Every musician will tell you the same thing: It is absolutely possible to fall in love with an instrument.
Instruments have personalities. They contain music, like a law of physics, and the symbiotic relationship between human and machine is one in which the player coaxes the music out of the instrument. The touch, the strum. Listening to what the instrument wants to tell you. And then you make beautiful music together.
For our long visit to Siena, Italy, I planned all along to get my hands on a guitar. And so, one of the first orders of business when we arrived in Siena was acquiring said guitar.
There’s a sizable music store not too far from our flat—about a mile or so, just outside the walls of the Fortezza Medicea—called Checcacci Strumenti Musicali.
I attempted to visit on our first full day in Siena, but it was apparently a national holiday, so the shop was closed. But I saw through the window a couple of axes that I knew I would want, and…
…oh no.
I was kind of hoping that they wouldn’t have any special guitars—just some painfully mundane, run-of-the-mill ones that would simply be tools to get the job done. I was worried they would have one or more that would make me fall in love…and it looked like that was a distinct possibility.
See, if I love it, I’m going to have to take it home. And if I have to take it home, I need to buy a hard shell case for it, and I have to lug it to and from the planes trains and automobiles, and I have to check it, and that costs money most likely, and we’re already overpacked, and ugh ugh ugh so inconvenient.
Love is often that way though, innit? So inconvenient.
As I window-gazed, I spotted something on the back wall. Something…pink (?!)…that stood out from the rest of the instruments. From that distance, through the window, I couldn't tell if it was a ukulele or a half-size guitar or what. Hm.
Regardless, I was thwarted for the moment. I’d have to return the next day.
Which of course I did.
It felt remarkably good to go into a music store. Walking in, I realized how badly I missed playing every day, even after whatever short time it had been—nine or ten days, maybe?
I made a beeline to the pink thing hanging on the wall. Up close, the color was even more ridiculous: rich, bright, Pepto Bismol pink. Which is unironically my favorite color. Oh no. I pulled it down. It was a classical-style guitar, with nylon strings. I took a moment to tune it up.
The first strum was delicious. Oh no. It felt tight almost, like taut muscles. And loud. Surprisingly loud for this kind of guitar. Loud like its color.
I played for a while, then set it down. I needed to move on a bit. I found another classical guitar, a beautiful gray thing with a white pick guard. A German brand I’d never heard of. It sounded nice and looked nicer, and it was smallish, which would make it more portable if I needed to take it home. The price was low-ish, too, like 150 euros. This would be the logical, responsible choice. Hrm hrm hrm.
I moved on to a semi hollow electric with a sunburst color. It was some no-name (clearly budget-level) brand I’d never heard of before. Which is to say, I’d probably not be able to find one again.
But it played like heaven. Like it was made for my fingers. I asked to plug it in, and they directed me to a nice Fender amp, and OH NO, it sounded so good. Big, full sound for chords. Lightning fast fretboard for solos. I like this guitar way too much.
There are too many wonderful instruments here! What to do, what to do. I can choose only one.
I went back over to the pink one. Mio dio, that low-end tone. This makes no sense. It’s clearly not a high-end guitar. Or even a midrange thing. It’s a student-level guitar, and it should sound like crap.
I suppose saying it sounded “good” is not quite accurate, though. But…unique. That’s my weakness: cheap guitars that have a quirky character or timbre or whatever and yet are eminently playable. And yeah, this one is kinda funky.
I played some dainty licks. It sounded good. I played some more complicated fingerpicking stuff. It sounded and felt good. Oh no.
I gave it the final test, which for me involves banging out big, brassy chords. Usually nylon-stringed guitars fail this test; they sound thin and—well, like nylon instead of steel.
Not this one, though. The chords rang out loud and true. It didn’t even really sound like a nylon-stringed guitar. Oh no. It’s the best of both worlds!
The guitar began to whisper to me. Instead of giving me the songs it held inside, it teased me. A promise of more to come. It knew. I knew. It knew that I knew. I began sweating. I can feel what’s happening as it’s happening.
I swallow and ask the price. “Quanto?,” I say.
“Seexty-fife” said the woman. Surely we lost something in translation there. That is not a price that guitars are. Did she mean 650 euro? Or maybe 165 euro? I clarified, and clarified again. She was getting a little annoyed, and even punched the numbers into a calculator to show me. “SEEXTY-FIFE.”
65 euro. That’s not really even a price—it’s a sign from the gods. Sold.
Sigh. I am in love. Its name is Proud Rosa.
“Rosa” is Italian for “pink.” Which is not super creative, but I mean come on, it totally works. And it’s such a proud machine, dressed to the nines as it is, unlike every other guitar. Completely unafraid to stand out, in violation of the tacit laws of which colors are acceptable to be.
I needed a hard shell case to get this lovely six-shooter home, which they fortunately had in stock. It was 75 euro—more than the guitar itself.
Worth it. Worth it.
Proud Rosa and I are so happy together. We have begun weeks’ worth of Tuscan music-making and a lifetime relationship. The other guitars back home will be jealous, but they’ll abide by and by.
And so it begins. Me and Proud Rosa. Proud Rosa and me.
You can follow our adventures in Tuscany here and on the Adventure Hat instagram.