The Scent of Freedom
I was staring at the rubber keychain, shaped like a big foot. I was bursting with anticipation. The next morning, weather permitting, I would go to school on my scooter. On my scooter. My "Zippo" - that’s what I called it because it was a Piaggio Zip - which had been sitting there for years, waiting for this moment. That evening, I told my grandfather that no, he wouldn't be driving me to school the next morning. "But it might rain", he remarked, just to make me give up. I didn't care about his "adjusted" weather forecasts. I was going to get on Zippo. That night, I barely slept. It was September 1996, and the moment had arrived. That moment.
The next morning, my friend pulled up under my house and honked. It was time to go. I grabbed the keys and, instinctively, brought the keychain to my nose. I smelled the scent - that specific smell of rubber that, from that moment on, would be, for me, the scent of freedom.
Wearing my full-face helmet, I was terrified. But my friend was with me, on his trusty 60s Vespa, to escort me. I nodded, he took off. I followed. The smell inside the new helmet was strong, and the promise I had made to my parents was clear: I would get a license to drive any motorcycle by taking proper driving school courses. Only on those conditions would they allow me to keep riding my Zippo. Conditions I found decidedly acceptable.
During my first trip, I thought about my grandfathers. The one at home, disappointed to have "lost" his taxi driver role, and the other one, who had died two years earlier, who had given me the scooter and the helmet. And I felt lucky. Fear gave way to satisfaction. A kid left home. A young man arrived at school that morning.
When I arrived at school, I flew to my classroom. I walked in and, as per tradition, placed Zippo’s key on the teacher's desk. My classmates cheered and congratulated me. Another one of us had crossed that milestone of life.
That sense of freedom and growth changed me. I started to feel different. To carry myself more securely. To have greater awareness, and this improved my social relationships, my self-esteem, my perspectives.
Then came a day of frost. One of the few, at those latitudes. My grandfather warned me: "Be careful - it's going to freeze tomorrow morning". I didn't listen to him. When my friend came by, we set off in a line, as usual. At the curve of the bridge, I saw him skid slightly, but before I could process it... boom, I was on the ground. The speed was low, so I didn't get hurt, but I damaged Zippo. My friend turned around and burst out laughing. I was more disappointed than in pain, and I decided to go back home. Not for the dirty jeans. Not for the pain. For the shame.
The next day, at 7:30, my grandfather was waiting for me proudly in his blue Fiat 131. That regained role had rejuvenated him by five years. The same years I felt I had lost the moment I admitted to myself I didn't want to try that road again. So the following day, I decided to try again, and on that fateful bridge, I managed to keep my Zippo upright. Arriving triumphantly near the school, I realized there was a cluster of young people right at the street's curve: there was another sheet of ice, and as they arrived, they slipped and fell. One by one, almost all of them. I realized it in time and got off before the curve. Instinctively, I started signaling from the road to slow down. Some followed my advice. Others decided to kiss the asphalt. Maybe it served as a lesson to them. Or maybe not.
January arrived, and I was at driving school. I liked the lessons, and right after, I would go to my tennis practice, not far from there. All on my own. That afternoon, however, tennis lessons were suspended: heavy rain was forecast, and the courts, at river level, would almost certainly flood. When the driving lesson ended, the heavens had opened. I waited two minutes and got on the scooter anyway. My mother, worried, called the driving school. She asked them to stop me, saying she would come by car, but the secretary looked out and saw neither me nor my Zippo. At that instant, I opened the front door: my mother burst out laughing. It looked like I had just stepped out of a bathtub, leaving rivers of water behind me. "Rain is not a problem", I repeated. "Freedom cannot be contained by a little water", I thought.
In May, a good opportunity arrived: my father was buying a Vespa ET4 125, and they had made him a good offer for another scooter - bigger, modern, fashionable. A Gilera Runner. I accepted willingly; I would have one of the trendiest scooters, and I didn't mind that. But I knew I would miss my Zippo, so on the day of the handover, I decided to make a short video, immortalizing all the details I had grown attached to. I still have that video, with the faded colors of a VHS recorded in a hurry in a garage. I took off the keychain and decided to keep it as a souvenir. And the helmet would stay with me, of course. Along with the hair I was starting to find inside it, even if I wasn't paying attention to it. It didn't take many hours to realize I had made a monstrous mistake, because Zippo was small and light, maneuverable. This new one might have been fashionable, yes, but decidedly too high and uncomfortable for me. But that is another story.
Years later, I was already in Bologna. I had another "Zippo" - which I adored - and the same helmet. One evening I went to the cinema, in the center, and coming out I found a surprise: they had forced open the compartment under the seat and stolen my helmet. That helmet, the only remaining part of my grandfather's gift. Old, smelly by now, but it was my helmet. My reaction was very, very negative. To the point that when I got home, a friend and housemate tried to calm me down by downplaying it, reminding me that there was probably more hair inside that helmet than on my head. He was good. I was not. I lashed out verbally, almost insulting him, even though he remained calm until the end and let me vent. Then I told him the story of the helmet, and he lowered his gaze and, in a friendly way, patted me on the shoulder. I probably still owe him an apology for that night, if he remembers it. He probably forgot it many, many years ago.
From time to time, when I am at my parents' house, I open my old memory drawer. There are many of my things - many from that very period - and last time I found the "big foot". Faded, hardened by 30 years. Instinctively, I bring it to my nose again. And I still smell, intact, the scent of freedom.