Adventures with Intensa

“What do you think – natural or bubbly?”

We’re standing in the aisle of the supermarket, shivering in the refrigerated section. Fred scans a row of bottles on a cooler shelf in front of us, swinging open the glass door and scooping up a litre from the bottom row. She squints at the label, tucking a strand of curly brown hair behind her ear. 

“Intensamente frizzante.” She looks up at me and gives a small shrug. “Seems like as good of a choice as any, don’t you think?”

We wander through the maze-like aisles of the supermarket, past the shelves lined with cured meats and fresh cheeses until we reach the cash register at the front. The cashier is a short, dark-haired woman with a perfectly styled chignon – something that seems to come naturally to the people here in Italy. She rings us up, all the while rattling off a story to the teller across the aisle that appears to be near stream-of-consciousness. We barely get in a grazie mille before ducking out the door. 

With our water in hand, we begin the walk to the train station. The city of Pisa is small, its main draw the public university and the infamous leaning tower, but I’d come to love the city in the short time I’d spent in the region. Sure, I’d gone to the Piazza Del Duomo and taken the tourist photo – the tower seemingly propped up by my hand. But I’d also investigated the outdoor markets tucked away down winding streets, eaten a cornetto al pistacchio at a cornerside cafe, and wandered up and down the Arno River until I reached the vineyards that seemed to stretch out endlessly from the edge of town. Pisa had grown on me, and it wasn’t just the chianti that had done the trick.

Now, as we walk through the city, I can’t help but continue to notice its charm. The area by the station is nothing out of the ordinary – a quiet, residential neighborhood – but the houses are strung with rows of laundry and affixed with iron balconies in a way that gives the whole street a sense of whimsy. 

“My mother will tell me I’m crazy.” Fred pushes her sunglasses onto her head, her Dutch bluntness fighting its way through her nerves. “Or maybe I just won’t tell her this story. Hey, when in Italy, right?”

We reach the train station, venturing around the left into a stretch of parking lots. Long gone are the quaint balconies and hanging laundry of before, replaced by rows upon rows of rental cars. We quickly duck into the rental office before we can get lost amongst the neverending SUVs. 

Minutes later, we emerge from the office, two helmets and a set of keys in hand. The exchange had gone much smoother than anticipated – no groveling needed, just a payment of 50 Euros and a flash of my license. Within minutes, the cashier had passed us the keys with a smile and a knowing “divertiti.” 

And now, we stand in parking lot purgatory, the white Vespa in front of us ours for the next 24 hours. 

“You’re sure you know how to drive this thing?” Fred’s faith in me is diminishing after I struggled to open the seat compartment just seconds before. I nod, assuring her I’ve driven my own scooter countless miles across Colombia, but truthfully, I’m nervous too. Italian drivers, I’d noted, had a tendency to take traffic rules as more of a suggestion than an obligation. Quite frankly, I know my own mother would be calling me crazy too. 

But when in Italy. Before long, we’re winding out of Pisa towards the seaside, giggling gleefully like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. Fred’s regained her confidence in me – either that or we’re both running on pure adrenaline. 

The province of Livorno is not far, the winding seaside marked by rocky inlets and transparent water. The road snakes along the coastline, at times level with the waves, at others high above the sea. We squeal every time the road turns downwards, feeling the rush of the salty air against our skin, the slight thrill of weightlessness in our stomachs. But before long we’ll be high above the shoreline again, taking in the neverending blue of the Mediterranean Sea. 

We make a number of pit stops along the way, admiring the views, clambering over rocks, searching for the perfect beach. By the time we find it, our hair is bedraggled from the salty air, our noses tinged with pink. We park the Vespa at the top, grab our bags and descend down the path in search of the perfect pebble beach we’d spotted from above. 

It’s even better than we could have imagined. The rocky outcropping leads right into the salty sea, the waves gently swelling against a small metal ladder. We strip down to our swimsuits, ignoring the ladder completely as we dive into the water. It’s frigid against our skin, invigorating and paralyzing all at once. Our bravery is short-lived and before long we’re back on land, basking on our backs as the sunshine soaks into our bones. 

“So I had a thought.” Fred rolls onto her stomach beside me, her hair already dry from the sun. She reaches into her bag, digging around for the water bottle. “We should name the Vespa. She is our new travel partner after all.”

I laugh, sitting up as she unscrews the cap. “I agree, but what should we name her?”

Fred thinks for a second, taking a sip of water. “I’m not sure. What about–”

Before she can finish, she erupts into a fit of coughs. She beats on her chest with one hand and I lean over, concerned, until I realize she’s laughing. 

“Oh my god!” She’s barely getting the words out, her eyes watering as she laughs and coughs. “That is the most intensely bubbly water I’ve ever tried.”

“Intensamente frizzante!” We’re both laughing now, her coughs subsiding. All of a sudden, she looks up at me. 

“That’s it!” She gives one last cough for good measure. “That’s the perfect name – Intensamente Frizzante. Intensa for short.” 

I snort, laughter overtaking me once again. “I love it!” I say, accepting the bottle from her outstretched hand. I take a sip, the bubbles traveling down my throat. They immediately catch in my chest and I cough slightly, giggling even more. “You’re right, that is intensely fizzy!”

Later, we pack up our things and once again ascend the rocky trail. The vespa is there waiting for us at the top, her sleek exterior in stark contrast to the hefty cruiser parked beside her. Looking at her this way, she looks so delicate, so graceful, her waspy frame a quintessential symbol of Italian style. Only we know her true power – intensamente frizzante. 

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