In elementary school, I had a girls Schwinn bike. It was blue with faux leather saddle bags and rubber hand grips with hanging white fringe. It had a silver metal bell mounted on the handle bar that rang when I pushed the lever with my right thumb, and it had a big red reflector on the back fender. I clipped playing cards to my spokes with wooden clothes pins and rode until I got dizzy just to hear the ti-tit-ti-tit-ti tit-ti-tit of the paper king and queen as the wheels rolled and rolled, while I peddled round and round, circling the street light in the center of our cul-d-sac. Other than that, I have never considered myself a bicycle person.
When I see bicycles, I think of Roy Tatman, even though I have never seen him ride a bike. He is an artist and has curated four art shows with bicycle themes. On the streets of Florence, and other towns in Tuscany, bicycles are common. I believe they’re used for transportation more than recreation as I’ve seen many more leaning against buildings, in wait for their owners to get off of work, than actually ridden. I have seen quite a few being walked, almost as if to get attention just as a single person walks his or her dog in areas known to be frequented by other single people walking dogs. Many of the photography students at Santa Reparata International School of Art gravitate to photographing bicycles, so I feel obligated to snap a few bike photos myself. The bikes that attract me are neither the coolest or the most expensive, I reserve my selection to those Roy might find interesting, bicycles with personalities or oddities, bicycles of “bicycle show” worthiness. 
Marcello has a bicycle. He leaves it in the downstairs hallway of Ricasoli. I’ve seen him walk it several times, and it often leans against the outside wall of our building near our front door, but I’ve never seen him ride it. Sometimes in the late afternoon, his bike rests against the downstairs hallway wall. The smell from the warm rubber tires fills the hollow with a pungent odor, indicating he has recently returned from the sun burned streets of Florence. I imagine myself walking up the 53 steps to our floor, resting a moment, composing myself, and then going the next 17 steps farther up to his door. I stand erect, toss my pony tail back over my left shoulder, and lick my lips wet while simultaneously using the back of my hand to wipe away the beads of liquid dancing on the stage beneath my nose. I knock cautiously, but directly. He opens the door, still wearing clothes stained wet with the sweat of the day, and looks at me with wonder. “Marcello,” I say casually, yet matter of factly, while my heart races, “Marcello sorry to bother you, but I noticed that your hot bicycle tires are sticking to the marble floor.” He looks instinctively back to the interior of his apartment and then back at me.
“Who es ita ata the doora?” his wife Sophia, in the kitchen chopping fresh vegetables and peeling garlic for dinner, calls out to him. “Itsa no one,” he replies, “Justa the bata lady froma downstairs.”
“Whada bada lady froma downstairs?” she questions.
“Noa noa, the bata lady,” he says again.
“Oha, the bata lady thata flapa her armsa lika birda?” she says referencing the night we made a ruckus, Barbra chasing a displaced flying bat with a broom and me opening wide the shaft window, visible from their apartment, and waving my arms to chase it outside.“Yeah. The bata lady,” he responds to her and then turns to me and says, “Soa whada you saya abouta mya hota…whata hota?
I want to say… “You Marcello, you are-a hota,” my shoulders releasing their tension, but instead I say, “Youra rubbera isa,” and then I stop, realizing I am starting to speak make believe Italian. “Marcello,” I say, changing back to proper English, “Your rubber is so hot it stuck to the floor.”
At that point he just shakes his head, passes by me on the landing, and jogs down the stairs. Before I make it to the bottom floor, he lifts his still-warm bike, carries it through the hallway, and out to the street. By the time I reach the front door and look his direction, I see a man in colored pants by the bikes, but it’s not my Marcello. The only thing I can ever manage to say, “Ciao Marcello,” I whisper into the wind, confident he’ll return by nightfall. Maybe he’s going to the singles bike walk, or to the restaurant where you park your bike inside the dining room, or to the graffiti corner, or to the wall where leaflets are posted. There are countless bike subjects lying in wait for Roy to consider … next stop … Bicycle Show Five, Florence.
…………………….
My heart goes out to all of those affected by the rage of nature that hit Italy earlier this week. The people, their villages, the landscape, the history; the destruction is felt worldwide. Think back to a FWiF story several weeks ago… Monterossa al Mare, “red mountain at the sea” to some – color pallet of the Mediterranean to me, where umbrellas stand in a long row at silent attention, sometimes opening in a symphony of color. Remember that image? Now, sadly that symphony of color is cloaked in mud, and the next southern-most town of Vernazza, has also suffered badly. The following story remembers my experience in Vernazza, a picture perfect place to envision as your eyes flutter shut and you float off to dreamland. 
Vernazza is a cliff side town in the area called Cinque Terre (five lands) on the Mediterranean coast. Its arms stretch up to the sky, over hillsides of terraced vineyards and olive groves, and its toes dip down into the tide. There are no cars on the cobble streets. There is also no measureable time here – just the clock of the sun and the stars, and the snooze alarm of the soft sea breeze. Nothing is required of you here, other than that you experience and enjoy. 
It is an unassuming village where all ages intertwine and cross paths with the unspoken rhythm of practiced respect. People take time to enjoy the air and water, chat with a friend, or bask in the sun. A man and woman actively converse in the middle of the street as men speak in hand gestures behind them. Four middle aged men pass the time playing cards in an outdoor cafe. Two seniors, without a care in the world, sit on a stone bench contemplating the vast fields of blue beyond.
Wet laundry is shaken out of second story windows and hung on the line. Shopkeepers sweep the doorsteps and restock bottles of lemoncello. Restaurateurs, readying for lunch, pile baskets high with lemons and smooth the tablecloth wrinkles. The only distraction here, if you want to call it that, is the uncanny feeling of getting lost in the easiness of the village. I learn from a waiter that the distraction of ease is often experienced by travelers who, caught up in the calm of the moment, miss the last train of the day and, without complaint, stay just one more night. 
I notice many more cameras hanging around necks than being used to snap photos as the real time experience far outweighs the captured digital moment. The friendly colors of the buildings wrap you in a comforting glow and the bold colors of the boats force you to smile as they bob in the water like bathtub toys. Two fishermen in a motor boat share camaraderie and float around the protected harbor with no apparent intension of heading toward open water or catching fish. They wave to a woman on the shore who wears an apron and carries a basket. She nods back with a wide grin. 
Walking from the train station through the town, you instinctively know that Vernazza is a place of contentment and that the peace found here is the town’s complimentary gift to you. This is a genuine place where a fast-beating heart comes to find quiet and over-active children are content watching the water ebb and flow. The pace is slow, as you might expect to find in a Riviera beach town lost in time. Walk the narrow streets up to the church, or up the path overlooking the harbor, or sit for hours-on-end doing nothing. No one seems to be overly interested in what you’re doing, or how long you do it. 
To the tourist, Vernazza looks and feels easy. There is a quiet solitude here, the kind that’s usually only found internally. You see it in the body language of locals and visitors alike. You see it in the casual way the laundry dries in the warm air and the way the buildings hug each other close. It is the essence of Vernazza – it is the refreshing language of simplicity, a reminder that life does not have to be complicated. Monterossa al Mare and Vernazza, the two northern most charms on the coastal bracelet called Cinque Terre have been tarnished, but their long history of resilience and undying spirit will help them thrive again. I’ll keep the serene and vibrant images of these precious towns close to my heart as they build a new future. I’ll recall a little boy lost in thought, staring at the clear blue water, and I’ll wonder if he’ll remember this lazy day by the tiny bay and someday bring his children here to share the special feeling of this tranquil fishing village. 
