Chapter 39
Wearing a less dingy, pink summer dress, we board the train at 9.45 a.m. for our almost two-hour journey to Pisa. The trains here are not particularly different from the trains in the UK. Even the seats are covered with the same material, although they have leather seats in the premium carriages, which look almost plush. Premium on UK trains usually consists of access to painfully slow Wi-Fi and one wonky USB port between five, if you’re lucky. There’s also not a leather-covered seat in sight.
‘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 Ieverorganised. ‘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 hadbeenbefore, 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?’
