Chapter 39
‘Should we have booked an actual walking tour?’ I ask, reading a fairly confusing and extremely dull website on the history of Pisa. The Italian to English translation looks like it was written by someone who doesn’t have a grasp of either language.
‘Maybe we should call Camilla?’ I suggest. ‘I get the feeling she knows every tourist trap in Italy. And I can learn the Italian word for hangover.’
I take a swig from my bottle of water, hoping I’ll eventually rehydrate myself into wellness. Ellis then takes it from me because it isn’t my bottle.
‘So, you worry about things that haven’t happened and you also like to be organised and in control. Good to know.’
‘Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little structure to the day,’ I reply, thinking that if he knew me well, the question would be am I ever organised. ‘Anyway, this website says there are lots of walking tours around. We can always trail behind them, pretending we’re not listening.’
Ellis raises his eyebrows. ‘Honestly, that’s not a bad idea.’
I smile smugly in agreement. ‘But you’ve been here before, right?’ I ask. ‘You know the area.’
Ellis nods. ‘Yeah, I’ve been here. About nine years ago . . . maybe fifteen.’
My smug face quickly changes to flustered. ‘Well, that’s quite the jump. A lot could have changed in nine years! The leaning tower could now be an upright block of luxury flats with an onsite gym. The whole city could be under water. What if we get lost?’
‘It probably has changed,’ Ellis replies. ‘But technically you asked if I had been before, not if I remembered my way around.’
‘Seriously? Why would I—’
‘We have Google Maps,’ he responds before I can finish my scolding. ‘We’ll be fine.’
The train pulls into Pisa Centrale, and we disembark.
It’s small, busy and not the most modern station I’ve been to.
Lots of luggage being yeeted around, someone yelling about ticket validation and everyone trying to avoid the dropped gelato near the toilet entrance.
We find the ticket machine and stamp our tickets, safe in the knowledge that we won’t have to pay a fine when they accuse us of breaking rules we weren’t even aware of.
Stepping outside, the vibe immediately changes.
It’s still busy, still noisy but now everyone has more of a swagger than a sprint.
Some people make eye contact. It feels so much more relaxed than London, until Ellis grabs me and pulls me back just as I’m about to collide with an e-scooter.
The rider doesn’t even acknowledge me and just keeps on going.
I avoid eye contact with a creepy man wearing a fedora and oversized wire-rimmed glasses. Now it feels like London.
There’s an antiquated map outside the station, which Ellis peruses. He looks stumped.
‘Ha, so you don’t know where we’re going!’ I say, weirdly triumphant for someone who might be lost in Italy. ‘Is this thing even up to date? What about Google Maps?’
‘That’s a back-up,’ he replies. ‘Besides, I’m good with maps. Experienced, you know: merchant navy for ten years, cruise ship captain, orienteering in the Boy Scouts . . .’
I laugh. ‘Boy Scouts, eh? Why didn’t you say something sooner?’
‘I don’t like to brag. Anyway, it’s about a thirty-minute walk,’ he tells me, outlining the route with his finger. ‘Easy enough. Sometimes the fastest route isn’t necessarily the most scenic.’
‘That sounds like a euphemism for foreplay.’
I hear him snigger.
A thirty-minute walk. Compared to the three hundred miles we walked yesterday, it does sound less harrowing.
We forge ahead, squeezing through lines of tourists, cutting across the Piazza Vittorio, with the first of many outdoor cafés available along the tree-lined streets.
Everything is so clean and accessible. There are bikes for hire, horse-drawn carriages, market stalls, happy dogs being walked in the sunshine and rows of older houses sitting above the shops and modern boutiques.
We cross the Ponte Solferino over the Arno River.
‘This way,’ Ellis instructs, pretending like he isn’t just following others who look like they’re walking with purpose. ‘The Square of Miracles isn’t too far. It’ll be busy around the tower, just keep an eye on your bag. Same as any city, sticky fingers love the tourists.’
Immediately I swing my cross-body bag from my hip to the front, hoping that if I am somehow targeted, that woman from YouTube will appear yelling ‘ATTENZIONE! PICKPOCKET!’ like the hero she is, where she will scare them off and then everyone will cheer.
To me and my already fatigued legs, this walk seems much longer than thirty minutes but soon the square comes into view.
A large well-maintained grassy space surrounding the cathedral, the Baptistry, the cemetery and of course the Leaning Tower.
It looks exactly like every photograph I’ve seen – a striking, white marble tower – but it’s far more beautiful and imposing in real life.
‘Did you know that the tower is actually a freestanding bell tower and part of the cathedral?’ I ask Ellis. ‘And it’s a hundred and eighty-four feet tall?’
‘I didn’t,’ Ellis replies. ‘See, who needs a tour guide when we have whatever website you just got that from?’
‘You want to do one of those photos where you pretend to prop up the tower?’ I ask him. ‘Send it to your kids?’
‘My kids are seventeen and twenty-one,’ he replies. ‘So obviously, yes. Yes, I do.’
Ellis is much sillier than I would expect a ship’s captain to be, but I have no basis for comparison. Maybe they’re all like this? Maybe the job requires both skill and foolishness in equal parts?
We approach the tower and discover it’s roughly 294 steps to climb to the top. I feel like I’m being punished. I did not come on this cruise just to climb. Before I can protest, we’re told that the next tour isn’t until 4 p.m., by which time we’ll need to be back on the train.
‘Oh well, that’s a shame,’ I say, trying not to sound delighted. I’m glad I’m here but I feel like even attempting those stairs in this heat might be the end of me.
‘I climbed it last time I was here,’ Ellis says, looking up. ‘To be honest, the building is impressive, but the climb I can live without. Unless standing on top of high buildings is your thing?’
‘Heights are one hundred per cent not my thing,’ I assure him. ‘I hate heights.’
‘You hungry?’
‘Always.’
‘So why don’t we sit outside? Get some lunch? Maybe a hair of the dog?’
‘Yes, yes and no,’ I reply. ‘I’m already ninety per cent proof. Keep me away from naked flames.’
We wander for a while, finding a little Tuscan restaurant with a modest seating area outside. We barely have time to look at the menu board before a woman in a black dress with a messy bun appears from nowhere.
‘Come in, lovely people! We have table here for you,’ she says, pointing to the left. Even though we haven’t decided this is where we’ll have lunch, we find ourselves doing as we’re told. She’s far too welcoming to refuse.
We order a platter to share and are presented with a mountain of bread, cheese, olives, cured meats and pickled vegetables. Ellis has a beer while I have a mimosa mocktail. As soon as I start to eat, I feel better.
‘You know that film where Julia Roberts goes abroad to find herself and just eats pasta until her clothes don’t fit her any more?’
‘Eat Pray Love?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one,’ I reply, inhaling some more cheese and bread. ‘She was away for months. I’m only on day five and I already feel the need for an elasticated waistband. I really should take advantage of the buffet salad bar but who the hell eats salad on holiday?’
‘So you have the Eat part down,’ he responds, smiling. ‘Just Pray and Love to go! You’ve got this.’
‘I’m not sure I have the will or the inclination to find a higher calling anytime soon,’ I say.
He chuckles. ‘Not religious then?’
‘Not even a little bit,’ I reply.
Ellis sips his beer. ‘I was raised Baptist. Mom made me and my older sister Kerry go with her to church every Sunday. But when I went into the army, I fell away from it.’
‘Are you still close with them?’
‘Kerry lives in Dallas now. We keep in touch but probably not as often as we should. Mom died in 2000.’
‘Sorry to hear about your mum. My dad passed away a while back so it was just me and Mum for a long time. She thinks she needs someone to take care of her. I’m the opposite. Anyway, I don’t hold out much hope for the love part. I’m not even sure I’ll continue this when I get home.’
‘I think if you want it, it’ll happen,’ Ellis replies. ‘I mean, you’re trying, right? You’re following your “yes” strategy, which, by the way, I still don’t entirely understand, but now you’re in Pisa, drinking mimosa and hogging all the cheese.’
‘This is true,’ I say, moving my hand away from the Fontina. ‘And you’re right. I do want it. I’ve been single long enough.’
‘How long is that?’
‘Hmm, if you don’t count the three months in 2019, which I don’t, then I’ve been single for oh, twenty years, give or take.’
He stops eating. ‘You’re kidding?’
I shake my head. It’s hard to verbalise with a mouth full of prosciutto.
‘That’s insane. How can anyone survive without . . . well, you know?’
‘Sex?’ I ask. ‘I’m not a nun, Ellis. If I was, that whole Pray part would be a done deal.’
He laughs. ‘Sorry, I didn’t want to pry.’
I catch the eye of the friendly hostess. ‘Un altra mimosa e una birra. Grazie.’
‘Certo!’
‘Nice Italian,’ Ellis says. ‘Camilla would be proud.’
‘I looked it up on the train. I can also say “Where is the bathroom?” and “Go away”. I’m sure neither will—’
‘But seriously,’ he interrupts. ‘Twenty years! That’s a long time to be single. Was it intentional?’
‘I didn’t plan it!’ I exclaim. ‘My first and last proper relationship was in my twenties.’
‘The man who hated music?’
I laugh. ‘The very one. I was young and in love with him. His ego liked that I was young and in love with him. It wasn’t the best time. Screwed me up for a while.’
‘I can see how it would.’