All the Way to Heaven

Chapter 7

The first thing I did was follow Fabio's directions to the medieval Guinigi Tower, famous for its rooftop garden that could be seen from all over the city. I climbed the two-hundred-plus steps to the top and was pleasantly surprised to find it nearly empty of visitors. I snapped a few shots of the aerial view of Lucca to send home, and then spread my map out on a bench under one of the tough little Holm oak trees to get my bearings. I located my street a couple blocks away and realized I could see l'Aurora's awning from there. I waved, just in case Madalina happened to be looking my way.

I meandered back the way I came, stopping for a pistachio gelato along the way. I'd made the decision to taste as many different flavors of the Italian ice cream as I could before leaving the country. I'd have to eat a lot of the stuff in the sixteen days I had left, but I was game.

I found the bicycle rental place Fabio recommended in the piazza just past the end of my street. Beyond the row of shops was a ramp leading up to the top of the wide stone wall that had embraced the ancient city since the Renaissance period. I planned to ride around the two-and-a-half mile perimeter and to do a little people watching. I'd read that the wall was more like a promenade, where locals and tourists alike paraded and cycled, played and picnicked. According to popular travel gurus, if I wanted to experience the way of life that embodied Lucca, the wall was the place to start.

The bike I rented was essentially a modified beach cruiser, and I tucked my purse, Fabio's map, my water bottle, and a few carefully wrapped sweeties, courtesy of the generous patroness of l'Aurora, into the wicker basket hanging from the handlebars. I'd grown up on a bike, our kid-friendly street ending on a cul de sac, so had no qualms about getting on one now. In fact, once up on the wall, the paved, tree-lined path looked wonderfully inviting, and for the first time since arriving in Italy, I almost felt like I could blend in with the locals.

Although the busiest part of the tourist season was winding down, people were everywhere and I moved among them, soaking in the hypnotic ebb and flow of local conversation and the universal music of young children playing. Breezes rustled the leaves overhead and fluttered the skirts of the women who walked arm and arm with their friends and lovers, relishing in the lingering echoes of a Tuscan summer. I smiled at an elderly couple holding hands on a bench beneath a stately oak still in full leaf, the filtered sunlight dancing on the bright yellow fabric of the old woman's dress.

"Does anyone work in this city?" I asked myself out loud.

I rode leisurely, stopping at will whenever something caught my eye. From this slightly elevated position, I could look down into the city: ancient churches with bell steeples, tiny garden plots inside walled courtyards, citrus trees in containers on terraces four and five stories up, and laundry strung from window to window. Narrow streets led into the heart of the city, disappearing between tall buildings, and I wanted to explore every single one of them.

Slowing to a stop at the top of one of the ramps that lead off the wall and down to the street level, I reached into the basket for my water bottle. From behind me came a sudden burst of unintelligible shouts, and I turned to look over my shoulder just in time to see the panicked face of a child on a bicycle before she careened into me. Unprepared for the jolt, I tried to jump free as my own bike went over. My left foot caught and twisted in the metal frame, and I fell on my backside, hard, the palms of my hands scraping along the gravel at the edge of the pavement. I was stunned, and terribly embarrassed, but I didn't think I was hurt too badly.

The little girl, however, lay in a crumpled heap right behind me, sobbing and holding her arm. A man, presumably her father, knelt over her, clearly trying to console her, but his words came out in such a rush, I was sure he was only feeding her fear with his own. A memory came to mind of when I was about this girl's age, and I'd sliced open my heel on a piece of glass that had somehow found its way into our back yard. I'd been so brave as I limped onto the porch, holding back my tears. My father, however, took one look at all the blood and began to panic. So I panicked, too, until my mother took charge of the situation, sat me down on a lawn chair, and sent my father inside for a cold washcloth. By the time he returned, we all were a little calmer.