Cerco uno Termofero
A common topic of conversation on airplanes is teleportation. As in, when are they going to invent it, please? But for now, resignation and distraction are really the only tools a traveler has. So we strap ourselves into chairs, bolted inside a metal tube, watch movies and try to endure. And after ten hours we are rewarded, as the plane descends through the clouds, and a tidy green countryside emerges, with rolling hills, patchwork fields and ten majestic wind generators slowly spinning. Welcome to Germany! Getting over the Alps to Italy is an easy flight. A twenty minute cab ride from the airport and we are through the center of Firenze and into the Oltrarno (across the Arno) district, our home for the next several days.
Our casetta is in a little cul de sac and has a small deck overlooking tile roofs and other small decks. We can see the top half of the bell tower of Palazzo Vecchio. And we can hear the bells quite clearly. Every hour. Day and night. Charming at first, then worrisome at three a.m. But we learn to prefer them to the nocturnal Vespa riders who seem to use the cul de sac as a partier’s park ‘n ride. It’s surprising how loud a Vespa sounds when being started in a brick and plaster echo chamber in the middle of the night. But that’s really just the jet lag talking. We’re city folk at heart and we’re in the heart of the city, where we want to be.
As we settle in to our new digs, J plugs her 120 volt heating pad into a voltage converter we brought. One which we had lengthy discussions about. The heating pad control box instantly emits a sharp little death sigh and a small, final puff of smoke. I bend over my bag and rummage a bit so J can’t see my “told ya so” look. But she knew I was right all along, and she knows I’ve got her back: I know how to say “heating pad” in Italian.
For me, one of the joys of traveling is the way it turns an errand into an adventure. In this case the frisson comes from walking up to a total stranger and reciting a string of unfamiliar syllables that many books, apps and websites have assured me are real Italian words, and hoping for a glint of recognition. And indeed, after I’ve said “cerco uno termoforo”, the white-smocked farmacia employee goes into the back room and rummages around on the top shelf for a bit, returning with – a heating pad! I feel like a fucking rock star! More importantly, J thinks I AM a fucking rock star.