Peter van der Needle
The sea in front of Viareggio is calm. The late summer has come. The tourists gone. The Italians back to work. As far as they have that, because here too there is a crisis going on. Looking at the water in front of me, I digress. To faraway places. To places where I need to go again, but where I probably won't. After all, there is plenty to see here, in the area of the present and today.
The bicycle
With a jerk I turn around on my bare feet, so actually on my heels. In the sand. Give it a try. Quite difficult in loose beach sand. Suddenly it's only a rush, as far as that word fits in Italy. There is more to do. More to see. Something I suddenly have to go to.
Today's own transport is a bicycle. Not one that quickly becomes someone else's means of transport in the Netherlands because the lock is quickly cut.
No, I've got a real Italian under me. A huge handlebar, almost a cow horn wide. A pink steering wheel. With blue handles. With a blue bell and a blue headlight. Not that I would ever plan to cycle from Viareggio to Torre del Lago Puccini in the dark. Heaven, no. The fastest way to get anywhere on a Croce Rossa bus.
Torre del Lago
I cycle along the avenue with the beautiful lime trees. Beautiful avenue, bad bike path. Everywhere the roots of the trees stick out just above the asphalt. Or what's left of that top of the bike path.
Just like in the Netherlands, traffic lights at the end of the street don't matter. Only the cars stop properly. Cyclists look around and are in no extra hurry.
When I cycle into Torre, the thought of that cup of espresso makes me happy. Or two. Actually, I'll be drinking caffè later. After all, espresso is a machine. No product. Only tourists are asked what they mean at caffè. The best caffè in the whole region.
That's where the lake is. The lake where the village of Torre del Lago responds so beautifully. Yes, that tower is really almost on the lake. But the real attraction is the mansion where the family of womanizer and composer Giacomo Puccini lived. Or was it the other way around? Was he first a composer and then a womanizer? Well, the house. Almost on the lake, next to the open-air theater for summer performances of his music. Madame Butterfly fluttering from the blue theater.
Espresso
Then comes the best part of the bike ride. No tourists, no big edicola (kiosk) with knick knacks, but a modest square. With a small tent. And a real Italian coffee corner. With a few plastic chairs at the tables. A manager in white sandals and a white apron. And of course wearing a white hat. No livery, no obliging waiters chatting someone inside.
Coffee for a euro. Peace. Some Italians. Walk to the lake between the two cups of caffè. Bike locked. Why?
Again I am staring over water. Gray-blue water where there was once a swamp. The calm descends on me. This water gives you peace of mind.
When I turn around on my heels, those typical Italian houses with ironwork on the balconies. Flowers in the garden. Hedges around it. Because I am on such a platform near the bandstand, I look unabashedly into the gardens. This time it was less difficult to turn around. With walking shoes on concrete, such a pivot is no problem.
Tomorrow
When I look at the lake again I see something I definitely have to go to. The other side of the lake. Not with the tour boat. Not by car.
Tomorrow. Just by bike. Along the bike paths around the lake. Curious what there is to drink in that village from which I see the plumes coming out of the chimneys on the other side.
Satisfied I walk back to my bike and the coffee corner. Just a coffee first. Then back to Viareggio. On my pink bike with blue fenders and something like a blue chain guard.
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