joshua tree

A chorus of panicked footsteps ricocheted around the unplastered facades that line the dark, narrow Via Della Scala, a street that runs parallel to the Piazza di Santa Maria Novella, home to the 15th-century gothic Church of the New St Mary.

The steps seemed only to multiply as shouts of ‘fermati!’ rang out in the sticky night air, the soles of the white sneakers I had bought that afternoon now lacquered in black from the large basalt slabs that pave the city of Florence. ‘Stop!’ I would later learn was the instruction coming from the wiry local who was tearing around the corner on a blue Vespa scooter.

Uzziel, a solo traveler from Houston, Texas whom I had befriended earlier that day, made a sharp left into a dimly lit alleyway to evade our pursuer, while Matt, from Baltimore, Maryland, lurched to the right into an adjacent square. Ansul, an investment advisor from Goa, India, stumbled on the uneven cobblestones and landed harshly on the palms of his outstretched hands. Bruno, a student from Brisbane, Australia screeched to a halt to help him up, quickly followed by his girlfriend Allison, who huddled behind the pair for cover.

As I reached Ansul and the Aussie couple, I turned quickly to catch a glimpse of the man on the scooter. He skidded to an abrupt stop and reached into the inside pocket of his sports jacket. ‘Polizia!’ he declared, producing a blue and gold badge carrying the emblem of the city’s municipal police department. It was 2am.

Where the streets have no name

Earlier that evening, while returning on foot from a day of traipsing around a host of historic museums and trattoria, the name given to the small, casual restaurants in Italy, I found myself hopelessly lost and without enough data to plot a route back to my accommodation near the Piazza del Duomo, the city’s central square. Using the river Arno to orient myself, I was now headed in what I believed to be the right general direction at least.

About 50 metres ahead of me on the other side of the street I noticed a shop front that looked distinctly out of place. It was bright red, with chipped red door frames, a dark green mantel and flaking gold lettering that read ‘Joshua Tree Pub’. An Irish bar. As uncultured as I felt in that moment, an equal sense of relief and excitement washed over my weary body, as this discovery could only mean one thing: English speakers, and therefore salvation.

 Named after U2’s 1987 studio album, Joshua Tree featured all the staples of every Irish bar that is to be found outside of Ireland: an array of counterfeit GAA jerseys; a hurl mounted on the wall; posters of Guinness ads from the 1950s; and of course a lineup of every draught tap you can imagine, except for Guinness itself.

The pub was dubh le daoine – ‘black with people’. Packed. Jammed. American voices, English voices, Austrlian voices. I huddled up to the one free bar stool, wooden with fading teal paint.

“One Guinness when you’re ready.”

“We don’t have Guinness, mate, but I’ll grab your Birra Moretti”.

“No, I said ‘when you’re ready’,” I replied, raising my voice over the Cranberries.

The barman didn’t hear this either.

“Here you go, pal.” He placed a tall Foster’s glass in front of me, containing what I had to trust was the Italian lager he thought I ordered.

With diminished confidence and a drink I didn’t want, I struck up a conversation with the man sitting to my left. Late 20s with a mocha complexion and shiny black hair down to his broad shoulders, his response came in a caramel-smooth drawl.

“Houston, Texas. You?”

“Dublin, Ireland.” I always say Dublin instead of Wicklow.

The man two stools down then leant across and introduced himself in an American accent I couldn’t place initially.

“Baltimore, Maryland.”

They were Uzziel and Matt, travellers from the US who had linked up earlier in their Tuscan odyssey. We drank together for the next hour or so and shared with one another information about our hometowns, life in Ireland, life in the States and our recommendations for things to do in Florence.

We were soon joined by another merry drinker, a slightly older man who had overheard our conversation about the US and was keen to share his stance on Donald Trump (it was pro). He was In his mid-30s and spoke with the confidence of a salesman who already knew more about you than you thought you knew about yourself.

“Do you guys play basketball?” He was keen to talk to Matt and Uzziel about American sports. They explained that neither Houston nor Baltimore had a team in the NBA and that they were more into baseball and football, respectively.

Ansul, the mid-30s pro-Trump salesman, told us that during his university days back in his native city of Panaji in the Indian state of Goa, he had been a prodigious sprinter.

Matt, who prefaced every statement he made with “I say, I say”, said: “I say, I say, I bet I’m faster than you.”

I, now emboldened by my third or fourth pint of When You’re Ready, seconded Matt’s challenge. Uzziel, reluctant to lay down a third gauntlet, offered his services as cameraman for the inaugural Joshua Tree Community Games, brought to you by Birra Moretti. 

“100 metres? And what are we playing for?” Ansul was eager to up the stakes.

“I say, I say, how ‘bout the loser buys a shot.”

We all nodded in agreement with these terms, sank what was left in our Foster’s glasses and made our way to the street.

Uzziel announced to the smokers outside the bar that the athletics event of the century was about to take place before their very eyes.

“I know who my money’s on,” laughed a tall, thin Aussie man who later told me his girlfriend had been lectured by Ansul about how the economy of Australia was going to be ruined by its “communist, far-left” incumbent prime minister. He, whose name was Bruno, and his girlfriend, Allison, who had also apparently teased Ansul about his running career, accompanied us to the starting blocks.

The newly formed olympic committee oxymoronically decided on a stop sign as the perfect start point. Uzziel, Bruno and Allison made their way back up the street, pacing out 100 metres as they went, leaving Matt, Ansul and me – the Joshua Trio –  to take up our positions. “Three… two… one!” Bruno called out.

“GO!”

After a false start, the first heat kicked off for real with Ansul, comfortably the eldest and least in-shape of the three of us, demonstrating his sprinting prowess by racing into an unassailable lead. Matt, who was taller than me, and gangly, seemed to be losing his balance and therefore some of his power. I capitalised on this and secured second place. The first shot, limoncello, was on him.

Following our refreshments back at the bar, we returned to the track for round two. This time, the start was interrupted by a taxi driver angrily beeping at us to get out of the street.

The second heat unfolded much as the first had: Ansul in a comfortable first, me in a narrow second and Matt bringing up the rear. Sportingly, I offered to buy the second round of shots nonetheless. Tequila, lime and salt.

I took over as cameraman for the third and what would turn out to be the final heat of the night. Matt bowed out as well and was replaced in the lineup by Bruno, at the insistence of Allison. This race was a non-contest. Ansul, showing no signs of fatigue, made his Aussie opponent dine on his proverbial dust, much as Labor Party leader Anthony Albanese made National Coalition leader Scott Morrison dine on his dust in the Australian federal election of 2022.

As the race drew to a close, with Bruno slowing down considerably and Ansul sailing through the imaginary white tape, I pressed stop on the video I was capturing as I noticed another angry taxi following closely behind the runners. It seemed to be accelerating so I quickly leapt to the footpath and shouted for the others to do the same.

We were in hysterics of laughter when the beeps gave way to the sound of high-pitched sirens, and the blue Vespa that had been tailing the taxi lit up with in bright white and red lights.

And so began the race we had all been preparing for that night without knowing it: the race for freedom.