Luca and I set off from San Gimignano in the early morning. We slid on our crusted socks, drank a small dark cup of coffee, and made our way through the streets. The town was still waking up as shop owners set up signs and hung their clothes outside, an attempt to entice the visiting tourists. People traveled for hours on a bus to reach this small city to get what they thought would be an authentic taste of the Tuscan countryside, far away from the great cities of Florence and Siena. Instead, seeing it now in its raw form, I saw how the city changed in the day. Even far out here, it still became a watered down representation that meant stores with gimmicky shirts of the Italian boot and menus in english. I understood that these people did this to survive, that they themselves had to change for the village’s newfound visitors. But that brief point early in the morning, right when the light began to creep in, when the shop doors were closed and the sides of cobbled streets remained open, when nonnas opened their windows and the soft clank of espresso cups left them, that’s when the facade was peeled back and the true character of the village was quietly revealed.

​

At the last store, Luca went through the half opened door and bought a red shirt saying “Ciao Bella” in the Coca-Cola font in what he saw to serve as a reminder for one thing we came to know: we were visitors. It would be a reminder to not be the fat American loudly asking if some place has mozzarella sticks and responding with the stiff phonetically pronounced “great-zee” that an American accent brings. I laughed but thought he was crazy as it would be better to avoid looking like a tourist, even if it meant being without a reminder to not be fat and loud. I kept that thought to myself.

​

We crossed under the exterior wall of the city and stepped onto the dirt road. I was beginning to become immensely pleased with the way the trail had a kind of immortal look to it, the way the concrete roads would melt away as we left each village, the way the rolling hills of Tuscany’s sloping vineyards flourished in their ancient soil, the way the wind blew warm but cooled our necks, and the way the cross of some long abandoned church broke the skyline as it sat atop a hilltop. The sun was quite unbearable and the soles of my shoes began to melt into the road if we stayed put for too long, so we kept moving, passing rusted out old cars and crossing through an occasional back yard. As we did, we came close to the small houses and glimpsed into kitchens and bedrooms with a form of naturalized intimacy, as if even as strangers we were welcomed into these rural homes for a momentary entrance into these foreign lives. 

​

The trail would suddenly come into cool shady parts where tall trees hung overhead and it was there that we would sit back against their trunks with our feet still touching the dirt trail. Soon, we stopped at one of these sections to relish in the break from the sun. Luca entered shortly after me and sat down to rest.

​

I sat on the ground, rested my head back and blinked hard to fend off the lustful clutch of sleep. Luca threw a rock at my feet and I looked back up. He had our folded map out and was dragging his finger along the trail. 

​

“We’re not far from a spigot, about 2 miles. We can fill up there,” Luca said. “Then a town in 6. Mohn-tay-rigg-a-toni. Or uh, Monte-rihgg-oni.” A dark round of sweat had formed on his chest, christening the new shirt. He was using his index finger and thumb to measure the distance between checkpoints and took his two fingers, measured them with the distance key then slid them back to where we were on the map. Luca insisted this was the most natural way of navigation and refused to use his cellphone. At this point, I was surprised he wasn’t getting on his hands and knees to try and sniff out what direction the last person had walked, or tried to use the orientation of stars to figure out where to go. I pulled out my phone and checked the distance to Monteriggioni. We were 12 miles out. 

​

Luca was still looking at the map and I let him piece together our location, seeing it as some innocent call back to a younger point in his life. These kinds of actions always brought upon him that boy-like excitement in his eyes as the lines and names opened the wonder in his mind. One time, while we were driving up California’s coast, Luca pulled an old map out of the glovebox. One that had been in there for years and was certainly-not updated with the new strips of concrete that cut around the crossroads we were passing so mindlessly. As I drove, he combed over the map, eyeing the small towns with funky names and would read them out as his finger sat over them - Lone Pine, Big Pine, Mertz, Bee Rock - old towns that had become largely forgotten by those cruising down the straight strip of highway. Luca saw them as he searched for the windiest roads. The ones that hugged the valleys and bent to the body of the land the way a flowing dress caresses a woman's curves. Luca saw these roads for exactly that, a caress of the sultry curves of the world with the kiss of our four tires. “Right here!” he’d suddenly call out, taking us off the highway and towards these small towns, where he craned his neck to look around and direct where to stop and pull over before pointing in some general direction to go. 

​

It took us an extra three hours to get to Santa Cruz that day, but instead of the droned driving that occurs as you climb the 5, we saw the green hills of California’s innards, talked with cowboys, and pulled fruits off of prickly pear cactuses to eat as we went, their sweet purple juices staining the edges of our lips and marking how we were pleasurably lost on the drive. That was what I loved about Luca. How he was able to turn a robotic, forgettable drive into a journey of taste and exploration. He wanted to look behind the curtain, to dive his fingers into the soil of the world and pull up some dirtied root to eat. To continue to be that curious boy that it seemed every adult in our lives had forgotten about and in the process, he opened himself up like a sail to the world, letting it blow him in any direction it wished. 

So, I let him be a boy at play. He marked our spot on the map with a pen and put it away.

​

We continued through the cover of the trees. The trail continued under the trees and turned sharply to the right up ahead. I picked Luca up by the strap of his bag and pulled him along. Down the shaded part of the trail, the sound of rushing water began to grow off to the side. Luca and I looked at each other and silently decided to find its source. 

We turned towards it, whacking down off trail as we did. We came to another, smaller trail and saw a turquoise blue stream of water flowed hidden under the trees that seemed an oasis in this otherwise dry climate. The water slipped over rocks and tumbled off small falls, eventually forming calm pools that we were eager to wade in. We continued upstream, analyzing each spot for its swimming capabilities, and settled on a point with four distinct pools, each separated by a small waterfall. We dropped our bags and stripped down, stopping at the edge before sliding in. We stood waist deep in the water but couldn’t even see our shorts for the water was such a deep blue. We smiled at each other and dunked our heads under. We had clearly found something special here.

​

High voices broke the sound of the water flowing as a small group of teenagers came down to the side of the water. They waved at us and we waved back. We listened carefully and never heard a word of English - local teens. They laid down towels on an open section of the ground and they too stripped down before jumping in. We nodded at them, smiling as we both reveled in the innocent ventures of teenage life that we had only a few years ago thought we would never leave.

​

There was a young boy who stood in the water next to a beautiful girl with dark hair. While the other kids splashed each other and jumped in, they stood close to one another, hardly able to leave an inch between themselves. They had their backs turned to us but we observed them between our dives. The boy kissed her neck and caressed her waist, clearly so spelled by her, so public in his affection but secretive in his desires. He was a boy in love and Luca and I knew it. He sat at that beautiful point of adolescent love where infatuation trumps all and nobody can tell you how they think it will eventually go. Where you tell yourself that this is different from what everyone else has to say and that nothing could change this. He was innocently at bliss with his existence. I smiled, positively envious of him but knowing he too would have to one day learn. 

​

We dried and dressed and came out of the trees to lose sight of the river. Our hairs damp and cool in the sun, we continued on but I knew we both wanted to retreat back into the woods and again strip down into the cool, seductive touch of the water, where we could relish in the teenage bliss.