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Day 3 - E arrivato, Zampanò!

San Miniato → Gambassi Terme (24 km)

Hi, I’m Florin and I write daily dispatches as I walk the Via Francigena from Lucca to Rome. If you missed the other days, you can access them here.

Gelsomina: Where are you from?

Zampanò: From my town.

Gelsomina: Where were you born?

Zampanò: In my father’s house.

Any good adventure needs a side quest. Today, I found mine. I believe I’ve stumbled into the roots of Zampanò, Fellini’s character in La Strada. He travels in his three-wheel-motorcycle-truck. He goes from town to town in Italy and performs his trick. He is someone who has suffered much and likes to keep the past away from him through alcohol. Still, as you walk, there are traces that hint at Zampanò’s past.

Zampanò: Signore e Signori, for the first time ever in this town, you will witness a show of incredible strength. This chain here is a quarter-inch thick, made of solid iron and stronger than steel. I will wrap the chain around my chest and fasten it securely with this hook.

By simply expanding my pectoral muscles - that is, my chest - I’ll bust the hook. If anyone thinks the hook is already sawed in half, you may look for yourself. Gelsomina, please.

This piece of cloth is not for my protection…but to spare you the sight of blood in case the hook tears my flesh.

It’s Day 3 and everything is different. With expectations shed behind, a good night’s sleep, feet in good condition and intending to clock at least 30 “Buongiornos!” per day, I set off from the top of the hill in San Miniato. I realise how my morning rituals have changed. I hear church bells every morning on the way out of town, instead of the sound of stand-up meetings. I have a quick espresso, not my long cups of filter. I spot mailboxes in front of houses that say “Pane”, intended for fresh bread delivery. I think I can get used to this.

The only problem is that I’m wearing a black Huel T-shirt while walking in Italy. The intense Huel days are far behind me, but it’s probably as blasphemous as putting ketchup or pineapple on proper pizza. They’ve probably never heard of it. Let’s keep it a secret.

I’m walking alongside the Tuscan vineyards and I imagining the hardship of Italy in the 1950s. The country is trying to rebuild itself after WW2.

Little Vincenzo lost his mother a year ago to tuberculosis. His father works on a vineyard between San Miniato and Gambassi Terme. He used to play hide-and-seek with his mother across the vineyard. Now, he has to work hard to help his father. Vincenzo’s only relief is the travelling circus people that come every few months. He admires their funny costumes and athletic builds. They always start by saying: “Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in this town,” – something which makes Vincenzo feel like he’s part of something special. His father calls them a bunch of gypsies and tells him not to go and watch them any more. He needs to help in the house.

A lot changed since Mother passed away. Vincenzo wants his father to pay attention to him, so he’s tried everything: getting good grades at school, looking his best at the Sunday service and learning to speak properly. His dad mostly ignores him, apart from when he needs him to do something. There are still two ways in which Vincenzo can get his father’s attention. After a few glasses of wine, his father liked to see him do cartwheels and crab walks. He asked Vincenzo to do it when his friends were around for drinks. One of them asked where he’d learnt it from. “The circus,” Vincenzo said. His father slapped him and told him to never do these tricks again.

The other way Vincenzo got his father’s attention was, again, after a few glasses. But this involved anger. Like the time Vincenzo broke the tree swing. His father punished Vincenzo with an old rusty chain that hung in his workshop.

The lizards accompany me in the vineyards. They always seem to be rushing somewhere. No time to ask one for a portrait. Yesterday, I mentioned Pilgrim Mode and today, I put some more pieces together after walking with fellow pilgrims.

We’re all in search of something - what to do with our lives. We’re hoping that we may find answers in pushing ourselves physically, mentally, creatively. We don’t even know if we‘re asking the right questions. At the core of being a pilgrim, I think, is a trust in the process. At the end of the walk, we’ll be different people, who may think of better answers and of different questions to ask. But for that to happen, we need to walk.

“You’re carrying a lot of gear,” a fellow pilgrim said.

“All gear and no clue,” was all I could comment at that moment, because little clue did I have.

In the morning, another pilgrim asked if I’m getting lunch packed, as there wouldn’t be any villages or towns to pass through on the way. I said I’ll figure it out. Four hours later of walking in the sun and the electrolytes are not making up for the lack of calories. I then estimated that it’s only an hour left to get to Gambassi Terme, the day’s destination. What you, the reader, may not know is that I have a reputation amongst my friends to say: “Let’s walk, it’s only 10 minutes away.” An hour later, we’d still be at it.

Father: Vincenzo, sono arrivato. Vieni qua.

Silence.

Father: Vincenzo?

Silence.

Father: VINCENZO, DOVE SEI?

In the morning, Vincenzo’s father couldn’t find his son. The previous night, as his father was drunk, Vincenzo went to the circus people who agreed to adopt a new member in their crew. Years later, in his first solo show, Vincenzo instructs his assistant to tense the audience up with the snare drum and say: “E arrivato, Zampanò!”

Two hours pass from my last estimate and I walk by an old couple reading on their terrace. I say my 34th “Buongiorno!” and I get a warm reply. Their white dog is not as happy to see me. He jumps and bumps into the mesh fence, then starts barking and spinning around itself. I was half-expecting a Dragon Ball-Z kind of transformation from that spin. I guess he was admonishing me.

As I arrive at the donativo, the church bells ring. I think back to Zampanò. He tried to get his father’s attention and it all failed. For the rest of his life, he overcompensated. I suppose we may all have a little child voice in our heads that is trying to do the same, for whatever personal reason in whatever personal way. Maybe we should all give that child some attention.

Tired and hungry, I give my passport and pilgrim credentials to the front office. I almost say: “E arrivato, Zampanò!”

That’s it for the day. Tomorrow we’ve got another 27 km ahead of us.