2 Italie Chapitre 2EN bis

Italie
“It is faster to get to heaven from a hut than a palace.”
Saint Francis of Assisi
The Arno River in
Pisa.
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5 janvier 2007
So here I am, carrying a collection of
thoughts, a chocolate bar of chocolate a pilgrim
who dropped by in the afternoon and an ego
weighing over 12 kilos.
I decide to hitchhike. Hitchhiking as a remedy
to routine, something about taking change to the
max, all the way to breaking with the reassurance of
knowing where you’ll be once the journey is over, of
knowing when you leave and when you get there,
hitchhiking makes travelling easier, makes it richer,
lighter. Hitchhiking destroys certainty, opens doors.
Hitchhiking brings you closer, but takes you further
away, and hitchhiking saves money as much as
hitchhiking begins… next to Massimo, an Italian
truck driver.
I watch the last few kilometres of France go by,
and for the first time, step into the Italian boot. It’s
so close, but its inhabitants seem so distant. I am a
victim of my own preconceived ideas about these
people who, all things considered, I know nothing
about. Kilometre after kilometre, gigantic greenhouses
are all the eye can see, take up even the
smallest spaces of the Alps, which are
plunging into the sea.
I reach Bologna the next day, after a
night of sleeping in a pup tent on a beach
near Biareggio and a stop in Pisa. There,
The winged lion, symbol of Saint
Mark, the patron saint of Venice.
Seen from the top of Campanile di
San Marco, the bell tower.
in a book of suggestions from the world over about
how to save the tower from its demise, I take note
of two surprising ones. The first involves a stone
sculpture of a giant that would hold up the tower,
and the second envisions building a twin tower,
leaning opposite and connected to the original so
as to block its fall. Today, such far-fetched projects
are unnecessary, as the tower has been secured for
three centuries.
I go to Bologna by train in order to make my
meeting with R., my cousin, on time. As my train
ticket is printing, I give my point of view to the
clerk, who speaks French:
“I just came out of the post office, and it’s just
like France: the same colour yellow, the same interminable
wait and the same way to welcome customers
that shows what a joy it is to work at the
post office.”
He hands me my ticket, and I add,
“The train tickets are the same, too!”
The famous leaning bell
tower of Pisa.
“Yes, it’s true that it’s the same as in France,” he
answers, and quickly tags on, “the only difference is
that…” He pauses to get a feel for how
I’ll react, but there is a pane of glass
separating us, so he throws out,
“Italy is world champion!”
Bursts of laughter.
Crossing the Apennines,
Tuscany grows distant
under a bright blue sky and
gives way to plains of the
Po. I walk up the porticos of
the avenue across from the
San Giacomo del Rialto, the
oldest church in Venice and
its 24-hour clock.
The iron prow of a gondola.
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Let the gondolas in
Venice be..
of a meatless diet, there, in Bologna, before
the tortellini (pasta stuffed with meat) and
a lasagne prepared by a family friend. I did
justice to the dishes I was served, something my
stomach had trouble forgiving me for when that
evening, in a restaurant in the city, I discovered
tortellini (raviolis stuffed with cheese and vegetables),
which was the only thing I could eat for
the evening. I was learned traditional tale
of La Befana, a witch who gives candy to children
who were good all year and coal to others. Virginia’s
grandmother grants me the right to have
candy.
Bologna exudes tranquillity. The people are calm,
they take their time to live. They aren’t at all what I
had imagined Italians to be – exuberant people
who talk loudly. Thank you to Bologna and to the
people who put these stereotypes to rest.
On my way to Slovenia, I get lost in a
maze of streets and canals from
the old merchant republic
“Italy is world
champion!”
Bursts of laughter.
Crossing the Apennines, Tuscany grows distant
under a bright blue sky and gives way to plains of
the Po. I walk up the porticos of the avenue across
from the train station in Bologna to get to Piazza
Maggiore, in the heart of the medieval city. Boasting
several kilometres of covered brick walkways,
Bologna holds the record of the longest portico in
the world: the avenue is over four
kilometres long.
The next day, I am invited to
dine with Carlo and Valeria,
the parents of Virginia,
my cousin’s future
wife. It’s at this family
Epiphany luncheon
that I put an end, for
one meal, to 11 years
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Photo break on the way
to Venice.
The Grand Canal.

exuberant people who talk loudly. Thank you to
Bologna and to the people who put these stereotypes
to rest.
On my way to Slovenia, I get lost in a maze of
streets and canals from the old merchant republic
of Venice, known as Queen of the
Adriatic for the power of
its fleet, before I
finally reach the
Piazza San
Marco and its
swarms of pigeons
and stumble upon the cathedral bearing the same
name. I admire the quality of the paintings and the
different colours of marble used to decorate the
Byzantine façade. The inside, poorly lit and without
windows, is just as elaborate. On the floor, mosaics
deformed by foot traffic give volume to geometric
shapes, depending on the way the viewer looks at
them. The ones in the vaults, which represent Biblical
scenes, are golden mosaics that shine in the little
light straining its way through small openings,
giving the overall impression of a secret crypt.
Back at the train station, I still don’t know where
I am going to sleep. I get a sudden urge to walk! I
leave the city of Doges on foot. It’s 7:30 in the
evening. I stop four hours later, exhausted, on the
other side of the Marco Polo airport. I fall asleep
in a field thinking about Marco Polo’s
thirteenth century
Venetian architecture.
journey, from which he brought back
stories of customs from the Empire of
Detail from a mosaic in
Basilica di San
Marco.
Basilica di San Marco at sunset, a remarkable
example of Byzantine architecture.
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