“Oh, you’re American.” He raised his eyebrows as he put my bags into his car.
“Yes.” I said slowly. “Don’t you have many Americans in the workshop?”
“We used to have over 70%,” he sighed, his words caramel thick with a creamy Itlaian accent. “But since 9/11, enrollment has dropped way down. Now, I’d say the reverse is true.”
I folded myself into Diego’s dirty blue Fiat outside the dusty little train station in Buonconvento, Italy. I was there to attend a photography workshop in the nearby town of San Quirico and had been looking forward to meeting people from different countries. So why was this information making me uneasy?
I started the day with a surplus of enthusiasm, but as I navigated my way though the bus and train system, lugging my carefully packed bags and equipment through the 93 degree haze, some of that positive energy began to melt. It wasn’t the foul breathed teenaged backpacker’s fault that he had to press himself up against my sweat soaked body on the bus. There was nowhere else for him to go. Nor could I blame the blank-eyed train station attendant for giving me the wrong information; how was she to know that the platform number for my train would be switched less than three minutes before departure? And it certainly was no one’s fault that the announcement was made in Italian. I was, after all, in Rome.
“Quale traino per Buonconvento?” A kind hearted woman heard my desperate entreaties to several bystanders. I imagine she took in my sagging shoulders, wet brow, and frantic tone and took pity on me.
“Do you need help, dear?” I could have kissed her.
“Oh, yes. I’ve been given conflicting information and I’m trying to find out which platform to go to for Buonconvento.”
She put a warm, matronly hand on my shoulder. “Well, that is where I am traveling, it’s this one over here.” Dressed comfortably chic, with a casual cotton skirt and short sleeved print blouse, she reminded me so much of my Aunt Betty. Pulled together, brisk, yet nurturing.
We boarded shortly thereafter and although she asked about my trip and told me a bit about her hometown of Florence, she left me to my thoughts. The old train ambled slowly through the countryside, the stuffiness in the car gradually easing as pockets of air pushed in through the grimy top windows. Postcard scenes unfolded, teasing my expectations. Tidy lines of rolled hay marched over the gently sloping hillsides. Sun bleached stucco farmhouses with ruddy tile roofs looked haphazardly plunked down every few miles, like game pieces scattered across a board. Swaying rows of deep gold crisscrossed with rigid rows of verdant green.
At the next bend, we rumbled right past a lonely looking cypress, causing it to swoosh in our wake. Taking a deep pull on the precious bottle of now lukewarm water, I settled back , closed my eyes and could almost hear the whir of my mental projector as scenes unspooled from the story I had woven. I pictured myself sipping fruity local Chianti with my fellow classmates after a day spent capturing the wildly romantic Tuscan images that so nonchalantly rolled past my window. The work would be so consuming, I’d lose track of time. My photographs would be vibrant and fresh, something I created with my own hands, my own vision. After writing down every detail and impression in my journal, I would fall into bed each night with that delicious weariness that’s rooted in a satisfying sense of accomplishment.
I’d heard from two friends, whose work I greatly admired, that attending a workshop would be “a life changing experience.” God that sounded thrilling. There was a time when I wouldn’t have considered doing something this bold. But that was before my father died. That day knocked my life out of balance and a big piece of my foundation was kicked away. Finding a passion and a purpose mattered more now. I was convinced that the immersion into the unfamiliar, the sensual setting, and the adventure of traveling alone would all combine to arouse my creative individuality and point me in the right direction. I didn’t want to waste any more time.
After passing a half dozen nameless sleepy stations, the train finally slowed at my stop. My good-natured traveling companion was concerned that no one was on the platform to greet me, but I told her not to worry, I’d find them. Before rounding the corner I looked back to a warm smile and vigorous wave goodbye.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Diego’s question pulled me back to the moment at hand. I shook my head.
“No, thanks.”
We were winding our way over bumpy, dusty roads, passing fields of drooping sunflowers, weathered cottages blooming with overflowing window boxes and, to my delight, the occasional smattering of thirsty looking grape vines. The steady breeze filled the car with an earthy, silty smell.
Half an hour later, he nudged the Fiat up a steep hill, then down a bustling side street, parking alongside an ancient stone building that had once been part of the city walls.
“Okay, sorry to rush you, but you’ve got twenty minutes to shower and change for dinner. I need to get back to the school. I’ll wait across the courtyard at the café.”
He helped me haul my bags up the narrow, slippery stone steps. I dumped my equipment and peeled off my sticky clothes. Even in my hurry I was able to appreciate the charm of the wide windows with heavy red peeling shutters that were begging to be flung open. Ah, the healing power of a much needed shower! Vastly refreshed, I hurried out the door to meet Diego.
Il Poggiolo, the meetinghouse, stood like an arrogant warrior with arms crossed and feet spread. Aptly named, (the balcony), it was built on a hilltop and overlooked the tiny drowsy town of San Quirico. We walked up the stone steps to the sweeping patio where many students had already arrived. There were five classes being held that week, each with 6-10 students, one instructor and one assistant. My first choice class had been canceled due to lack of enrollment and I was attending the one the school suggested in its place. Most people were talking and laughing in small groups as if reacquainting themselves. There were more men than women, but many could have been an artist’s muse. I struggled not to stare. Sculpted jaws supported pillow soft lips, espresso eyes shined, sable hair flowed.
Although travel weary, I was humming with that first day of school anticipation. But before I could plunge in, however, Carlo, the soft-spoken founder and director of the school, announced in English that we should gather for an orientation talk. He had an overgrown rumpled monk haircut, wide face and easily distracted eyes. Dressed in wrinkly kakis that had seen better days and a faded blue polo shirt, he looked like he had been dragged away from doing something else. Initially warm and welcoming, he quickly introduced the different instructors, those surely wise professionals who were standing at the ready to coax out our collective genius. They broke us into groups by class.
“You must be Carol.” A petite woman with smiling eyes reached out her hand. “I am Anna, Andrea’s assistant and I will be translating for you.” Before I could even register just what that was going to mean, my instructor Andrea looked up from the gaggle of students surrounding him and switched into English.
“Oh, Carol… yes. I am afraid you are the only American in my class – the only one who speaks English, actually.” He laughed. “This is very rare, as most students who come here can usually speak English as a second language. It’s odd, but no one does in this group. So, I’ve decided to teach it in Italian for the first time. Anna will translate for you where needed.”
Where needed? My language tapes had reviewed how to catch a bus, order a meal and chat with the locals. I wasn’t prepared to learn photography techniques in Italian. Oh, God. This workshop had sounded like such a good idea. My Mom so wanted to give me something special for my birthday. She was thrilled that she could do this for me. And the timing was perfect. My husband, David, was working with a client in Reno… it was the ideal week. But how was I going to learn anything this way?
Dismissing me with a quick nod, he turned back to the rest of the class.
“Excuse me, but won’t that be difficult?” He looked back at me with raised eyebrows. With a trace of annoyance, he responded, “Well, it is unfortunate, but Anna knows a decent amount of English, so she can explain things to you quietly as I teach.”
Yep, that was my only option. The other classes being held that week were either much more advanced or specialized. I didn’t want to just turn around and go home. I had come too far.
Little did I know that the struggle had just begun.
