Through the Villa gate and down the hill, known as “the hill,” there is a bridge separating country and town. 1400 and 2008. If a few of us are walking across it, there’s just enough room for one of those three-wheeled vehicles that look like shoes. So they’re widening the overpass. A crane sits on top of the olive grove nearby, swinging out over the interstate. Everyday a little more dirt is moved and a little more wall is built. Old men shuffle in from Scandicci to line up and gaze at the construction. And everyday, more men move to the bridge and a little more of their hill is changed.
I passed them on my way to Santa Maria Novella. Bus 16 can take you there, or the 27 if you don’t mind the walk—which I do. The bus drops you on Via Prato via the construction detour for the new tram. Arriving in town you get two bars on the cell phone. I shook my international SIM card and gained another. My iPod headphones were tangled around a mechanical pencil so I couldn’t enjoy my new Italian downloads. I passed Dante’s church, I believe. The long shadow from Giotto’s bell tower pointed to 5 o’ clock, which is 17:00 here. The peddlers in the piazza were in my face with magnetic beans and boomerangs. I stopped at an ATM on way to the station. After withdrawing 20 Euros, which is $31.1800 here, I tried to see how long I could wait before my card was eaten up.
The train stations in Italy are over-crowded and under-lit. Numbers flip on the board, echoing off the marble. I put my college education to use by looking up a train. Number 234—overnight to Vienna, second-class, reclining chair. Symbol “R” means more money is needed and the lightning bolt means death is possible. The crossed fork and knife means snacks. The train departs at 21:53, skips Milan (thank goodness), passport check in Tarvisio at 03:52, and cars 4 and 5 split, sending my body to Vienna and my bags to Budapest. After committing this to Moleskin memory, I searched for an internet café.
The internet cafes in Italy are over-crowded and under-lit. I bought the table with a double espresso and a complimentary chocolate spoon. Once online, I found myself wandering webcams from American cities—Times Square, the pier in Santa Monica. Made a few friends on Facebook and declined a $1 digital banana. After checking my blog, Bank account, Skype account, Google Earth, Bank account again, and uploading a hundred pictures of never-before-seen angles of Cinque Terre, I had five minutes to catch bus16 or 27, if you don’t mind the walk.
Back at the villa, I reached for the bronze knob and a light poked my eye from far away. The brilliant tip of the Duomo, golden, was standing on her tip-toes to see me over the hills.
The calling cards in Italy have a map of the U.S. with an American flag over the words “special edition.” I dialed 800 930038, selected 2 for English, and dialed the number. It’s funny how nice it is to type in your home area code.
None of my friends answered, and why voicemail when you can email? But I can’t email granddaddy. And come to think of it, I can’t even text him. So I called my granddaddy Austin living in Hamilton, Alabama (You might have heard about the new Sonic on Highway 43). But would he answer? Would the Ruby-throated hummingbird be too beautiful not to feed? Or would the magnolia leaves be falling and too big not to rake? When he did pick up he was in the hospital room with his mother. She’s 99 years old. I heard machines beeping.
“Hello Granddaddy.”
“Hello?”
“It’s Tyler. I’m in Italy.
I repeated this several times until he believed it was really me. I don’t know if he had ever talked to anyone on the phone in another country.
“I declare,” he said. “The reception is so clear. It’s like you’re right here in the room with me. I can’t believe that. And you’re in Italy.” I laughed. “And you’re in Italy,” he kept repeating.
“You mean it’s clearer than the radios you used in Korea?” I wanted to ask. He was only a few years older than me when the first satellites went up, paving the way for this phone call. There was a sound in his voice—higher and younger—like the sound I had in my voice when I first approached the Coliseum. It was: man did this? Then I thought of the oldest known photograph of him. He’s a baby in the arms of his mother and they’re standing on a sagging, wooden porch. And I was right there with him, in that natural age, and he was here with me, standing underneath the majestic blue dome of the Sony Center in Berlin. My day became a piece of paper that crinkled up, unfolded, and was now smaller. My aha is no eureka. It is a whisper on an invisible telephone of tomorrow between me and my own grandson.
The day when I’m just an old man on a bridge in Scandicci.
