Florence: where little streets lead to big piazzas adorned with marble
statues of Perseus, David and centaurs; where one can see wedding cake
cathedrals, medieval castles, and old bridges; where Michelangelo, Raffaello,
and Botticelli ate gelato together. And where one day in the not-too
distant past, two young girls were eating strange Florentine sandwiches
in a local pizzeria when an old man came up to them mumbling unintelligible
words. At least that was what they seemed to them for neither of the
girls was proficient in the language of the country. They did not pay
attention to him, and he left the place without purchasing anything.
Five minutes later they realized that one of them had her bag missing.
And this is how the story began....
As soon as we realized that Marjo had been robbed, we ran outside, but
either he was too quick and too smart, or we were simply too blonde.
Indeed, we were the perfect target: two foreign blonde girls who had
been traveling quite a while without anything ever happening to them.
The stupidness of the situation drove Marjo crazy, and she began cursing
in all languages she knew (a grand total of five), while Olga was doing
her best to cheer up Marjo (also in all the languages she knew).
Marjo: My anger turns into sadness as I think of what I've lost: not
only money and credit cards, but the bag itself (a gift brought from
Nairobi), my Swiss army knife, some jewelry — mostly all gifts
that had a sentimental value. And I can't help but laugh at the thought
of my dirty hot pink underwear was in there too.
Olga: If this happened me, I would probably be crying, but Marjo kept
repeating: This is a lesson for me not to get attached to material things.
We look around in the garbage bins, and having not found anything, we
go to carabinieri as this was the most rational thing to do.
Marjo: As we enter the police building, we find the office of two good-looking
Italian policemen. Olga and I have nothing to do but to laugh at ourselves,
and the two young men on call have a hard time understanding why we
think the situation is funny. In our bad Italian we try to tell the
story... They immediately get the MasterCard phone number, and I spend
the next twenty minutes half talking to the operator in the US, half
laughing with the Italians.
Olga: The hardest thing was to explain that Marjo is French while she
is speaking fluent American on the phone and sputtering Spanish words
at them, and that I am from Belarus (which is between Poland, Russia,
and Ukraine, and the capital is Minsk—one of them actually knows
it!) but am now studying in Florence, and know Marjo because we go to
the same college in the United States. That seems a little bit strange
to them, but they agree to help us.
Marjo: The taller one of them escorts us to where I have to file my
complaint — at least that's what we think. He takes us through
corridors, very proud to show us off to his buddies around the building.
We got a bit suspicious when we were in the elevator, but the guy protested
that he was a gentleman.
Olga: We finally get to our destination: the Flying Squad. Twisting
and playing with his mustage, Mr. In Charge is smoking at his desk and
seems not as interested in helping us out as his younger friend. I just
admire the way Marjo handled this situation.
Marjo: He starts questioning me in French, which turns out to be the
usual five minutes of fun as I have to spell out my full name (letters
are hard to get out in another language) as well as where I was born
(and he still didnít spell Reykjavik right). Anyway, an hour
and three people later we finish up the paper, and are brought out of
the building. I have barely a half hour before I need to catch my train
back to Spoleto. Olga has been the sweetest companion, laughing and
reassuring, and treats us to a delicious gelato. If we had had more
time we would have celebrated (for we were still safe and healthy) with
a shot of grappa. Perhaps next time.
xxx margolena and olghita
PS. Stick to your guns... And your wallets.