“Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated,
often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world
the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the
earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple
with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps
realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing
will ever again be black-and-white.” – Mark Jenkins
The next morning Jesse and Martin drove us
to the train station in Firenze (Florence). It is nice to say that we were in
Florence but, in truth, we only saw the train station. Parking was impossible
and Jesse parked illegally so that we could unload the luggage. Because of that
it was a hurried good-bye, hugs all around, and I admit to being a bit teary.
These two were such wonderful, interesting, and engaged world-gypsies. Such
lovely human beings. I wish them all the good fortune that could possibly come
their way.
We were swept into the huge train station
and sought a corner hopefully away from most of the hub-bub. With nowhere to
sit for the next three hours we moved our suitcases into a small area in front
of a billboard and sat on our suitcases. The air was stifling and hot and the
noise constant and loud. Nothing to do but stare out at the world around us,
fanning ourselves uselessly as our clothes began to adhere damply to our
bodies.
I love to people-watch – and the train
station in Firenze for a people-watcher is a great delight. So many odd people,
so many stories – you get to reflect on what their lives may be like, where
they are travelling to, and why. Firenze is an extremely busy train station
with as many as fifteen tracks with local and regional trains coming and going
constantly. There are places to buy tickets, and other places to validate
tickets, and other places where I am not completely sure what to do – and the
locals seemed as equally confused as myself.
There are gypsies begging for a Euro or
two, and other more devout beggars with heads bowed and hands folded in prayer,
their empty coffee cup placed discretely in front of them for change. There was
one old gentleman who looked shabby and unkempt, his straggled and snarled hair
pulled back in a pony tail, his shirt buttoned awry such that it hung out of
his drooping trousers. He shuffled in beat up runners around and around the
parameter of the station, each lap completed with a concentrated gaze that
never wavered. He never once asked for money nor had any cup or sign. Perhaps
he was just an old poor man who found that station a weather-protected place to
walk.
I saw, too, very wealthy people, laden
with designer shopping bags – all very large but light as each just contained
one pricey scarf, or a small bottle of perfume – with their small dogs
perambulating behind them. They moved from ticket kiosk, to validation machine,
to cappuccino shop, to the toilets, back to the cappuccino shop, into the line
ups for the train, and finally boarding the train – the little dogs boarding
confidently and sedately.
I saw a tall, lanky bald man. He wore a
bright yellow silk shirt, purple suspenders, lavender pants. His reddish suit
jacket he carried over his shoulder. His voluminous scarf was paisley, his
glasses vividly red-framed. He wore sandal on bare, hairy feet and his pants
were a good three inches too short (perhaps he really didn’t need the
suspenders). He carried a very conservative, obviously hand-made leather
briefcase from which protruded several files. He caused not so much as a second
glance.
I saw an East Indian family, with six
children, laden with beach-going paraphernalia
- buckets and spades, picnic hamper, and a large beach umbrella that
kept falling to the floor and swung unnervingly near my head. They spoke in
loud, rapid, staccato Italian; the mother wore a gorgeous turmeric-coloured
sari; the teenaged girl wore large cross-shaped earrings. One of the boys
carried a small poodle in one hand and played games on his cell-phone in the
other.
I was too nervous to take photos, it would
have been difficult to take shots discretely where we were sitting. I don’t
think I will ever have the nerve to be a street photographer. Instead I wrote
little notes about the people I saw and hope that you can picture them.
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