Be careful who you share the trail with.
I had to learn this the hard way during my decade of travel. That’s how I once found myself in the backseat of an Italian stranger’s car at one a.m. as he raced around Florence singing “Mr. Jones” while I questioned all my life choices.
Anna and I had met working on a sheep farm in Tuscany. On our last day, we decided to go into nearby Florence for one last epic night together. With no plans of sleeping, we checked our luggage at the train station and set off to dance all night. In the morning, she’d return home to Switzerland, and I’d decide on my next destination.
Florence was littered with bars, but an actual dance club was impossible to find. Our search stretched on for hours. We drank from glass liter bottles of beer, laughing and sharing stories as we combed the ancient, cobbled streets for that pulsing dancefloor.
“I have the worst taste in men,” Anna cackled, wiping pizza grease from her chin. “My friends always tell me this. One night, at a music festival, I slept with this guy with dreads. In the morning, my friends saw him and yanked me aside, shouting, ‘Are you really that desperate!'”
When I tried to reassure her, Anna stopped abruptly. “Eliza,” she gripped my arm, “I looked again and he was honestly disgusting. They were right. My taste cannot be trusted.”
Just as we were losing all hope of dancing, we finally heard a frenzied drumbeat and followed it down darkened stairs into a tiny basement bar. At last, an actual dance floor! There was just one problem: the music was terrible. The worst kind of techno. An endless beat that never dropped, the sort of music that imagines it’s keeping you on a tantalizing precipice but is in fact achingly boring. Still, it was better than nothing.
We bought weak, overpriced G&Ts and hit the dance floor. It wasn’t long before an older Italian man set his sights on my beautiful blonde friend. They started to dance and kiss and very quickly looked like they wanted to leave together.
At the bar, I asked her, “Do you want to hook up with him?”
Anna shrugged. “I don’t know….”
“If you do, it’s okay. Just let me have my luggage ticket. We can meet at the station in the morning.”
“No. I’ll stay with you.”
“Are you sure?”
She laughed. “I don’t know!”
“Whatever you decide, let me know. And, like, be safe. Tell me his name and address before you go.”
“No,” she said resolutely. “I’ll stay with you.”
The man bought our next round. “My favorite band is American!” he told me proudly, not waiting for a response. “You are both very pretty girls.” Then he stuck his tongue halfway down Anna’s throat.
Maybe she really did have the worst taste in men.
Eventually, she said, “He’s inviting us back to his apartment.”
“Is that what you want?” I asked, praying she’d say no. I’d have rather listened to techno until my ears bled. But I knew my friend would be safer if we stuck together. I wouldn’t leave her alone with this strange man in a foreign city.
“I don’t know! Maybe….” She blushed, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I just don’t know!”
I hoped an inside joke might help make up her mind. “Are you really that desperate?”
Anna howled with laughter. “I’ll tell him no.”
She returned a minute later. “He wants to show us the most beautiful view in all of Florence.”
That’s how I ended up in his car listening to “Mr. Jones” as he raved about the Counting Crows, his favorite band. He asked more than once if we were sure we didn’t want to go back to his place and listen to more great American music.
At least the Piazzele Michelangelo more than lived up to its reputation. Florence was stunning at night, aglow with light. I got lost in its ethereal beauty.
One minute I was gazing in awe at this beautiful city. The next, I realized I was completely alone.
“Anna?” I called hesitantly. Then louder, “Anna!”
The piazza was empty.
Did something terrible happen to her? Visions of horrible violence flashed through my brain. I quickly swirled through a hurricane of emotions imagining our fates: worry, fear, desperation. Finally, as I realized that they had simply left me, I settled on blood-boiling rage. Anna had dragged me up here, then ditched me. I was stranded in the middle of a foreign city at night!
All of Florence stretched below me. Now I’d need to trek across it and somehow find the train station in the dark. Maybe I could ask the police for help, if I could find them….This was a disaster.
“Anna!” My voice echoed through the vacant piazza.
That’s when I remembered. Anna still had my luggage ticket. Even if I did make it back to the station, all my belongings would remain locked away. I could’ve screamed.
But there was nothing left to do. I needed to start walking. I marched towards the exit. Then finally, Anna and the man sheepishly emerged from some bushes across the parking lot with a thousand apologies I didn’t care to hear.
It was a valuable lesson. Be careful who you share the trail with, whether that be on the ancient streets of Florence or a muddy path in the wilderness. Trust and communication are essential with your travel partners. Inevitably something goes wrong, and you need to be with somebody who will have your back. And, most importantly, someone who won’t create the crisis.
This was one of the many personal travel stories that I peppered throughout my novel Backstabbers. A book about three best friends lost in the wilderness who learn too late the important lesson Anna taught me on our last night together.
At least I was in lovely Florence, and not a serial killer’s old hunting grounds. If only my characters could say the same.
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