray-paint vignettes welcome us. A dog in a police uniform and mustache stares at the road from the shelter of his doghouse. A frog, with a rifle and beret, points a fist at the clouds. An ominous trident, colored in fire, rises from the concrete. The imaginative side of me wonders who designed these wall-tattoos and what they represent. The realist in me laughs at their variety and artistic intrigue but continues to make headway toward the Stazione.

Surrounded by hotels and galleries (underground malls), Firenze’s central train hub is a stone fortress. We quickly climb its steps and head to a side entrance. A woman, with black hair packed into a pony-tail, is the first a victim of our F-rate Italian, C-rate Spanish, and A-rate English.

We question her about how to get to Arcidosso, a small township (actually a castle on the top of a volcano) near the midpoint of Firenze and Roma. There is an Anarchist community there that invited me to stay with them for two nights- an offer, and opportunity, that I couldn’t decline.

The woman responds to my Spanglish with befuddlement. “Are-cheh-drosso?” she asks, more to herself and less to us. A nearby man in glasses stands up from his chair and heads to the counter. He tries to help. “No, no. Arr. Che. Do. Zo.”

He says the “ss” like a hard “z” sound and nods as the clerk repeats his pronunciation. She appears as if she understands and we follow her pen as she scribbles on the backside of an old receipt. She tells us to take a tram and then catch a nearby bus and that the bus should take us to where we need to go.

Cool.

We took the tram. We found the bus. Then we missed the bus.

Damn.

But, another came by five or seven minutes after. We step onboard and ask the driver if it will take us to Arcidosso and he says it will. In the back of the bus, we sit in two seats a piece and wait. The driver turns the ignition and the engine roars. The bus starts to move.

Now, I begin to doubt the directions we were given. This bus wasn’t the kind of bus you’d expect to travel over 100km to reach a location, which is what we required. Also, two of these buses came by the same stop in under ten minute’s time. Unreal, considering Arcidosso is by no means a popular (or even known, by tourists or Italians) location. Even Microsoft Word doesn’t believe it exists and makes an attempt to correct my spelling. So, I vocalize my doubts.

While Chris and I discuss what is going on, everyone on the bus eavesdrops. Not in a bad way.  One by one, from an old lady to a young mom to a dude in gym shorts with Skin girls on his shoes, all of them approach us and ask to help. Well, some of them yelled at the driver to see if this was the right bus, or insisted that we come with them at the next stop- but all the same, it was help that they offered. In disbelief at their willingness to assist two stupid travelers, Chris and I gladly accept their proposals for aid. At the next stop, Chris and I follow the guy in the athletic shorts onto the pavement.

He points to his left. “Arcidosso. There.”

“There?” I point ahead, obvious hesitation in my voice.

“Yes. Only three kilometers.”

He guides us to the end of the road and questions us as to what building number we need. I keep stating that we need a town, not a building number, but as I continue to repeat myself, I realize how completely we were misunderstood. The trickster of a street sign, five meters away, confirms it. It reads, “Arcigrosso.”

What. Shit.

When in a bad situation on the far side of a city you’ve never been to before, the best thing you can do (if you need to know where to go) is to find the nearest local pub and storm inside with all your gear.

That’s what we did.

We enter the bar like two downtrodden kids after they failed their first big exam at school and walk in circles in a measly attempt to hunt for the barkeep. A local with tattoos on his face gives us the stink-eye, but at this point we only have the mission objective on our minds. The bartender speaks Italian, so I point at the now-crumpled receipt and say, “Arr-chi-dosso.”

She gives me a confused look, points in the direction that we came, and says, “Arr-chi-grosso?”

No.

She shows me the palm of her hand, the universal sign for calm down and wait, and searches the bar for a guy that speaks English. It’s an elderly man with a beer and a red sweatshirt that reads, “London” in multicolored letters.

Him, and all the other Italians, laugh at our little mix-up and tell us to haul it back to the Stazione so we can catch the last bus out. He points to his wrist, where a watch would be if he was wearing one. “You don’t have much time, though.”

Yeah.

We scurry back to the center of the city by foot and by tram and spend the next fifty-five minutes finding where, in the name of George Washington, the regional bus station is hidden. About to give up, Chris and I try one last time to communicate with some train gurus and finally, we send the message home. They get it. We don’t need a train, we need a bus. They write the name of a company and tell us it is close by.

We leave the station with the pace of a rising maelstrom as it shreds the water behind it. Power mode activated, time to hustle.

Vroom.

Jumping tram tracks, diving between cars and packed one way roads, and juking tourists like they are incoming linebackers, Chris and I rush to the bus company. We get there, sweating and stressing, and slide the piece of paper to the clerk sitting at the information desk.

“Arcidosso.”

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“The last bus left at 19:05.” I look at my watch. 19:20. Fffffff.

“Gratzi.”

Disheartened and frustrated, we leave. We search for alternate train routes and buses from Grosseto or other stops, but nothing exists.

When in a bad situation in a city you’ve never been to before, the best thing you can do (if you need a place to stay) is to find the nearest ritzy hotel and storm inside with all your gear.

That’s what we did.

Hotel Aurora. It is about 100m from the train station and has polished marble steps and glass windows that look like crystal. We enter through sliding glass doors and meet the embrace of loving air-conditioning and make a sharp left to the reception desk.

Riccardo, a man with a scruffy beard and brown hair, greets us with a smile. “We have a problem and some questions.”

“If you need a place to stay, you’re out of luck. For a room around here, you’re lucky if you get one for 200 euros.”

I look at him, incredulously.

“Yeah, I know. But with fashion week going on and the first weeks of summer, we have a big crowd here. What do you guys need?”

“Well, we need a place to sleep. We missed the last bus out to where we needed to go, so we were hoping you could help us out with a map or something.”

“Not a problem. Why don’t I look something up for you here and if we find something cheap, I’ll just book it.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

I get that feeling I imagine a Disney princess does when they get saved or they find the man of their dreams. Salvation. He hands me the Wi-Fi user name and password for the hotel, then searches through booking websites for a bed nearby. It isn’t long before he finds one. He calls and makes us a reservation before we can thank him.

The hotel is a five minute walk from Aurora. We get inside, drop our bags, and relish in the serenity of sitting down after a day of travel, mishaps, and problem solving.

Reflecting:

Adventure isn’t about everything clicking and working just right. It is about the problems that come up as you try to get to where you need to go or do what you want to do. These problems make life interesting. They force mistakes, misunderstandings, and they challenge us to work harder and figure out an answer- even if it is an incorrect one. Coming up with these answers and facing these problems is how we grow as travelers and people. We don’t always succeed, either. This isn’t the first time Chris and I messed up while traveling and it won't be our last. Even though we followed the wrong directions, got lost, and had been traveling for hours and hours,we somehow ended our day with grins on our faces, happy to have a bed to sleep in and pillows to rest our weary heads on.

That, I think, is incredibly important.

Location Update:

We made it to Arcidosso and spent the day there- but that is a whole other story. We’ve spent most of today traveling, but now that we are in Rome and at the hostel. We did our best to see all the big sights here in just a few hours, but man, it just wasn't enough time. Tomorrow, at noon, we head for Bordeaux via a Ryanair plane- our first flight in a long while. We’ll be in Bordeaux for two weeks, farming and tending to sheep. It’s going to be a big change of place from the recent days of hard traveling that Chris and I have endured.

Wishing you the best from Italy.

Buonanotte.

Sam