Sean and I spent our last Sunday in Florence acting like actual tourists, eating gelato, strolling around admiring statues, and dining one last time with our friends Marya and Daryle. When Monday morning came, we were free at last. Free from our imprisonment at a hostel with such terrible conditions that the severity of the situation went from bad to hilarious to unbearable throughout the course of the week. Free to search for a city with a more accepting or at least tolerant policy for busking. We packed up our suitcases, eliminated enough of our excess clothing to make space for our camera bag and computers inside one of them, and headed out into the pouring rain, bound for the train station. Next stop, Bologna.
Our initial bag count when we arrived in Italy had been ten; we were now down to eight. While we still felt ridiculously encumbered, we hoped that this consolidation would make train travel a bit less stressful. It was not to be– after a failed attempt at fitting our luggage into the racks above our assigned seats, we retreated to the baggage car, where we spent the remainder of the train ride, standing, and reading Great Expectations out loud.
Our week-long reservation in the shittiest hostel you can imagine has trapped us in Florence, a town where we can’t play without being stopped almost immediately by the polizia. After three days of not playing at all, we were finally in the negative. Not counting our plane tickets, our total expenditure of Euro had finally exceeded our input.
We do have some money in reserve, but that money is earmarked for our return tickets to the States, our wedding next summer, and our move to California, or, Flying Spaghetti Monster forbid, for some kind of emergency. Practical considerations aside, it’s just a very neat and satisfying way to be, only spending what we make, having other people’s enthusiasm or lack of enthusiasm expressed so clearly to us. If they like us, they tell us with coin. We continue to play. If they don’t like us, they don’t, and we don’t.
It’s a game we’ve gotten very good at the past year, spending as little as we could in preparation for our trip, and getting both of our individual finances ready. No encumbrances, no extraneous desires or habits.
It was with all this in mind that we set out on the train for Pisa on Friday morning.
If we were going to avoid disaster, we needed to busk while we were trapped in Firenze—but the town itself was out of the question, unless, like the many street vendors, we played hit-and-run with the police, stopping for a few songs and then retreating at their presence. But this is emotionally exhausting for both of us, and even though it might have worked out alright financially, it wasn’t tenable in the long run. It wouldn’t have been long before we would be recognized before we even started playing, and be told to take a hike—or, more likely, be fined or run out of town.
After a very long and much needed night of sleep, we couldn’t wait to play. But duty called– we set out to explore Firenze, as we had decided before hand that we should always take the first day in a new place to get to know the city. It takes a while to get the feel for the busk-ability of a new location, and we wanted to take in enough to be able to wisely choose the best place to play.
That morning our first destination was Ponte Veccio, a covered bridge adorned with jewelry shops and crowded with vendors and tourists. Our friend Giacamo had reported seeing a classical guitarist busk here on a recent visit to Firenze. On our walk there, we were continuously surprised by the lack of musicians. There were tourists everywhere, and so many beautiful piazzas and picturesque bridges. Where were all the buskers? It was quite mysterious. We arrived at Ponte Veccio, sure that someone would be playing there. Nope. No one. Through our time of busking, something has happened to our brains– whenever we see a crowd of people strolling along, taking in the sights, we feel an overwhelming urge to take out our instruments immediately and perform for them. Why weren’t there buskers everywhere? Didn’t all of the local musicians see what an amazing opportunity they were missing out on?
Across the bridge, we found a cafe and ordered “Due cappuccino,” the most delicious, frothy, perfect cappuccino I have ever had, which we enjoyed standing at the cafe counter (the prices listed on the menu are only good if you stand– there’s an extra “cover charge” for a table). Feeling sufficiently caffeinated, we picked up a baguette, plums, and a hunk of cheese from a little market, and carried our breakfast to a nearby piazza, passing several “artists” and print sellers along the way, but still, not a single musician. As we ate, tiny birds hopped beside us, daring to come very close to eat the crumbs that fell from our baguette. “We’re just like those little birds,” said Sean, “picking up the crumbs left behind.” This pleased me, as I strongly preferred being likened to a bird than Sean’s previous analogy of our relationship to the world, which described us as bottom feeders – the fish that suck the algae off of aquarium walls. Sean spoke to a man who was painting nearby. “La musica?” he asked, motioning to the surrounding area. “No, no.” the man replied. Very strange indeed.
On our walk back to the hotel, we came across a classical guitarist playing in the Piazza Repubblica, the same piazza where we had met a gypsy jazz trio the night before. Just as the trio had informed us, this busker had “authorization” – a weathered permit reading “artiste de strata” displayed in his guitar case. We had heard that some cities in Italy require permits, but were unclear as to how the laws worked, if the permits were really necessary, etc. We continued to debate the best course of action. Should we attempt to apply for a permit, or should we just go for it, play, and see what would happen.?