Italia 15 - Bergamo

It was the first time I’d noticed the slight shudder through the airframe when an aircraft rotates clear of the runway.  Or maybe it was just the first time I’d made a mental note.  The windows seemed to rattle in the exhaust-blast from the port engine as it deflected from the tarmac.  In a few seconds the airport fell away into a broadening green landscape and friends old and new became disconnected figments of another place.

The plane made a deep right turn, swinging the sun-washed streets of Bergamo into view one last time, then began its climb over the mountains.

As someone who once suffered from a fear of flying, I’m not doing badly.  I’ve probably clocked over a hundred hours in the air, which isn’t much compared to some, but more than I ever thought I’d reach.

My palms still sweat copiously on hairy approaches through buffeting cloud and somewhere, harboured at the back of my mind, is the question of what happens if those engines fail just when everything depends on them.

We’d flown out of Bristol almost exactly a week before.  It might even have been with the same crew.  There’s something about the flight out: escape from the mundanity of work and home, the thrill of an adventure.  The drive to Bristol airport from our flat is delightful, passing through the Somerset countryside, the last leg being through an enchanted ravine, closed in by mysterious woods.  On the Tuesday afternoon that we flew out the terminal had been almost empty, feeding us quickly down to the end of the runway.

The sound and feel of those engines powering up actually excites me now.  I love the complexity of these machines, juxtaposed with their adherence to the simple and beautiful principles of flight.  It’s what gives them such an elegant physical appearance.  A hundred years of human effort resulting in a basic configuration settled on by the designers at Boeing and Airbus.  It makes me feel more comfortable in the air.  I suppose I’m a son of The Enlightenment.

The weather had been pretty clear on the way out of Bristol and we had great views of the south coast of England, seeing the docks at Southampton and Portsmouth and the piers of seaside resorts before crossing the oh so narrow channel to France.  It’s around a one hour fifty flight to Bergamo – just time to get some reading in.  We were due to land around six pm Bergamo time.   South of the Alps, the sky was too hazy to see anything from the window until we were just a couple of thousand feet from the ground.  By the time we could see the bell-towers and terracotta roofs, we were practically down – just a short burst of sweat from the palms of my hands.

The last time I visited Bergamo, I’d been met by a friend.  This time, he was busy teaching, so it was down to N and I to work out the bus into town.  If in doubt, ask. 

The B&B was on Via Vittorio Emmanuel II, a stone’s-throw from the funicular railway that carries tourists and locals up to the upper town.  A year before, I’d been walking along here when all hell broke loose as police waving assault-rifles poured onto the road and held up the traffic.  It was the daily delivery of cash to the Banca d’Italia.

We found the buzzer for the B&B on a gate outside a modern residential block.  Roberto, the owner had sent an email asking what time we thought we’d arrive.  It was seven pm.  Right on time.  Our host released the lock from the intercom and directed us into the building. 

Roberto is a tall, handsome Italian man in his fifties.  He boomed out a warm welcome in English and waved us into the apartment.  It took me a moment to get accustomed to our surroundings.  We were standing in what would be a large living-room, with a number of doors off.  Behind us was an arch leading to a bright breakfast area.  A pretty woman smiled to us from a table cluttered with the administrative tools of the B&B – laptops, scanner, key-fobs and invoices.  Roberto introduced Danielle.

The living-room was like a bric-a-brac shop piled high with battered old cases and variations on the theme of travel.  A woman emerged wearing a dressing-gown.  Roberto introduced us.  She was a French guest staying in the room next to ours.  The other room was occupied by a Swiss couple.  We dropped our bags in our room and headed out for a spritz. 

The nearest café was on the same block.  We found a table on the pavement and ordered drinks.  I’d arranged to meet my teacher-friend who’d already warned me that this was the busiest day of his week.  I sent a text while N and I drank our spritzes and explored the map.

Within an hour, Jack appeared, walking up Via Vittorio Emmanuel II looking at his phone.  I gave him a huge wave and kept waving until he looked up.  We hadn’t seen each other for over a year.  We skipped the hand-shake and went straight to a hug.  His eyes were streaming with hay-fever.  He pointed out the fluffy blossom floating like snow in the air.  It was the first time I’d noticed it.  We decided to pay the bill and move on.

N had come to the airport pretty much straight from a night-shift and wasn’t up for a late night.  I was absolutely counting on having one.  Jack and I walked N back to the B&B so she could hand me the keys for the building and we said goodnight. 

Jack and I walked into town, clapping each other’s backs and catching up lost time.  He said there was a bar he knew where we could sit inside and chew the fat.  Juventus were playing that night and the match would be live on TV.  I didn’t care either way, but if he wanted to watch the game it was fine by me.

Night was falling and we’d turned a couple of corners that were vaguely familiar to me when Jack stopped. 

“Hey, look.  It’s a gorgeous night.  Would you prefer to sit outside?”

I said I would.

Soon we were on the old cobbled street where he and his fiancée live.  Almost opposite their place was a café with seats underneath a row of umbrellas.  We sat down.

A waiter came over.  Jack knew him.  They exchanged greetings and chatted in Italian – I picked up that it was about the football.

“Listen,” Jack said, “I know this great drink.  You should try it.  It’s made from dark rum and a local mixer called chinotto.  It’s fab.”

We ordered two.

It came in a tumbler, filled with ice, looking just like a rum and coke.  It was far less sweet than coke, though, with a slightly herby flavour.

Soon we were chatting about books, teaching English, relationships, politics, the whole damn world.  The ancient church bells of Bergamo called out the half-hours around us.

The rum and chinottos were pretty soon drained.  Jack introduced me to the waiter, whose twin brother also worked there.  They were Albanian.  I tried my limited Italian, but it didn’t go far.  I tried some Spanish.  He smiled back.  We could just about understand each other.

We carried on talking and drinking until the café closed and we paid the bill – we must have had four or five drinks - then we popped over to Jack’s apartment.  Vanessa was asleep.  We went through into the living-room and poured another drink.  Jack showed me his illustrations as we chatted on.  He’d been trying to quiet me as my voice kept rising, but it was too late.  Vanessa came through from the bedroom wearing a dressing-gown and looking tired.

I apologised for waking her, but she waved the apology away with a tired smile.  She’s in the middle of her final year of study.  We chatted for a few minutes before she wandered back to bed. 

Jack and I left after a quick smoke and took a long meandering route back to Via Vittorio Emmanuelle II through winding alleys and cobbled streets where bicycles still clattered at gone two in the morning.

We went over things we’d written in our letters during the year and talked about favourite writers and possible projects.  We talked of our friendship and how it had developed from the first meeting in a dingy Bristol office back in 2011. We’d realised early on that we shared a love of life and literature. 

I fumbled for the B&B keys in my pocket.  My watch was showing two-thirty.

We grinned like naughty school-boys – both likely to be in for a telling-off in the morning.

“Mate!”

“Mate!”

Arms clapped around backs in a heartfelt embrace.  We arranged to text each other the next day.

As I crept into the living-room of the B&B, the hard sole of my brogue cracked against the door.  I stopped dead for a moment and waited, hoping I hadn’t woken the other guests. 

Closing the door catch as silently as a thief, I walked through to the toilet at the farthest end, being careful to avoid the stacks of bric-a-brac.

When I opened our door, I was horrified to find the light on in the room.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”  I asked.

N answered that she only woke when she heard me coming in.  I flushed with guilt.

“Sorry.”

“It’s ok.  Just hurry up and turn the light out.  Did you have a nice night?”

“Yes.”  I answered.  “I did.”