Fat raindrops plopped noisily on the graying stone of the ancient piazza. Swords of lightning pierced the Cimmerian sky, crazily lighting up the lifeless windows of the Medieval buildings glowering down on us as they encircled the piazza, outlining our cobblestone cocoon. We sat huddled in the dubious comfort of a darkened doorway, our backs against our packs, our arms hugging our legs, our expressions grim. We were the only people about, abandoned to the night.
With a summer storm brewing and darkness creeping in, my husband and I discovered there was no room at the inn — any inn.
In 1996, we took our first trek to Italy, a dream trip long awaited. The kids grown, the dog attended, the plants watered — it was finally our turn. Months of research and planning prefaced our departure. We pored over guidebooks, devoured videos, and scrutinized websites. As we plotted our journey for the “shoulder season,” we heeded the advice of the travel sages: secure overnight reservations for only the first few nights and make the rest as you go, calling ahead two or three days prior to arrival at the next destination.
All was running smoothly. Halfway through our trip we arrived in Florence, secure with hotel reservations for our stay in that statue-studded city of art. I immediately started calling ahead for our near-future jaunt to Siena, medieval jewel of Tuscany. Over the next two days, in between jaw-dropping visits to David, mind-boggling hours wandering the Uffizzi Gallery, and playing hide and seek with the milk marble statues of the Boboli Gardens, I called. I dialed my way down the pages of every guidebook in my bag. The same word kept ringing into my sore ear: “completo” — full.
Undaunted and optimistic, we gave ourselves over to fate. Something would surely turn up. Our day of departure to Siena arrived and we confidently boarded the “autobus” that would bounce us through verdant rolling hills, past vineyards heavy with harvest, zipping us to our next temporary home.
Emerging from our wheeled cocoon, our first solid steps onto the cobbled stones of an ancient street transported us back in time. This was Medieval Siena, and we were instantly enchanted. However, still without accommodations for the night, we knew we could not yet succumb to the spell of the age-old town until we had found a place to set our packs and lay our heads. More calls, frantic now. More “completo,” regretful but firm. Enchantment soon turned to desperation, and we enlisted the help of a sympathetic Italian college student using the public phone next to ours. “Uno momento” and she will help us, just as soon as she finishes this one call.
I am sure she must have been reciting her master thesis to her best friend in Rome, laboriously critiquing each phrase, or possibly recounting each and every escapade of the past thrilling year at college. Ever the grateful travelers, we waited patiently for her Italian monologue to close. We watched as the sun drooped toward the horizon, bathing gold over the brick-red roofs. Finally, her call ended and off we went together in search of a room — any room. All completo. After exchanging apologetic shrugs and appreciative thank-yous, we parted ways, our earnest college student to her familiar and cozy abode, and we to the unknown of the night.
We resigned ourselves to this unbeckoned adventure and took stock of our surroundings. Luckily, we subscribe to the one-bag rule, so at least we did not have to drag around several unwieldy suitcases. Encumbered with one very full bag each was quite enough. As the gold of the sky slowly turned to ink, we wandered the narrow labyrinth of cobbled alleys, the ochre-hued stone walls echoing our whispered words. At least this fairy-tale village was car-free.
Our meanderings eventually brought us to the heart of Siena, Il Campo, the main piazza where twice a year is the site of the world-famous Palio, a frenzied horse race and fierce competition between the nearby neighborhoods called “contrade.” The Palio resurrects hundreds-of-years-old rivalries, pitting each contrada against the other for the honor to possess, parade, and flaunt the winning contrada’s flag around Il Campo and through the pretzel-shaped streets. It was hard to imagine the crushing crowds shouting encouragement to the snorting and sweating horses as they strained for the finish line, their jockeys vying for primo position. This night it was nothing more than a grand piazza, a serene outdoor living room in the Italian autumnal night.
Tourists draped themselves around the gurgling Fountain of Joy decoratively situated at the top of the gently-sloping, brick-covered expanse of the piazza. College students were sprinkled here and there, reposing on blankets, chatting animatedly, playing guitars softly. OK, we thought, this looks inviting. Somewhat calmed by the friendly faces, we decided to try to “waste” as much time as possible at a nearby trattoria. The Italian custom of eating long and late was tonight suiting us just fine. We asked our college-age waiter if it was frowned upon, or worse, outright prohibited, to “hang out” in the piazza all night. No, he assured us, it was allowed. We returned to our open-air accommodations and propped our packs and backs against that ironically named Fountain of Joy. We surveyed the scene.
No doubt the youthful late-night revelers wondered why these two middle-aged tourists were not yet safely tucked in bed. Even so, we felt comfortable in their presence. Maybe ignored, but never threatened, we sat as the night crept on, the antics of youth more entertaining than any TV show. Music and laughter filled the square until a new sound rumbled in the not-so-distance: the ominous boom of thunder followed by startling cracks of lightning, giving pause to our impromptu show. Splats of rain began to fall from the now-obsidian sky, sending all of us scurrying for cover into the adjacent corridors which branched out from the piazza like spokes of a fallen wheel. Despite the increased anxiety the rain brought to our already less-than-ideal plight, our relocation to the stone tunnels added a new dimension to this improvised concert. Ever zestful, the voices of our unlikely companions lifted in song, echoing against the heavy rock walls and creating a reverberating harmony that tingled our spines. No church choir could have been as awe-inspiring.
Cold, hard stone can only provide respite for so long, and eventually even our tireless partyers began to seek the comfort of home. Our merry-makers drifted off, one by one, until only we were left. We hefted our bags and returned to the piazza, nestling into the doorway of what served as a business by day. Tonight it was our ringside seat to the theater of the night, but all the actors and audience had gone home. As we contemplated our circumstance, our private light show began. The rain let up, but the air crackled with electricity. Suddenly, lightning torched the sky, bathing everything in vibrant light. For the next several minutes we were treated to the most breathtaking display rarely seen by those safely ensconced behind doors. Each time the lightning broke loose, the piazza blazed, the windows of the ancient Medieval buildings all around illuminating off and on as if in a horror film. But we were not afraid, and sleep was a state unimagined. We watched this nocturnal spectacle, feeling as though we had been granted special admittance to a sacred celebration. Then the storm drained away, and we were left with the quiet of the night, not even the stones whispering their secrets to us. We were utterly and completely alone.
We feebly wrapped our meager travel towels around our shoulders, shifting against our packs for some slight position of comfort and drifted in and out of a sleepless sleep. Every hour or so a blue Polizia car zoomed around the square and sped off, as if in a cartoon. Each time it careened past, we perked up, not wanting appear as homeless vagrants and be shooed away from our meager shelter. But the police did not even slow as they passed us, undoubtedly taking us for what we were: hapless, hotel-less tourists who had not booked ahead. Roused from our fitful nap, we heard the sleepy movement of a lone backpacker gently treading across the square. Where had he taken refuge? Had he just arrived? We blinked as the sky lost its ebony depth and morning became a promise soon to be fulfilled. The yeasty perfume of fresh baking bread and sugary buns wafted through the crisp air. We stretched.
As the day slowly dawned, the rustlings and murmurings of shopkeepers softly broke the silence. Store fronts were raised, cobblestones swept, tables tidied. Soon the pungent and reassuring smell of espresso filled our nostrils. We had made it. Morning had arrived. We rose from our now-familiar perch and ambled over to a sun-kissed cafe, claiming the first of the outdoor tables. After taking advantage of their facilities, we sipped our bracing cappuccini and gazed back across the piazza, smiling at the sight of our former nest.
Torre Del Mangia
My eye caught the nearby Torre Del Mangia, Siena’s Medieval tower thrusting upward 100 meters. I was suddenly possessed with an urge to climb it. As soon as its doors opened to the day’s visitors, I hurtled myself upward, 300 steps, up, and up some more, pausing in the periodic lookouts to snap photos to prove my moment of insanity.
Glimpses of my husband, enjoying yet another cappuccino flashed in and out of my view.
Finally I arrived at the top and was rewarded with the most breathtaking view of Siena, boasting its terra cotta roofs and snaking streets. Satisfied, I made my way back down.
We hoisted our bags and explored more of this amazing town by daylight. Then we hopped a bus to the train station and waited to be whisked to our next adventure — but not before stopping to make a reservation for the upcoming night.
© 1996 by Melinda Brovelli
Me in front of Siena’s Duomo, the morning after sleepless in Siena.
