A World Cup security check in Florence: Hide knife, swap beer, get cushy couchette
Back in the day, nobody needed social media: A sly dirt dig, quick sidewalk swap, and toast to the underdog sufficed over 48 hours
by David Scott
The Italian officer pulled the Swiss Army knife from my knapsack, delivering a two-word lecture.
“This, no,” he said, raising a firm finger at the entrance to Florence’s football stadium, where the American national team was playing in its first World Cup since 1950.
That evening’s match would kick off in 10 minutes’ time.
On June 19, 1990.
Today, I came back to Florence to see an American friend flying in from Arizona. She chose the calendar date.
Every city has high points to check off, and this Tuscan city is loaded. Still, when tourists overrun a sculpted Davide, where do Florentines go to vent pent-up emotion?
Let’s get back to the sports venue where the cop was doing his job, informing spectators to part with petite weaponry.
On a muggy mosquito-infested evening 32 years ago to the day, I hustled to a vacant lot, nestling the knife—a gift from my grandfather—at the foot of a dried up bush, with a fistful of dirt as a top-off. Dusk meant poor visibility so a stadium gate would have to do as a cross reference.
Good luck getting it back from the cover of sun-burnt foliage, where weed clumps looked confusingly similar.
The evening before, a German speaker perked up at the mention of an American pining to see star defender Alexi Lalas and the U.S. team take to the pitch in a first-round match.
“You need ticket?”
Minutes earlier, the man had been chanting soccer anthems with four others in our six-person compartment, sans couchette, on the train from Vienna. The beers were flowing and the olés rolling, forcing me to seek cover in the narrow corridor, where the odor of cheap lager and cigarettes permeated noir.
“Me?”
“Ja, you.”
“Sure, that would be great. How much are you asking?”
“The value of the ticket. You give me Italian lire when we get to the station, good?” At that time, converting paper traveler’s checks into local currency was standard.
“Jawohl,” I agreed, mixing in the little German I remembered from my days at University of Oregon, which I’d graduated from 12 days earlier.
“You are American, I know, but you sit in our section. We are Austrians. It’s a problem?”
“No, no, not at all. I’m grateful to have a ticket.”
The U.S. defense held up until the second half when Austria netted two goals despite being a man down.
The red-and-white-clad crowd, outnumbering America’s, rooted wildly on, saluting Austria’s 2-1 victory. The only thing missing were the 16-ounce cans guzzled 24 hours earlier. They had other means within Artemio Franchi Stadium to quench thirst.
“We are a small country, yes?” said my seat-side ticket broker from the day before. “But football goes like this. The Americans are not bad. I like this Lalas.” The tall redhead would go on to play for Padua in Serie A, Italy’s top league.
With the U.S. now out, a quest to retrieve my army knife loomed, as thousands swarmed city streets.
Personal journals archive human gestures. Much before social media ruled, folks exchanged pieces of paper or dug up earth.
Now, where could that darn thing be? Fingers probing through grit turned up nothing. It was about time to head on down the road. Wait, one last bush. And there it was. Pay dirt: a backpacker’s blade against hunger, appeased through slices of Irish soda bread and Italian salumi.
Time to push off—but hold on, what’s that? Street light is glancing off something just yonder.
Three six-packs of tall-boy beer with Germanic font had been tossed to shrubbery, a hiding place, like mine. The Austrians would be be poking through the bushes any second.
Finders keepers. That’s what Sandy (Ore.) Elementary’s Mrs. Cook told a kid who pocketed a playground dollar bill in 1978.
Two of the six-packs fit into my daypack, and the third I carried by hand. Swiftly merging into roundabouts, scooter drivers beeped past souvenir vendors hawking World Cup keepsakes.
A balding man pushing a trinket-laden cart looked at me like a puppy dog, spying the tall boys. He pointed to his merchandise.
“Allora, you, me, scambiamo, OK?”
“Oh, yes, the beer, right?”
“Yes, I’m wanting birra.”
“Good idea.”
“I give souvenirs. You give beer.”
He reached for a scarf and summer beret, each red, white and blue, with the words: “Italy World Cup 1990.” Today, they rest in a family house in Las Vegas.
“It’s a deal. Take the sixer. It’s yours.”
My daypack ever bulging, I plodded back to Santa Maria Novella station to scope out sleeping options. With the World Cup in town, everything was booked up, but 22-year-olds tend to view life from a wide-angle lens, when a night spent on granite is a viable option.
Using my proper backpack as a pillow, I slumped down onto a platform, but shut-eye proved futile. From a distance, three drunken college kids sauntered toward me, boisterously chanting an off-tone ode to Freddy Mercury. Each guy was wrapped in a U.S. flag the size of a cape.
“We are the Americans, my friends.”
A young Italian took issue with the improvised opera.
“Andate a fanculo.”— Get the hell out.
He had reason, as Italians often translate ‘being right.’ The Azzurri national team would show U.S. fans how the game is played, reaching the semifinals. Italy has won four World Cups but did not qualify for November’s 2022 tournament.
For $500, a two-month unlimited Eurrail pass allowed Americans to bail on any city at any hour, whenever the timetable showed a sleeper train about to depart. Just before twelve, the last of the evening would pull out, in this case an Intercity bound for Marseilles, France. Italy had no high-speed until 2009.
At that point, early in my continental ramble, I was lugging a foolishly heavy backpack that got lighter with each week. As the train lurched out, it was proving a burden, like Rodrigro’s armor in “The Mission,” when a conquistador must earn forgiveness going uphill.
The midnight express had couchettes, but loads of backpackers had crowded aboard, an ominous sign, rifling open curtains in search of sleeper berths. In those days, thumb-size slots, into which tiny cards were inserted, showed how many beds were free in a six-person cabin.
Wiggling by passengers nodding off on flip-down seats more suitable for kids, I spotted a cabin worth a try: Not all its slots had been filled.
A tug on the sliding door revealed a sprawled out human mass draped across seats, where footrests could be snapped up, amounting to crude beds. Were there five or six inside?
It didn’t matter after a shadowy figure waved me off.
“Prima, prima classe,” went his first-class drift.
I would join the hunched-over class, corridor-side, slipping into minutes-long dream snippets before reaching the outskirts of Marseille with eyes wide red.
After my first stay ever at a youth hostel, where I was served coffee in a big two-handled cereal bowl, a climb to check out the city’s hill-top cathedral, La Major, culminated with a reprimand from the priest.
“Don’t feed the pigeons. Now you understand?”
Let’s blow this town. I got my ticket and the two tall-boy sixers. Madrid, here we come.
Summertime aboard a cushy couchette, where the sleepin’ is easy and the beers are crackin’. My Walkman was playing U2’s “Desire.”
A pull on the aluminum tab rousted the Irishman across from me. We both had top-tier sleeper berths.
Again, a puppy-dog expression met my eyes.
Ireland had just tied the Netherlands, sending it to the final 16 of the world’s greatest sporting event. It would go on to win one more, making the final eight before bowing out to Italy.
A toast was in order.
“Here you go, buddy. This sixer’s for you.”
Irish eyes smiled my way.
“My little country’s not so bad at football, now is it?”
His name is Michael.
We are buddies to this day.
-30-
Might just be my imagination, but Florence seems to have stepped up tourism or, rather, tourists have….Gotta break out those old photo albums, blow off the dust. Thanks, Todd
Another great post...what an adventure! Glad you still have all those photographs. I’ve only visited Florence for one day, in 2004...plan to return someday.