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Okay, I admit it. I'm your stereotypical American. I'm loud
and obnoxious, drink too much, wear bright clothing . . .
and have no problem with making a complete idiot of myself,
especially in foreign countries.
This summer I decided to fly to Italy to visit some friends
who were taking language classes in Tuscany. It would be my
second time touring the land of gelato and chianti, and I
was more than excited to venture about. Every night, my friends
and I would drink and talk in the Piazza del Campo
inside the medieval city of Siena. Surrounded by towering
walls, this wide open space is a favorite of tourists and
locals alike. Here you can socialize with the natives and
discuss romantic notions of never returning home.
Siena is famous for a horserace that takes place twice a
year called il Palio. This race uses the perimeter
of the Piazza del Campo as its track. My trip was ending one
week before one of these illustrious races and I was a little
disappointed to be missing out on all the fun. My good friends
and I were having the "grand hurrah" in the Piazza,
when one of my buddies took it upon himself to enter us in
a little Palio of our own. With the wind to his back and the
swiftness of a mongoose, he hoisted me onto his shoulders
and proceeded to run at a full gate around the track. The
audience full of Italians shouted, "Vi, vi," ("go,
go"); we were sure to be going down in history.
I wish I could tell you that we made it one time around the
track, maybe even halfway around the track, accompanied by
the admiration of the crowd and the pride of being an idiot.
The truth of the matter is, we faced our certain doom after
only about thirty feet. You see, when running at top speed
over cobblestone . . . don't wear flip-flops. This former
good friend of mine tripped on a rock, propelling me ten feet
through the air only to land on my face. The term "biting
curb" doesn't do it justice. One missing tooth and two
busted lips later, I found myself rushed to an Italian hospital
at four in the morning.
No one at this hospital spoke English, and none of my friends
knew enough Italian to converse at an emergency room level.
I used my universal communication skills of pointing at my
face and grunting to convey that I needed medical attention
immediately. After basically a root canal with no pain killers
or anesthesia, the merciful doctor was kind enough to sculpt
me a brand new tooth for the blue-light special price of only
thirty Euros. Sure it may glow in the dark, but how many of
you can say you have a hand-crafted tooth from Italy?
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Travel Writers: Toothless in Siena By Samantha
Smith
