Portfoglio

To several friends who unbeknownst to me have read this blog.  This is long-winded and poorly edited, but another adventure none the less.

“Journeys are like artists, born and not made…” If Lawrence Durrell is correct, then I have certainly discovered a journey.  Saturday morning my adventure-bound vacation quickly became an investigation.  I am packing a bag for my first day of kite surfing when I notice my wallet is missing.  Not truly panicked, I shuffle through my belongings.  Each pocket of my bag is methodically emptied, then a press through my clothing in the cupboard, a floor check, a bed check, and a mental check of the previous night’s events.  No, my wallet is not in my possession.  The next step is to contact the taxi company; this was the last time I used my portifoglio. 

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For many what I am about to confess may be unfathomable, but all I can do is shrug my shoulders.  I have been living abroad again for the past 20 months with a few opportunities to travel--a few trips throughout Tuscany, a vacation in Italy and of course my adventures along El Camino in northern Spain.  Last December I went to Brussels for a few days at the end of the winter holiday.  I found my hostel quite easily, rang the bell and sat down at the kitchen table for the usual scoop about the city.  While I was checking-in, a young couple, not yet twenty years old, were doing the same.  Their eyes glowed with excitement, anticipation, wonder at the newness of the city.  All I could think of was the numerous times I had once felt that and how now, I just don't.  Some aspects of travel have become so routine, so predictable; nothing exciting ever seems to happen...no real challenges.  I thought, “Maybe I travel too safely; I am too planned.  Maybe I need to throw caution to the wind a little more.”  

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Embarking upon a new type of travel, adventure travel, I arrive at the Peschiera Train Station at 9:30 with hope for renewed excitement.  I cross my fingers as I walk down the corridor. Yes, the bus stop.  Okay that wasn't too difficult to find.  Adjusting to the ever-changing arrangement of the schedule, I read 19:39.  I knew I would be arriving too late for the last bus.  Although, then why is that man sitting on the bench?  "Tu aspetti per la autobus?" I ask in undoubtedly poor Italian.  He mumbles something I do not understand and directs me to the bar across the street.  Always hopeful for an answer in my favor, I speak to the barista about the bus schedule.  From a convenient drawer, she pulls out a timetable.  My hopes are dashed; my only option is a taxi.  With a number in hand and my cell phone, which I don't know how I ever traveled without, I call a cab.

Forty-three euro later, I find myself in the dark parking lot of a restaurant paying the driver, yawning and only thinking of the strange pillow that I have yet to see tonight.  Twenty minutes later, I am picked up my kite surfing instructors and driven to the hostel.  It is an immediate sigh of relief when I see the spacious hostel, clean and buzzing with energy.  I am shown my room and an unconcerned remark about checking in tomorrow is spoken. Relieved, I quickly stuff my backpacks into a locker and crawl into bed eager for sleep.

~~~~~

When we think of crossing the great blue into a foreign land, we think about the beauty of the new.  I had pictured the cobblestone streets for which I would have to discard even my 1-inch heels (forget those 4-inch ones that clutter the racks these days).  I pictured the golden hues of the quaint winding streets and the uniform green shudders. I tasted the freshly baked pasta and creamy gelato that could only be found in Italy.  We expect difficulty, but difficulty is merely a vague arrangement of letters that can easily be shrugged off and replaced with the new life and artistic possibilities that await.  The galleries of the Uffizi will be at my fingertips.  On a whim, I could wonder the halls after work for an afternoon.  Ah yes, what a life!  Yes, of course, language will be a challenge at times.  Naturally, I will go through a period of cultural withdraw.  This is all to be expected, but the trade-off of the new, the unknown, the adventures:  It is worth it.

~~~

Such are the thoughts before an adventure. But remember those vague letters that spell DIFFICULTY, significance seeps in as unexpected trials creep upon us.  So here I am defining the meaning of DIFFICULTY in my attempt at a life abroad.  My wallet is missing and here are the difficulties that I face.  My Permesso di Segorno is tucked into the inside pocket, a single card that says I am legally allowed to live here beyond three months because I am permitted to legally work in this country; my temporary health document, which provides me with socialist health should I get injured while trying to kite surf this week; my ATM card in the United States and in Italy; a museum pass worth 65 Euros, permitting me to enter state museums in Florence free of charge; a bus pass with 10-15 rides left; point cards from a few local stores that I frequent; my favorite picture of my adorable niece and over 500 Euro in cash.  My stomach churns with the thought of the total worth of my wallet.  I try not to think of it, as neither my options nor hope is yet exhausted. 

Step one:  I call the taxi company.  “Parle inglese?” I ask doubtfully.  As expected the operator responds, “A little.”  In broken Italian I communicate my problem, but I am deferred to a later time.  The driver is still sleeping and will not start work until 2 PM.  All I can do is wait.  The other location that my wallet could be is the parking lot of the bar, but that won’t be open until the evening.  Still hopeful, I wait clouding my mind with the theories of kite surfing.

During the lunch break I am driven back to the bar to take a look around.  I speak to the kitchen staff that look at me with confusion.  They really cannot help me and indicate that a customer likely took it if I had lost it.  Grasping at straws, I ask when the waiters will start work; perhaps they may have found it the previous night.  I must come back in the evening. Promptly at two, I call the taxi company.  My first shred of hope shrivels.  The cab driver has cleaned out his taxi.  There is no wallet; however, he is certain that he saw me take it with me last night.  My memory places that wallet on the backseat of the cab as I am collecting my other belongs.  I begin to wonder if a dishonest client later in the evening didn’t take my wallet on the way out of the cab.  If this is the case, it could be anywhere.  However, I still must return to the bar.

Worried about multiple withdrawals from my cards, I decide to cancel them.  Advised by a coworker, I call my Italian bank.  I am pleased to report the USA is not the only place, in which major businesses communicate with clients through automated tellers.  I try to navigate the system in Italian, but quickly give up and hand my cell over to one of many generous people who would assist me throughout this journey.  Within minutes my Italian bankcard is cancelled.  A new one will arrive in 7-10 business days.  It is funny how in the mist of a crisis following the commonly known steps to handle such events makes one feel better.  Yes, the wallet is still missing, but at least one account is safe.  Next step, contact my bank in the States.  I am happy to share that the international number that I made a point of inquiring about before moving abroad does not work.  I checked the website and scavengered through the official site before giving up and sending a desperate message to my mom to cancel this card.  Honestly, I don’t think it would have been possible for me to live abroad all these years without my mother.  All home business is always conducted through her and canceling my missing ATM card is no exception.   An hour and half later, I have taken all necessary precautions.  All that is left is to return to the bar; and if luck fails me, check at the local carbinari.  Kite surfing did not happen; there was no wind.  At this point, I cannot decide if this is a blessing or not.

In the pouring rain, perhaps fitting for this now dismal experience, I return to the bar.  I introduce myself to the waiter, who I had seen the previous night.  Surprisingly, he speaks English quite well.  He explains to me that cleaners come to clean the bar at six in the morning and nothing has been turned in.  We check with the manager on duty as well, who shrugs her shoulders.  The wallet is not here.  They leave me with a glimmer of hope, suggesting that I return in a few days in case it turns up.  Next stop: The Carbinari.  The operator who cancelled my card had given me a number to report to the carbinari, and so eager to take necessary precautions I went to the police to report this number.  However, true to Italian culture, the buck was passed to the department in Florence.  They were not interested in dealing with a foreigner’s missing wallet.

During the few days that followed, I sought distractions and reasons to believe that this trip was not simply one huge mistake.  I attended kite surfing theory classes and even flew the kite a couple times from the edge of the motorboat.  One evening I went out to dinner with the other kite surfers on the other half of my cash, which was not in my wallet, thank God that I used some common measures of travel precautions that evening.  I took long walks along the lake path, trying to enjoy its beauty and forget the fact that I had been here four days and only had two pokey attempts at what I came here do.  I read the book that I had been trying to finish for the last couple of months.  I chatted with the other people in the hostel.  Anything to pass the time and ignore that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach; that feeling of failure that always leaves you nauseous when you know that your fate is your own careless fault.

Tuesday

Tuesday morning we had the morning off.  We were unable to kite surf on Monday because the wind did not come again.  So, without need for new theory we were free.  I hiked into the historical district Castletto; truly just a few steep winding lanes with a couple B&B’s, a restaurant and an ethnographic museum tucked in between apartments of the local shop owners and farmers.  Also I had my Italian-language-confirming experience at the bank.  I wanted to withdraw money from my account using only my account number.  It would have been a simple process but I was missing my codice fiscale, which is basically a number that is asked for in most major business transactions; and of course one that I did not have with me.  However, I was not about to give up.  Even though the number was not in a computer system that is accessible by all branches as it would be in the States, there is a binder in my home bank that contained it.  I suggested contact.  To be brief, a fax, a phone call, and several printer glitches later, the surprisingly patient teller, who kindly withstood my bad Italian and spent over half an hour with me to make this transaction possible, handed me money.  She certainly has good karma heading her way.

Back to the kite surfing school, the wind gods were playing and we had our second attempt at kite surfing.  A couple of the students tried the board, one did some body drags and I sat on the edge of the boat trying once again to maneuver the kite and discover the magic move of maintaining “zenith”.  The plan was to drop me into the water when the motor started to squeal:  The boat broke.  We waited in the middle of the cold lake for the rescue boat.  Always trying to stay pleasant in what is an inevitably frustrating and uncomfortable experience for everyone, I couldn’t stifle the growing doubts of my decisions to go on this trip in the first place.

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One thing that kept me going throughout this ordeal is a belief in yin and yang.  When something awful happens, something wonderful must be on the way.  So far, I had lost my wallet and had proven to have inadequate kite surfing skills.  I had a whole lot of yang, and no yin.  Some good must be coming from this trip.  This was the only shred of hope I had to cling to by the time we boarded the dock.  Shivering and waiting for the others to finish chatting in German and move toward the hotel bar for something warm to drink my cell rang.

“Hi Evita.  It’s Amy,” Amy is my coworker who I had called about canceling my Italian card.  She is an American who has lived in Italy for about ten years and speaks Italian.  “How are you?”

Always honest, I tell her that my wallet is still missing and that frankly I am not having that great of a time. 

“Well, that is why I am calling.  A man from a bar called me and says he has your wallet.”  There is my yin!  

~~~

Several months later and I still couldn’t tell you the point of that trip.  In all honesty:  It was a bust. My wallet and all aforementioned documents were found, but the money was gone.  I never did successfully kite surf. I spent much of that trip praying for a phone call, and wishing for perfect weather.  Did I throw caution to the wind?  Not really, perhaps I was just a bit careless on that tired first night.  Are there things I could have done differently?  Most certainly.  I guess in the end I come away with a mere cautionary tale that could be read in many ways.  And maybe that is all that travel leaves us with-- a collection of tales interpreted at the whim of their reader.