Illustration by Tia Tan
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There are certain things you’re supposed to do in Italy. Eat pasta. Drink espresso. Pretend you understand the difference between 15 kinds of cheese. And, of course, visit the leaning Tower of Pisa.
I’d seen the pictures my entire life. The iconic tower leaning dramatically to one side while tourists pose in creative ways. It all looked charming and effortless.
On the day we arrived, we had timed tickets. No line. No waiting. Just a simple plan: arrive, see the tower, move on. Instead, I spent most of my time there quietly calculating whether I might die.
It was intensely hot. The sun beat down, the ground radiated the heat back up, and the air refused to move. It made me wonder how quickly the scorching situation could become a medical emergency.
At one point, I had a completely practical thought: if I collapse here, what is the Italian version of 911?
I could picture the headline: Canadian tourist dies trying to have the perfect day in Pisa.
It felt ridiculous, yet increasingly possible.
We arrived prepared for almost everything. We’d reserved restaurants weeks ahead. Bought skip-the-line tickets. Read reviews written by strangers. Built hour-by-hour itineraries. We’d prepared for rain, delays, and pickpockets.
Nothing had prepared me for this. Not just the heat, but the sheer number of people. The piazza was filled with tour groups nudging their way through clusters of tourists, all waiting to pose. Cameras were raised. Instructions were shouted. This centuries-old landmark felt more like a production set.
No one behaves normally near the leaning Tower of Pisa. People carefully positioned themselves to hold it up or push it over, while someone shouted, “No, your other left!” Thousands had travelled from around the world to create essentially the same photograph, each one trying, for a brief moment, to control something that had never required their help.
Meanwhile, the tower just stood there, leaning quietly, like it had been watching this exact performance for about 800 years, entirely indifferent to our efforts.
As we made our way toward the entrance, my anticipation gave way to apprehension. Buildings aren’t supposed to lean. This one looked like it had started falling and simply decided to commit to it. My children pulled eagerly toward the staircase while I wondered whether my legs, already unsteady from the heat, would carry me to the top of a building that wasn’t even standing straight.
“I think this is going to go sideways,” I said to my husband.
“Figuratively and literally.”
He laughed.
I wasn’t entirely joking.
The staircase wound upward in a tight spiral, each marble step worn smooth by centuries of visitors. The stone wall was cool beneath my hand, a welcome contrast to the heat outside.
When a tower leans, everything inside it leans too. You know that before you climb the first step. Knowing it and experiencing it are entirely different things. My body kept trying to find level ground that simply wasn’t there. Every few steps, I adjusted, only to feel myself leaning the other way once again.
Dizzy and unwilling to admit it, I slowed my pace. But I kept climbing. Partly because the top was close. Mostly because I had spent too long looking forward to this moment to turn back now.
When I finally stepped out onto the top of the tower, the city unfolded beneath us. Terracotta rooftops stretched toward the horizon. Church bells drifted faintly through the afternoon air. A breeze moved across the top of the tower. After the oppressive heat below, it felt extraordinary. Without thinking, I turned toward the cool air and closed my eyes.
For the first time that afternoon, I thought I might actually be okay. Maybe I’d managed to hold it together.
Below me, the choreography continued. Another voice called, “No, your other left.”
Nothing about the scene had changed.
Only the way I was looking at it.
I’d brought expectations: the photographs, the view from the top, the memories we’d carry home. I’d constructed a version of the day in my mind. The only thing I hadn’t planned for was how it would actually feel to be there.
The day I’d pictured had never included heat like this – or me wondering whether I might need an ambulance, or clinging to an ancient stone wall while trying to convince myself I was fine. Yet those are the moments I remember – not because they went according to plan, but because they hadn’t.
By the time we were on our way back down the stairs, I had abandoned the version of the day I’d previously envisaged.
In the end, the photographs I’d imagined were never taken. The children had long since given up on posing, more interested in finding shade and refilling their water bottles.
I looked over at them. They weren’t thinking about the itinerary or whether the day had lived up to expectations. They were simply living it.
I’d been trying to create a perfect day to remember, but no one else was consumed by it.
The children were already arguing about gelato before we reached the bottom step.
Cassandra Blain lives in Ottawa.