Loitering Explained

A few nights ago, some friends and I had been walking back from a bar when we bumped into the two Italian lads we had met on our first night out. Once the initial excitement and surprise had passed, they invited us to join them, which we were more than happy to do. We walked a couple of blocks until reaching a kind of hole-in-the-wall type bar that we had failed to notice until now, and it was packed with people... well, outside anyway. When the time came for the bar to close, I assumed we'd all be going our separate ways but, instead, we just continued to stand outside, chatting. At this point, a few others had joined our our merry band - all locals - and the amount of noise we were making subsequently increased. It wasn't, necessarily, that we were being unreasonably loud, only that we were being too loud for the people sleeping in the apartments above - who, in hindsight, really shouldn't be living right above a bar anyway, and who, I can only assume, were the ones who called the police. We didn't get in trouble or anything, they simply asked us to go elsewhere. And elsewhere we went, gathering more and more people as we made our way. 

It was very strange, and was something I had been thinking about for a while: why did there always seem to be an endless number of youths at night, standing on street corners, seemingly doing nothing at all? Were they all just bored? Did they hate being home? The answer was given to me by the ring leader of yet another group we had joined. It was her birthday, so her group of loiterers was particularly large. She explained to me that it was probably because of the fraternities and sororities. Apparently, the system for these groups is a little different in Italy than it is for us in the United States. Here, there is only one fraternity and one sorority for each city, though there are some cities - like Florence - that only have one big co-ed group. These groups have social events at east once a week, and since their numbers are far too large to fit in any one building, at least here in Prato, they prefer to mingle in the streets. She went on to explain that, maybe for younger people and those not in a fraternity/sorority, hanging outside is also just a convenient way to meet new people and socialize, but, for the most part, many of the people we see are probably in one of these groups. At one point she had mentioned that Prato never used to have any bars until recently, only... pubs. You know, those places where old people exchange war stories and drown their sorrows. This, to me, seems like a likely cause for the mass loitering culture for young people here in the old city of Prato - since, what else would they do with their time?  

I was, admittedly, a little envious of this. Where I come from people tend to be a lot more distrusting of others, and standing on street corners all night in large groups means you're probably up to no good. The social environment here definitely seems very healthy, which, I assume, only serves to better the community as a whole.  

Wait, Did She Say Rome?

I had fallen in love; the leather jacket I had been searching for my whole life had finally revealed itself! There was just one problem - I had no money left, but I could definitely get my hands on some more. After explaining my situation to the store owner, he eagerly assured me that if I were to come back for it tomorrow I could make a small deposit and he would hold it for me, which was great news seeing as it was the last one in stock; but I would only have one day. Determined get my hands on the jacket, I handed him a twenty without a second thought and raced off to join the rest of my group, who were preparing to depart the breathtaking city of Florence. Later that night, a friend of mine - who, for the sake of anonymity, shall be named El Toro - had offered  to join me on my next excursion to Florence. I suppose we both saw it as a great chance to test our knowledge of the Italian transit system - specifically, the train. Had we known that it would be more a test of resolve than anything, we probably would have taken a taxi.

We set out right after class, keeping the fact that we only had two hours before the store closed in the fore of our minds. We started strong - and by strong I meant entirely confused by the ticketing system, but we were determined to figure it out ourselves (or too embarrassed to ask for help). It had only taken about ten minutes so we still had plenty of time. The hard part was over. After confirming which platform our train was leaving from we took our seats and waited patiently. The rest of the journey was simple; everyone had assured us that once you boarded the train in Prato, Florence was the last stop, so when the train arrived we casually took our seats, content to play the waiting game.

We passed the time with light conversation and stares of naked wonder as the train made its way through the countryside. Wait... countryside?? When I thought about it, it had been about thirty-five minutes since we left, but wasn't Florence only twenty-five minutes from Prato? A couple of old ladies had taken the seats next to us at our previous stop, so I leaned over and asked "The last stop for this train is the Florence main station, right?" The woman closest looked at me with confusion, and, at first, I thought it was because she didn't speak English, but then she said, "No, we just left Florence, this train is headed to Rome." For as long as I live, I will never forget the look that appeared on El Toro's face, nor the sinking feeling in my chest, upon hearing her words. "But we were told Florence was the last stop for this train." I explained. "No," she replied, "If you wanted Florence main station you were supposed to change trains a few stops ago." I wanted to die. It was all supposed to be so simple! "But you're lucky," the woman continued, "usually the next stop for this train would be Rome,  but we'll be making one more stop in about ten minutes." We were saved! Kind of.. "Unfortunately," she said with her phone in her hand "the next train to where you want to go will be leaving one minute after we arrive, from platform two. The one after that is an hour and a half from now." An hour and a half was much too long. El Toro and I decided we'd try our luck with the next train. We wouldn't have time to pay for the ticket but, then again, when did they ever check for tickets? And in the event that we did get caught, we'd just play the 'dumb-American card.' The plan was full-proof.

When the train stopped we thanked the old ladies a thousand times before sprinting off to catch our train. When we got to the platform, the beeping sound that indicated that the doors were closing started going off, but there was no way in hell I was missing that train, for I had a date with the mother of all jackets, and this was my last day to collect it. Before I knew it, I had rushed through the closing doors, but El Toro, thinking there was no way he could make it in time, had stopped dead in his tracks, resigned to his fate of being tragically left behind. But we had already come this far together, and I was determined to make sure it stayed that way, so I shoved my arm between the - now - narrow space and shouted for him to hurry. He made it, and we spent the better part of five minutes laughing like little school girls about the whole thing. Our laughter, however, came to a dead stop, almost as fast as the train did. We weren't at a station in Florence, we had stopped in the middle of a field for no apparent reason! Our first guess was that the conductor had caught wind of a couple of stowaways aboard his vessel, but an announcement was made, and it seemed like it was just a maintenance issue. With half an hour to go before the store closed, my nerves were running high. To make matters worse, the ticket collector - as if because he head decided he had nothing better to do during the intermission -  decided to start checking tickets. We found out quickly that he had little to no sympathy for 'dumb Americans' and our options (I can only assume) were between paying the hundred and thirty Euro fine and jail. Needless to say, we begrudgingly payed the fine.

Somehow, despite everything that stood in our way, we ended up making it to the store in time and acquired, what can now be called, the most expensive jacket I've ever bought. Of course, upon leaving the market place I spied about 3 jackets I would have rather gotten instead (and probably for a better price) but I guess that's just life. El Toro, in a spirit of awe-inspiring maturity (and probably catching wind of the defeated state I found myself in) assured me that the trip was not a total loss, as we now had invaluable intel on the ins-and-outs of the train system. Our mistake can, ultimately, be chalked up to a fatal lack of vigilance - a tool that should never be left behind when making your way through the unknown. Lesson learned. But at least it made for an interesting adventure...  

The Silent City

Like most young people do, when given the chance to roam the streets of a foreign city, I set out to discover how it was young adults chose to spend their time once the sun went down. Initially, I found what was to be expected; hoards of youths making their way from bar to bar, chatting on street corners, and eating in restaurants. As ordinary as the scene may have appeared, it didn't take long for me to realize that there was something quite alien about what was happening.

Once my senses had successfully acclimated to the strange and wonderful overflow of external stimuli that permeated the old city of nighttime Prato, the oddities began to appear. I first realized, whilst sitting in the outdoor plaza, that, considering the sheer volume of people that were out and about, the city center was entirely too quiet. Sure, the music emanating from the various venues - which really wasn't all that loud to begin with - probably drowned out some of the chatter, but it certainly wasn't enough to lessen what should have been an ocean of fairly audible conversations (inability to understand Italian aside.) The shouts, screams, and obnoxious laughter that usually accompanies a boys/girls-night-out, when coupled with alcohol (of which there was plenty) was nowhere to be heard. I mean, we're talking about 100+ university students (I assume) within a half a mile square radius, making about as much noise as you would expect to find in a nice restaurant. It was, in fact, hard to tell if anyone had been drinking at all. In any case, I had decided to pass it off as a sign that the youthful inhabitants of Prato resigned themselves to getting drunk very quietly - whatever their reasons.  

Eventually, the group I was with decided it was time to change bars. As everyone stood up to leave, I raised concern over the bottles that were still in our hands. The response, to what I though was a fairly reasonable comment, was a couple of scoffs and a "Dude, look around." They were right; A good number of the people that made their way through the streets shamelessly held their bottles in their hands. This, for me, was a strange sight, if for no other reason than the fact that there were no bottles to be found on the ground anywhere - but, like the rest of my group, I wanted to leave (without having to down my drink) so I didn't push the matter any farther.

As we made our way to our next destination, a conversation was stuck with a couple of English-speaking locals when someone in our group had asked for directions to the nearest ATM. To our surprise (and delight) the conversation ended up lasting a couple of hours. Our new friends were amazingly receptive to all of our questions about the Italian way of life, and equally curious about what America was like.The conversation had inevitably shed light on many of the strange things I had observed during my night out. As it happens, Italians are very confused about the American propensity for binge-drinking - which, personally, I found surprising since, in my mind, the European lifestyle had always gone hand in hand with a... "liberal" approach to alcohol consumption (a gross generalization, I know), and while this might be true to some extent depending on where in Europe you are, I am ashamed to admit that I had never considered the possibility that, in some European cultures, drinking did not mean getting drunk - for us youths who like to have a good time every now and then. 

"How can Americans binge-drink the way they do? and so often!" Our new Italian friend had asked, wide-eyed with both hands shaking wildly at his sides - as per the Italian way - to accentuate the depth of his confusion. He explained to us how, for Italians, drinking is a social event and nothing more. They prefer to sip slowly while riding a "steady buzz," and have little patience for loud drunken bigotry and self-desecration. We were reminded that while things might be a bit different when partying in  Florence, that is only because Florence has become a much more "international" city but that, for the most part, the rest of Italy prefers a more "chilled out" affair - as do the women, when it comes to interacting with men, a point he dutifully expressed, in case any of us were willing try our luck with some of the local women. It wasn't that Italians felt them selves above getting drunk from time to time, but that even when they did, they ensured it didn't become a problem for others - which is something we Americans have a hard time putting in practice. Because of the casual nature of Pratos night life, we were told, the police had much better things to do than harassing people for walking through the streets with bottles (which seemed to always find themselves in the trashcan anyway.) 

At the end of the night, I decided that the adjustment to this foreign drinking/social culture would be of little inconvenience to me. I've never been much of a drinker, and have always preferred more laid-back settings. However, I have certainly not always been this way, so I think it says much of the maturity of the general youth for them to prefer  this setting over the loud, anxious, bustling mess many of us have grown accustom to, elsewhere. Saluti, Prato.