For those of you who knew me in the first few years I lived in Manhattan after college, you always knew where to find me during the early mornings on the weekend. I would get my morning coffee on 7th Avenue and walk to the Annex, the Chelsea antique market formerly located on 26th Street. Sometimes I would come home empty handed and sometimes you would see me walking 5' standing coat hangers back down 7th Avenue when the rest of the city started to awake. This became a crucial part of my life and weekend routine and I still have friends, not to mention all of the wonderful furniture and objects, that I discovered there. I know my fellow Annex devotees in NY share the same sentiment as I do, that it just has not been the same since it moved farther west and north. My heart still breaks when I think back to the day I learned they were turning the lot situated on precious real estate into Manhattan's newest high rise luxury building, thus ending an era that will never be replicated.
With this said, it will not come as a surprise to you that I've spent a greater part of my weekends here exploring the local mercatini antiquariato. It is not an easy feat: One must first learn where the worthwhile ones are, then you have to figure out which ones are held on the first, last, and sometimes second or third Saturday and/or Sunday of the month. While you might think it is as simple as inserting an "antique market" search in google, it's not. Many of the websites come up with dates like May 2005, so you are better off asking people at the markets you attend. This is part of the discovery, the romance of the culture, and further enforces how much Italy relies on interpersonal communication instead of virtual information overload on the internet. It is quite likely, however, that the information you find from 2005 will be accurate since things don't change too quickly around here. Following these markets also gives you the ability to explore towns you otherwise might not visit, and it truly gives you a feel of the town and its inhabitants.
Last Sunday I set out on my latest adventure to attend the market in Lucca where I had never before been. I rode my bicycle to the station in the 30 degree smothering heat, missed the first train I attempted to take, and ended up on a local train that stopped in every single tiny town between here and Lucca. When I sat down in the car, I had two people screaming over my head. I walked into a quieter car and sat down with my ipod, Vogue Italia, and just wanted to tune out for an hour and 45 minutes. Had I taken the right train it would've been just over an hour. Had I taken the right train, I would have missed a brief and fleeting moment on an intercity train that has impacted me immensely.
The man sitting across the aisle from me asked me in English to tell him when we arrived in Borgo a Buggiano, but I explained to him that I was not familiar with the line. He asked me if I was American, which obviously led into a short conversation about what I am doing here in Italia.. if I had ever been to Lucca.. et cetera. He was very amiable and calm. He did not have any luggage, he carried only a book with him. In our brief conversation he told me I should look up his friend's book about Tuscan cooking, in small unknown trattorias throughout the region surrounding Lucca. He gave me her name and I wrote it down so as not to forget it. We talked briefly about food, about NY (he is from upstate New York not far from Cornell) and his family. I asked if he had been to this village before and he said he had been many times since he has close friends there. Today, he had already been from Athens to Rome to Firenze. I said that's quite a journey for half a day's time. And then he told me he was going to say goodbye to his friend.
I had only seconds to process his words, because I knew his stop was rapidly approaching, and I had so much I wanted to say. But nothing came out. Instead he continued. His friend wrote many successful books, lived a very fruitful and fulfilling life doing just what he wanted to do, and it was his time to go. He just hoped he made it in time, but did not look hopeful. He had spoken to his friend's wife when he got on the train and he was still alive, but barely. He hoped that his presence or just him knowing that one of his oldest friends was on his way to see him would extend his life for just a few more days so they could spend more precious moments together. We arrived at Borgo a Buggiano, and I told him I knew he made it in time. He thanked me, and told me to make sure I enjoy every single moment of my life, and ran off the train.
These gentle reminders cannot be ignored. I cannot put into words exactly how this message has affected me but I do not think I need to. When I do catch up with him, which you all know I somehow will, I will let you know how the story unfolds...
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