When a dream is realized,
it is a miraculous thing. It is uplifting in a way that few things
are. In those giddy, almost spiritual, moments, all is right with
the world. Happiness is all you know. Some dreams are large, others
small, but when they become a reality size does not matter.
I had such a dream and it
has been hibernating for eight years. Back then, almost a decade
ago, we rented a villa outside Lucca – in my mind, the
quintessential distillation of all that is Italian. It is beautiful,
scenic, charming. Big enough to offer variety, small enough not to
overwhelm. It is a walled city dating back to the Etruscans and was
rolled into the Roman Empire more than two thousand years ago. At
our last visit, Lily, Jesse, Alex and Laura rented bikes so they
could tour Lucca and, in particular, bike the ancient walls of this
city. With some sadness on my part, I was left behind. After all, I
did not know how to ride a bike. Off they went and returned with
smiles and stories that I so much wanted to be a part of. I dreamed
of gliding along beside them sharing in their laughter and maybe
having a few stories of my own to tell.
When plans were made last
year to return to Lucca, I knew what I had to do. And it just wasn't
learning how to say “where's the bathroom” in Italian, or boning
up on the wines of the Chianti region. No, I needed to learn how to
ride a bike. Being left out again was simply not an option.
With both a sense of
accomplishment and a healthy dollop of happiness, my road to bike
proficiency is now smooth, or mostly so. At least now, having
practiced for several months, I can reasonably expect not to be
roadkill when I venture forth. I have my moments of uncertainty but
they are dwindling and I have developed the good sense to generally
anticipate potential trouble spots before they take me down. But,
for almost a week after our return to Lucca, while we talked about
renting bikes, nothing happened. Too many things, wonderful things,
got in the way. At the end of our first week, however, the trigger
was pulled and we headed for town to do the walls. Bob and Donna,
Jim, Ivy and the kids, Maggie, and Lily and I found our way to Poli
Bike Rentals just behind the northern Santa Maria portal to the city.
We made our way up the ramp to the top of the walls.....and we
started peddling.
The area at the top of the
walls in Lucca is not what you might imagine. Rather than a narrow
parapet where there is just enough room for an archer to aim his
arrows at a marauding enemy, there is instead a relative vastness.
The path is wide and paved and on either side of the path is enough
room for tables, benches, and greenery. One could literally ride six
abreast were it not for the competing forces of cyclists coming the
other way, dog walkers, baby strollers and runners. The walls are a
place to socialize; there were seemingly endless combinations of
folks – some young, some old – lolling in the sunshine swapping
stories, reading a book or just staring out at the beauty below.
Making our way around the
walls was not just invigorating, it was euphoric. At least for me it
was. To the left, you could look out over the town peering down on
the reddish orange terra cotta roofs, the narrow bending streets, the
rising towers, and the occasional piazzas. To the right, looking out
into the distance, you could see the verdant mountains, the forests,
the one-time moat that protected this place, and the hint of car
traffic beyond. Above it all, the fantastic cloud formations
breaking up the sun at seemingly just the right intervals.
I found myself saying
“ciao” to folks on the path or at the near-by benches as if they
were long-time neighbors. Often, especially among the older folks
along the way, I would be met with the kind of blank stares normally
reserved for seeing aliens from some far away place. In between
“ciaos,” I would indulge myself in singing aloud no doubt what
appeared to be a strangely atonal chorus from “Funiculi Funicula,”
that iconic Neapolitan tune from the 19th century. I
mean, what else do you sing when biking in Italy? Ok, so maybe I
didn't compare favorably to Pavarotti.
Mid-way we stopped and
glided down the sloping ramp so that Marley and Piper could ride the
small, but oh so charming carousel. A perfect resting opportunity.
But, soon enough we moved on. [If I may, a word about Piper here.
Although it's possible I'm mistaken about this, at 18 months Piper
appears to be the world's youngest stuntman. Fear is not a concept
familiar to her. Nor is moderation. This is the same child who
routinely closes herself into kitchen cabinets, would walk off a
cliff without hesitation, and has been known to stand innocently in
the kitchen nonchalantly chewing on a caterpillar. On the bike ride,
Piper was firmly ensconced in a child's seat attached to the front of
Jim's bike, facing forward. Her face was barely visible under a Star
Wars-like helmet. As we moved forward along the walls, Piper would
scream her excitement and make the clearest of gestures suggesting
that we move faster. Shortly after her carousel ride, when back on
the walls, Piper would grab her father's hands (which were tightly
clutching the handlebars) and, as forcibly as she could, tried to
pull Jim's hands clear of the bike. She could not have more
eloquently said, “I got it, dad. I'll take it from here.” Jim,
in an effort that even one day Piper will be grateful for, resisted.
I'm telling you, this little girl is extraordinary. Watch out for
her.]
We continued on. Some of
us circumnavigated the wall twice. This was an experience long in the
anticipation and not one to be shortened. At the end when our bikes
had been returned, and we settled in for a gelato and beer, I
realized that the only part of my body that hurt was my face. At
first, I wondered why. Then it hit me. This is what happens when
you've been smiling unrelentingly from ear to ear.
Dreams can do that to you.
