Whirly-Wheel di Firenze

My pink plastic whirly-wheel, about the size of a saucer, is the best purchase I have made in Firenze. This somewhat juvenile toy that tons of pushy men sell in all of the piazzas at night, has effortlessly launched me further into Italian culture than the pounds of pasta and liters of vino I have eagerly consumed.

The miraculous toy flashes light and sparks conversation, in Italian and English, all pleasantly unexpected. The first night I brought my bright pink toy to Piazza della Signoria. The lights whirled quickly, shooting high into the air as I excitedly circled its flashing and falling—doing my best to catch the little thing. Content with my self-amusement, I continued, perfecting my whirly-wheel technique. An awkward man from Bangladesh, who sold flowers in the piazza, approached me. He asked how much I had paid for my toy. I held it closely, both proud of my bargaining skills the previous day and worried that he was suggesting that I’d sell it.

“3 Euro.” I said proudly, knowing that all the merchants in the piazzas ask for at least five. It is the next question, however, that caught me even more off guard.

“Are you married?” He asked, as if this was a smooth, casual transition from topic to topic. I looked at him puzzled and humored, but mostly relieved that his interest had moved from my precious whirly-wheel. I laughed and replied,

“No, of course not! I am only 21.” This remark apparently shocked him as he explained in broken English that women where he was from were married with children by then.

The gem of knowledge I received as our conversation turned hesitantly back to my toy—and then to goodbye—was most intriguing. He told me to put Chapstick on the toy’s base to make the wheel fly higher. Still a skeptic, I decided to try.

While learning the tricks of the whirly-wheel—and acknowledging my ever ticking clock of youth—were helpful and entertaining, it is my second encounter that solidified the wheel’s spot on the ‘best purchases of Firenze’ list.

As I began night two of my whirly-wheel adventures, I noticed that there were far more people in the piazza this evening. This meant it was far more likely I would embarrass myself. My friend Katarina observed from a stone bench nearby. And sure enough, just in time for my eighth or so whirly-wheel landing, out step three guys—soon to be my new Italian friends. Andrea, Davide, and another Andrea laughed as they dodged the wheel, its little lights crashing at their feet. All three watched me as I approached them laughing, my blushing thankfully hidden by the evening. Not knowing what language I would speak, they all looked at me just smiling. I extended my whirly-wheel, suggesting that they should try. The first Andrea shot the wheel a few feet into the air and they all began laughing. Once they all had laughed and tried to work the tricky contraption, Andrea looked at me, still unsure of my country of origin. I smiled and said,

“Come ti chiami?” They each told me their names, relieved that I knew at least a little Italian. They jokingly asked if I sold the wheels. I laughed and explained that I was studying in Firenze for the summer.

The most intriguing part of this encounter was the eagerness in their effort to make friends with me, and my friend Katarina. The whirly-wheel had created a perfect situation for playful interaction with strangers. I wouldn’t suggest hitting just anyone on the head with a plastic wheel, but when the moment strikes, so can a friendship.