Ten minutes later, an unmarked vehicle pulled up: my taxi. Piloted by a smiling 70ish type who spoke no English and pretended to understand nothing I said in Spanish, even words that are identical in Italian (notably '¿Cuánto?' -- 'How much?'). Pretended in such exaggerated fashion that I found myself practically falling about in the back seat, hoping my enjoyment of the show wouldn't cause offense. And after a drive of maybe two minutes to the hotel, he charged me 10 euros then tried to grab one of my two small bags and drag it into the lobby in hopes of extorting a tip.
From there, the way became far smoother. The hotel staff -- friendly, efficient, with more than enough English/Spanish under their collective belts to get the job done -- rang the room of my friend B., he and I arranged to rendezvous a bit later for the first installment of the weekend's fine eating.
We'd last hung out in 3-D about two years ago. Next thing I know, we're shaking hands in a hotel lobby in northern Italy. Kind of a rush.
B.: personable, articulate. Tall, thin, slightly rumpled, with a narrow, intelligent face -- a distinctive-looking individual. And, on this occasion, tired after a long, overnight flight, in no shape to get behind the wheel of his rented car. The hotel had a restaurant a mile or two off premises, they had someone pick us up, ferry us there. We walked into an elegant, extensive, nearly empty dining room, past a substantial antipasta spread, to a table by a long bank of tall windows. Commenced eating, began talking: the weekend was out of the starting gate.
A killer meal, one that went on for quite a while. Somewhere between the first and second plate, customers began flooding into the place, the ambient noise level soared. When we turned down our hard-working waiter's inquiries re: a dessert course, he brought a complimentary plate of fruit, then another of excellent cookies. (A great guy, who wound up with an extravagant tip.) When we'd had enough, we got driven back to the hotel, I stumbled to my room, digestive system at capacity.
Next morning: the world outside lay awash in sunlight, with a chill that burned off like mist. I joined B. for a big breakfast, primed my system with a couple of cappucinos. Midday found me in B.'s rented car, being driven out narrow, winding roads to the Montevecchia Regional Park, a beautiful spread of land out in the Lombardy countryside -- rolling, terraced hills dotted with vineyards and villages, flanked by mountains that extend off toward larger, snow-covered peaks.
B. had visited the area several weeks earlier with other friends, investigating something with a mystical slant, something that he realized after the fact had piqued his interest in a surprisingly deep way, to the point that he felt compelled to return for further nosing around. Me, I was there for the fun, for the pleasure of hooking up with a friend away from what some might consider the beaten track. Happy to stumble along in his more focused wake, exploring a part of the world I'd not previously set foot in -- overjoyed at simply being there, whatever it might bring -- and of course shoveling down plates of Italian food and inhaling cups of cappucino whenever the opportunity presented itself.
B. piloted the car up into a small, gravel parking area off the curve of a two-lane, we stepped out into a spectacular November day, bicyclists whizzing by on the road, the sloping land behind us stretching skyward, toward a small group of poplar trees. With each step up that hill -- the first of the three hills B. was investigating -- the view of the surrounding countryside became more arresting, me feeling so obnoxiously content with my lot that I knew I should keep it mostly to myself (or risk becoming toxically tiresome).
Mountain bikers passed, heading downhill in a way that made me hope they were sporting thickly padded underoos beneath their slick outfits. A smiling 30ish Italian couple went by, saying hello. My camera repeatedly found its way into my hand, far too many photos were taken.
From there a hiking path wound west-northwest, rolling up and down with the land. We moved along it, toward the second hill. Church bells came and went on the breeze, birds sang out now and then. Down in a large, terraced bowl formed by the land to the southwest of the path, someone worked away in a vineyard, the faint sound of a tractor drifted up through mild air.
(As I said, far too many photos. So sue me.)
We walked, we chatted. B. pondered aloud about the hills, what they might mean, where he might find something of any significance. He'd come equipped with two cameras, the first a faithful companion of many years' use, the second a brand spanking new digital jobby. Faithful C. showed signs it might be reaching the end of its road: a growing problem with the shutter spring that rapidly became debilitating. B. stroked it, fretted over it, wrestled with it, finally reaching the point of resignation and acceptance -- laying an old friend to rest, giving the next generation its shot.
Everything changes.
Last rites[continued in next entry]
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 6:48 PM [+]
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