Part One- Dawn and Disagreement
Tuesday January 8th
My first day in Italy began before day break, in the hour just before the sun rises over olive and umber tinted hills of San Giovanni Valdarno. I had arrived at Hotel Del Lago the night before and the unlighted, nerve wrenching drive up and around narrow, paved roads afforded few views. I opened the 
quaint wooden shutters to the approaching morning and to get my first peak at the man-made lake of San Cipriano, advertised to sit right outside my window.
As I pushed back both panels a crisp breeze blew across my sleep creased cheeks. Mist hung in the air, a navy-tinted grey in the moonless time just before dawn. Down to my right a ramshackle lean-to sat in a dusty yard- and two tawny haired dogs were doing something unsavory to each other. I quickly closed the right shutter. That explained the yips that provided accompaniment to the cock’s crow at around five-thirty this morning.
Making a vow to keep that shutter closed for the duration of my stay, I looked right and my optimism was rewarded with a watery landscape shrouded in fog. Steel grey water sat still under a blanket of mist, the bare limbs of trees stabbed up through the white haze that hovered over a small island in the middle of the lake. Taking a deep breath, I did a wiggly little dance on the dark red tiles of my tiny room.
I turned away from the window and once again giggled at the monastic proportions of the space; there was barely space for the single bed, a wardrobe and forty-two inch television incongruously sitting on top of a small wooden table. Despite its size, the screen provided little entertainment as the only english channel was CNN International, where all trainee anchors are punted before they’re given real jobs. Instead of watching a suited Katie Curic wannabe struggle to pronounce “Musharref”, I practiced lip reading as an Italian-dubbed Jennifer Love-Hewitt helped ghosts. It was an early night.
The bathroom was even better. I’d thought “Bewildered from Belfast” was exaggerating when he wrote that the toilet was in the shower. He wasn’t. A flimsy curtain hung from the ceiling and separated the miniscule shower area from the rest of the four by four foot space, and shower time resulted in water spreading over the entire floor and splashing against white tiled walls. The only mirror in the room stood over the sink, which meant wet feet as I finished my morning rituals. But for the twenty euros a night the converted farmhouse charged patrons, I was able to laugh and chalk it up to an adventure.
Fortified by a complimentary cappuccino and croissant, I went to the front desk to ask the only 
english speaking staff member directions to the bus. He was a tall rangy man, lightly tanned in a “Roman Holiday” sort of way. He commanded a small office behind the reception with maps on the walls and piles of paper on flat surfaces. After double checking that the twenty-five euro cab fare I’d paid last night was indeed correct, I asked him for a bus schedule, and when the last bus ran to the area.
“The last bus is at seven,” he told me looking slightly alarmed. “But it is not safe to walk at night. The roads…” he trailed off, looking at me for reassurance that this was so. It is not muggers that had him concerned, but the fact that the ten minute walk to the bus stop trails along winding dark roads, and a lack of sidewalks means you have to tread on the non-existent shoulder. Despite fog or rain, Italian drivers are not known for their caution.
“I’m not paying 25 euros.” I stared back at him, my expression polite but firm. As he looked into my eyes I saw the moment he realized I was indeed cheap enough to risk my life for the next three nights. His brows furrowed. I blinked. Once. Very slowly.
“Okay there is no need to take the bus,” he seemed to deflate with a sigh. “We have a shuttle from the train station.” Surprised, I wondered why this was the first I’d heard of such a service, but figured I wouldn’t question my victory.
Folding the bus schedule into my pocket I smiled as we looked at each other in understanding. Placing my antique-looking brass room key at the front desk, there was a skip in my step as I trekked down the long gravel driveway that ran along the shores of the lake. I had a feeling Italy was going to be very good to me.
I spent my first day haggling over souvenirs and a beautiful leather jacket in Florence. Click here for some tips on haggling.
