Thick raindrops fell noisily on the gray stone of the old square. Swords of lightning tore through the Cimmerian sky, crazily illuminating the lifeless windows of medieval buildings that scowled at us as they circled the plaza, outlining our cobblestone cocoon. We sat huddled in the dubious comfort of a dark door, our backs against our backpacks, our arms hugging our legs, our expressions grim. We were the only people around, abandoned to the night. With a summer storm approaching and darkness creeping in, my husband and I discovered that there was no room at the inn, no inn.
In 1996, we made our first trip to Italy, a long-awaited dream trip. The children grew, the dog attended, the plants watered; it was finally our turn. Months of research and planning preceded our departure. We pored through guides, gobbled up 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 destiny.
Everything was going well. Halfway through our trip we arrived in Florence, secure with hotel reservations for our stay in that city of art studded with statues. I immediately started calling ahead for our next excursion to Siena, Tuscany’s medieval gem. For the next two days, between jaw-dropping visits to David, mind-blowing hours wandering the Uffizzi Gallery and playing hide and seek with the milk marble statues in the Boboli Gardens, I called. I marked the pages of each guide in my bag. The same word kept ringing in my aching ear: “complete” – complete. Undaunted and optimistic, we surrender to destiny. Surely something would come up. Our day of departure for Siena arrived and we confidently boarded the “bus” that would take us through green hills, past vineyards laden with harvests, quickly taking us to our next temporary home.
Emerging from our cocoon of wheels, our first solid steps on the cobblestones of an old street transported us to the past. This was medieval Siena and we were instantly enchanted. However, even without accommodation for the night, we knew that we still could not succumb to the spell of the ancient city until we had found a place to put our backpacks and rest our heads. More calls, frantic now. More “complete”, regretful but firm. The charm soon turned to despair, and we enlisted the help of a sympathetic Italian university student who used the pay phone next to ours. “Uno memento” and she will help us, as soon as I finish this call.
I’m sure she must have been reciting her master’s thesis to her best friend in Rome, laboriously critiquing every sentence, or possibly counting each and every escape from the exciting past year in college. Always grateful travelers, we patiently waited for him to finish his monologue in Italian. We watched the sun descend toward the horizon, bathing gold on the brick-red roofs. Finally his call ended and we went together in search of a room, any room. All complete. After exchanging apologetic shrugs and grateful thanks, we parted ways, our serious college student to her cozy family home, and us to the unknown of the night.
We resign ourselves to this unexpected adventure and evaluate our surroundings. Fortunately, we subscribed to the one-bag rule, so at least we didn’t have to lug around multiple unwieldy suitcases. Loaded with a very full bag each was enough. As the gold in the sky slowly turned to ink, we wandered the narrow maze of cobbled alleys, ocher stone walls echoing our whispered words. At least this fairytale town was car-free.
Our meanders finally brought us to the heart of Siena, Il Campo, the main square where twice a year is the site of the world famous Palio, a frenzied horse race and fierce competition between nearby neighborhoods called “contrade”. The Palio resurrects rivalries of hundreds of years, pitting each contrada against the other for the honor of owning, parading and flaunting the winning contrada’s flag around Il Campo and through the streets in the shape of a pretzel. It was hard to imagine the overwhelming crowd shouting their encouragement to the puffing and sweating horses as they struggled to the finish line, with their riders vying for first place. Tonight it was nothing more than a large square, a quiet open-air living room on the Italian autumnal night.
Tourists settled around the decorative gurgling fountain of joy at the top of the gently sloping brick-covered expanse of the plaza. College students were scattered here and there, lounging on blankets, chatting animatedly, softly playing guitar. Well, we think, this looks attractive. Somewhat calmed by the friendly faces, we decided to try to “lose” as much time as possible in a nearby trattoria. The Italian custom of eating a lot and staying late suited us very well tonight. We asked our college waiter if it was frowned upon, or worse yet, completely forbidden, to “hang out” in the square all night. No, he assured us, it was allowed. We return to our outdoor accommodation and lean our backpacks and backs against that ironically called Fountain of Joy. We examine the scene.
No doubt the young late-night revelers were wondering why these two middle-aged tourists weren’t quite tucked into bed yet. Still, we feel comfortable in his presence. Perhaps ignored, but never threatened, we sat as the night wore on, the antics of youth more entertaining than any television show. Music and laughter filled the square until a new sound echoed in the not-so-far distance: the ominous boom of thunder followed by surprising bursts of lightning, pausing our impromptu show. Splashes of rain began to fall from the now obsidian sky, sending us all running for cover into the adjacent corridors that branched out from the plaza like spokes from a fallen wheel. Despite the growing anxiety that the rain brought to our less-than-ideal situation, our move to the stone tunnels added a new dimension to this impromptu concert. Always enthusiastic, the voices of our unlikely companions rose in song, echoing against the heavy rock walls and creating a reverberating harmony that tingled on our spines. No church choir could have been so impressive.
Cold, hard stone can only provide respite for so long and eventually even our tireless partiers began to seek the comfort of home. Our revelers drifted away, one by one, until only we were left. We weighed our bags and headed back to the plaza, huddled in the doorway of what served as a business for the day. Tonight it was our seat by the ring of the theater of the night, but all the actors and the audience had gone home. As we contemplated our circumstance, our private light show began. The rain subsided, but the air crackled with electricity. Suddenly, lightning set the sky ablaze, bathing everything in vibrant light. For the next few minutes, we were presented with the most impressive display rarely seen by those who shelter safely behind doors. Every time lightning struck, the square glowed, the windows of ancient medieval buildings flashing like in a horror movie. But we were not afraid and sleep was an unimaginable state. We watched this nightly spectacle, feeling as if we had been granted special admission to a sacred celebration. Then the storm dissipated and we were left with the silence of the night, not even the stones whispering their secrets to us. We were totally and completely alone.
We loosely wrapped our meager travel towels around our shoulders, shifting against our packs for a slight comfort position and drifting in and out of a sleepless slumber. Roughly every hour, a blue Polizia car would circle the square and speed away, like in a cartoon. Every time it sped past, we cheered, not wanting to appear homeless bums and be thrown out of our meager haven. But the police didn’t even stop as they passed us, no doubt taking us for who we were: hapless tourists, no hotels they hadn’t booked in advance. Awakened from our irregular nap, we heard the sleepy movement of a lonely backpacker gently treading the square. Where had he taken refuge? Had it just arrived? We blinked as the sky lost its ebony depth and the morning became a promise that would soon be fulfilled. The yeast smell of freshly baked bread and sugary scones hung in the cool air. We stretch.
As the day slowly dawned, the whispers and murmurs of the merchants gently broke the silence. Storefronts were erected, cobblestones swept, and tables tidied up. Soon, the acrid, comforting smell of espresso filled our nostrils. We had made it. Morning had come. We rose from our now familiar position and walked over to a sun-drenched cafe, claiming the first of the outdoor tables. After taking advantage of their facilities, we took a sip of our invigorating cappuccino and looked back across the square, smiling at our old nest.
My gaze caught the nearby Torre del Mangia, Siena’s medieval tower towering 100 meters upward. Suddenly I was possessed by the need to climb it. As soon as its doors opened for daytime visitors, I rushed up 300 steps and climbed a bit more, stopping at the periodic lookouts to take photos and demonstrate my moment of madness. Flashes of my husband enjoying another cappuccino appeared and disappeared from my sight. I finally made it to the top and was rewarded with the most impressive view of Siena, with its terra-cotta roofs and winding streets. Satisfied, I went downstairs.
We lift our bags and explore more of this amazing city by daylight. We then took a bus to the train station and waited for our next adventure, but not before stopping to make a reservation for the following night.