I JUST CLOSED MY EYES

On Monday, I woke up feeling very shabby. It had been over two weeks since I got trimmed. When I asked Riccardo last week about a recommendation, I never got an answer. Later the faux pas dawned on me. Two and two, sometimes, just doesn’t compute with me. He shaves his head because he is losing his hair. I later thought to ask Mateo but his hair is so closely cut I might get the same reaction. Sporting a ponytail I doubt that Mas can remember who last cut his hair. I was on my own. I left early that afternoon for the gym, as I remembered seeing a place on the scooter ride in Firenze Nova.

Barbers and the like are closed on Mondays.

Shabby just had to be tolerated. Besides later at the gym when I ran my forehead into the dumb-bell bar (full pun intended), I oozed blood and hair-length was superceded as a concern. As I always say to myself, “Make an impression Larry.” It is healing nicely. Although a little high-up, the perfectly round red scab is smack dab in the middle of my forehead and almost looks like an Indian sign of auspiciousness. All I need is a sari.

You have heard of my day Tuesday, locked up with the Ariston front-loader. Socks constitute the limiting factor for laundry. They were all dirty. The smell test of yesterdays socks, although not a failing grade, revealed that a haircut would have to wait. My feet were not going to stink.

On Wednesday I had decided to go to the Museo di Storia della Scienza to see the Galileo exhibit. It was impressive to see the world changing telescopes from 1609 as well as those of his contemporaries. But the most important item in the exhibit was a great portrait of him in his latter years…he had hair to his shoulders. That was not going to happen to me. I marched out of the place with a determination to look a little less like Galileo Galilee.

Still within the Area Pedonale, about half way between Signoria and Santa Croce I spotted two white-coated old barbers standing in front of their three-chair shop. I inquired as to the price. Ok, it was steep and my friend Jennifer who is a financial planner would have said to put the money in a Roth IRA but retirement be damned, I was not going to look like Galileo.

I stumbled through explaining (in my multi-tongued Italian way) and he attempted to understand (in his non-English way). We seemed to agree on something. I sat in that standard out-of-the-past barber stool like I was Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. With determination. Like I knew where the hell this was taking me. I got a towel wrapped around the back of my head. Why?
Then the standard barbers drape. I don’t like it too tight so I always put my finger between my neck and the drape as it is being tied, thus creating a little extra space. This always required an explanation with any stylist I have ever used. They all think I am silly but none-the-less it is tied loosely…when I can explain in English. I put my finger in while he tied. Great… just the way I like it. Unfortunately a few moments later he noticed how loose it was and went to re-tie it. I stuck my finger in, again. The next time he noticed and re-tied I figured this was turning into a Laurel and Hardy skit and just dealt with the noose-like feeling.

He turned and stepped on a foot pedal contraption causing the lid of a stainless steel receptacle to open and billow forth a cloud of steam. He reached in and got his scissors and comb. Later I took consolation in this steamy beginning; at least I don’t have to worry about infection.

The second his fingers grasped the instrument “that sound” began. This barber wasn’t one to conserve scissor-strokes. He turned from the caldron of steam with an unceasing, metal scraping against metal, sound. With his left hand he combed out the copious amounts of product I slather into my hair each morning but his right hand never moved position. It kept slicing metal against metal down at his side; gathering up momentum…I assumed. With my eyes closed I knew exactly where his right hand was. I was like a bat using sonar.

I kept thinking of my ears as I heard the swooping of his hand up from his side in this wide graceful concert-conductor curve… toward my head…or my ear. What was this going to look like, would my eyebrows survive, would my ears survive; for that matter would the plants outside the front door survive once those unceasing scissors hit full stride. Almost immediately a picture of Edward Sissorhands came to mind. Would I walk out with a poodle-topiary haircut?

I KEPT MY EYES CLOSED.

His hands moved quickly and precisely. The scissors scraped against each other four or five times for every time he engaged hair. Then every five times he cut, the scissors smacked hard and loudly against the comb to loosen what I imagined to be a cloud of hair-bits. All the time he was having the typical boisterous Italian conversation with his comrade. Italians can be reading the grocery list and it sounds like a political argument. I just wondered if he was keeping an eye on my ears.

He stopped and turned away. Then the scissors stopped. I had to open my eyes. As I did I saw the caldron of steam open up again. That swooping, frantically scissoring, rapidly moving right-hand of energy, picked up a large gleaming straight razor from the billowing steam.

BEST I CLOSE MY EYES AGAIN.

Now I knew what the towel was for…to sop up the blood!

Fortunately it must have already been sharpened. If I had to endure the anticipation of hearing the back and forth of the Demon Barber jugular-cutting blade, stropping against the strap I might have weakened. He lathered me up and began cutting.

I bleed easily. After shaving I always look like a wolf that has devoured a bunny. This, I feared, was not going to be good. But there wasn’t a single drop of bunny blood to be found when he finished and I finally opened my eyes. The haircut was perfect. “Perfetto” I gleefully said made my IRA payment and left feeling less like Galileo.

Pictures for tonight are disparate and unrelated to today’s story: flower market at my post office, a bike near the Piazza della Liberta, a flag north of the Duomo, the ancient floor of the Battistero and signs with flowers south of the Fiume Arno.

THE OLD WASHER WOMAN

With the help of the Babel Fish translator I managed to work up enough nerve to make a few semi-intelligent button choices on the washing machine. I am still in the dark about the button with a picture of the sun behind a cloud and then there is the 800-400 button. A little mystery is always good in ones life. The machine is now locked and loaded. I pushed the “picture of the key.” Yes, the key confused me for a while. But what do use to “start” a car but a key. Maybe the manufacturer of this ARISTON front-loader also makes cars.

It immediately started making grinding noises then started turning. Turning slowly. Very, very slowly. It also seems to prefer turning counter-clockwise twice as often as clockwise. Could counter-clockwise wash better? And might I add that there seems to be less water in the machine than in the air, on a humid afternoon in Las Vegas. Slowly it turns, back and forth 30, 40 no 60 minutes. (I didn’t even push the super wash cycle). A coal miners clothes can’t be that dirty. It washed so long I worried it might never end but finally I heard the drain gurgle (my only indication as there is no visible level of water in this machine). Well, the little sucker has been saving its energy for the spin cycle. The dynamo at Niagara Falls doesn’t have anything on the Ariston. Then we have no less than 60 minutes of rinse cycles. Fortunately I started this four-load process at eight in the morning.

There is no dryer. Laundry here is strictly Florentine style, that is, out the window on those creaky pulley contraptions that you see in the early 1900’s in the Brooklyn; except my lines don’t have the pulleys. Remember I am four floors up, over strolling tourists and the occasional accordion player visiting the restaurant down below. I am extremely concerned I will drop something. The weight of a wet queen-sized duvet cover is probably enough to dislocate some Romanian retiree’s neck or at least spoil the over-sprayed over-teased hair of some blue-haired Arkansas housewife on her second honeymoon. Then there would be the embarrassment I have to go through running down to fetch the garishly printed IKEA sheets I have been forced to sleep on. At least they are cotton.

Fortunately I had the presence of mind to shake everything out before hanging. You know. Socks always lodge themselves in the corners of fitted sheets. Everything is hung outside, inside on hangers or draped on the drying rack provided by the landlord. The place looks like “Larry Lee’s We Wash It” in here.

I took a walk. It was still the time of the boat-people (cruise line) tourists so I went off track. There was a wonderful base and vibes (xylophone) duo in the San Croce square so I spent time there listening and photographing the fresco details on the upper building walls. They are in remarkably good condition considering their age. It was five when I headed back home. I stopped near the Palazzo Vecchio because there was a war demonstration that had attracted a crowd. However, there was an unmistakable absence of people waiting in line at the Palazzo Vecchio. I took a chance and went in. Except for a few couples and a small gaggle of students it was free and clear. As I went in I realized why. This is the City Hall of Florence and there was a ceremony presenting trophies that afternoon. The place was closed until just before I arrived. The main attraction for me was the Sala dei Comqiecentro (Room of the Five Hundred), named after the 500-member people’s assembly that met there. “Fodor’s” calls it “almost grotesquely huge.” All the immense ceiling decoration was done in just two years.

Oh, yes. Remember about a thousand words ago or so? Well, I mentioned an abstract installation in the Museo del Bargello that was giving a counterpoint to all the antiquities. I liked it. The Palazzo Vecchio decided to do the same. The artist who provided the “counterpoint” here is the artist Georges Adeagbo, a Venice Biennial winner (who cares). He had used newspapers and empty beer bottles (among other things) around the beautiful belongings of the Medici. Any place he had strewn his “installation” looked like a horde of drunken frat boys from UCLA had camped out for the evening. The art world gone amuck!

Throughout the building I noticed that the ceilings are all magnificently done. Some of lesser significance than others but all impressive. However, everything below (except for a few exceptions) is all rather plain and straightforward. Only about three rooms had floors that I would consider interesting. The rest looked like they came out of a San Fernando tract home. As with much of Florence the beauty is available to those who can bend their head back for lengthy periods. I need a massage.

Pictures for tonight: under eaves frescos in the Piazza Santa Croce, musical combo in the same piazza, (the following all hand-held with no flash) Palazzo Vecchio room of the 500, ceiling detail from the same room and a ceiling detail from another room.

HABLA ESPANOL?

Yesterday, I turned the corner on Via Vacchereccia (my street) onto Via Por Santa Maria heading south to the Ponte Vecchio just 50 yards away. It was 9:00 AM and the “old bridge” was nearly deserted. Some shop owners were opening their old heavily ornamented hinged and ironclad storefronts but it was quiet. The air and streets were damp and clean.

It was a sunny walk east on the south side of the Arno watching the sculls being rowed up and down the turtle filled water. Finally it dawned on me, why the huge obelisk (sorta) sculptures in front of the Santa Maria Novella sat on bronze turtles.

Crevasses, cracks and missing stones in the river embankment were filled with wild flowers and cooing pigeons. The predominant flower was actually a cluster of hundreds of very small rose-colored flowers; an inflorescence. Interspersed among these were small daisy-like flowers and many others that I didn’t know; although there are many plants, flowers and trees that are similar to Southern California. One in particular is night blooming jasmine which is just starting here and one I think is called “mock orange” that is heavy in the air this morning.

I hung a right up the hill and through the gates of the old wall of the city, similarly covered with grasses and wildflowers. Upward. And upward still, past the old decorative cast metal city water spigots flowing into marble basins. Upward. I was on my way to the Pizalle Michelangelo and the iris garden where the international competition had just taken place days before. It wasn’t yet the opening time for the iris garden when I noticed the Gardino delle Rose. I took the detour. Although not yet half way up to the summit the view was clear; the sky was brushed with a few wisps of white. There was a slight breeze. After taking many photos of the roses and other flowers…and enjoying the space…and smelling the flowers of course, it was off to the next level up the hill. That next level offered entry to the next detour at the Monastero di San Miniato. The cloister was built in 1295 along with a summer palace for the bishops of Florence, which was later to become part of the monastery. It has been a fortress, hospital and hospice but since 1924 it has been the home of Benedictine monks. They were walking around in their cassocks.

They have a cemetery!!!!

There are crypts, above ground graves, gated niches and…mausoleums. Oh yes, and lots of plastic flowers. I was first surprised by this in Venice. Many resting places have permanent pictures of the departed (also not new to me). However, there are individual lights on many crypt-faces and in niches and mausoleums. Some tiny, some larger. Lighting the way for occasional spirit visits? Night lights for the departed? My family plot is better than yours, I have 30 watts, you only have 25. I don’t know. But it adds to the lexicon of macabre cemetery lore. It is eerie. It is personal. When the eyes of photographs look at, down or up at you there is a feeling of presence: a greater feeling of the loss. Especially when it is a child’s face, a soldier’s face. Youth stolen that might not stand out if there were just dates carved in stone.

The monastery is striking and charming. The ceilings detailed, gilded and impressive. So much artistic endeavor in Florence requires one to look up. The sacristy is especially nice with all the inlaid woodwork. Frescos, paintings, sculpture, candles and quiet. A beggar was at the front door with a plastic cup and weatherworn picture of a family to prompt interest. Am I hardened? Am I jaded? Does he make more money than I do? I passed by and went looking for irises.

I looked and I looked. I walked and I walked farther. Nothing. I went halfway back down the hill. Yes, the sign points upward. Back up the hill, past the cat village. Yes, that is what I wrote. And that is why there are no rats. I haven’t seen one rat or even a sign of vermin in all my back-alley wanderings. I can see two or three each time I walk down the street to Whole Foods in LA.

There are little houses for the cats throughout the park (this I mention for Susan). There are signs that warn “you must not make evil against the cat residents” and if you do it is “punishable with the pain of four years in confinement” (I love the Babel Fish translator).

I walked around and around again. Past the monastery. Back again and past another reproduction of David (this one in bronze) in the other direction. Ok, I was giving myself only a few hundred yards more. I looked to my right and saw someone coming out of a gate on a motor scooter. When I looked in, the place was filled with beautiful irises. It was the backdoor. Well, damm I’m not walking all the way back around to the entrance. The iris garden is “ingresso libero” (not a literal translation but meaning it has no charge). I’ll just slip in the back.

Don’t raise your eyebrows at me. There are those among you reading this who have walked backwards in the exit of the Pasadena Showcase House to get in without paying. No judgments, please!

The gates began to close. I ran and just made it. Lucky!

The irises were beautiful. White to brown to royal bearded purple. I made my way up the road photographing all the way…around the corner I realized my mistake. This isn’t the public iris garden; it’s a private palazzo. Crap! Ok, no one has seen me yet…my panic is mild. The once cooling breeze that caressed my brow has disappeared. I feel the air closing in on me. I made my way down to the gate and…yes…you guessed it. No trip light for exiting vehicles. A key is necessary in both directions.

The panic steps up a notch. I now notice beads of sweat on the back of my neck. A neck that seems to be in an ever-tightening noose.

Ok, it’s not like I haven’t had to squeeze through a hedge before…no…there is a fence in the hedges. Ok, I’ll climb the wall. I did that at Lucille Ball’s house I can sure as hell do it here. And the wall is only four feet high. Lucy’s was six feet. No. It’s four feet on the inside and a 10-12 foot drop on the street side. That is even if I can avoid evisceration by way of the glass shards in the cement cap of the fence.

Crap!
Defeat.
Ok, swallow your pride Larry and hope the owners are kind and don’t have the Carabineri on speed dial.

It’s a great palazzo. Well taken care of and manicured. I knocked. No answer. So why not look in the windows. Very nice place. I would venture it was professionally designed. Muted tones and great antiques. Lots of textural interest and great fabric. Larry, I thought to myself, enough HGTV interest in the surrounding…on with the task at hand. I tried various windows and doors with various knocks and the occasional “scusi,” “buongiorno” or even a “hello.” No answer. I have to be at the gym in Firenze Nova at 6 PM, I can’t camp out. I figured it was time for a 12-foot drop. There will be no treadmill tonight for the compression-fracture ankles.

But as I passed the summerhouse I heard a voice. Strength Larry. Courage. Wipe the sweat from your brow and for mercy sakes put the camera in your pocket. Take a deep breath. And smile!

Cautiously I threw a “mi scusi” or two at the open door. Two middle age women came to the door. Fortunately by now I know a couple of variations of “I’m sorry” in Italian. “Mi dispiace,” “spiacente” and I went on with a “molto spiacente.” That was it. That’s all I could muster. There isn’t a Lesson 22 in my Transparent Language course for “Breaking and Entering.”

One of the women had left. I prayed she hadn’t left to dial the Italian version of 911. I continued firing at the other woman with all the Italian I knew. “Conosco solo qualche parola di italiano.” “Parla inglese?”

“No” she answered then went on with “Habla espanol?”

Great! At this point the only words and the limited topics I can muster in Spanish would only make the situation worse. “No hablo” was the safe answer at this point.

Sign language as the last resort. I took out the camera and pointed at the irises. “Bello” I said although the gender is probably wrong. Although better I get the iris’s gender wrong than hers! “Bello” I said again and then said “Pizzale Michelangelo.”

“No, no, no, no” in a stream of Spanish accent Italian. The ensuing one-sided conversation prompted me to gather she is from South America. She laughs and then the other woman comes back with an ancient withered woman in a wheelchair. The old woman is wearing a straw hat.

She, the old woman in the wheelchair, was a beautiful woman…once. One of the windows…I looked in…was her bedroom and there was a dresser with many framed pictures. The old woman never reacted to any of this. The other woman pushed the wheelchair towards me. Puzzlement crossed my brain and my face; I’m sure. The other woman showed me a set of keys and pointed to the gate and quelled the panic on my face. I pushed the utterly silent old woman and the group of us made our way to the gate. We all laughed and spoke, to ourselves in essence, in our own language…all the way to the gate, as I thought…once again I have been saved.

“Grazie, mille grazie” I said.
“Arrivederci.”
“Arrivederci.”
“Arrivederci.”
And silence from the once beautiful woman, with the magnificent iris garden, locked in her mind and confined to her chair.

Your pictures for tonight: the old wall of Florence, the public rose garden, stairs to the monastery, you all have seen an iris before but this one marks the adventure of the week and lights in the mausoleum.

BEHIND PALAZZO WALLS

On Sunday morning, and I do mean morning, I was up and out early. The air was crisp and cool although I didn’t need the thermal shirt. This was Toscana Esclusiva. The once per year event occurs when private Palazzos and gardens are opened to the public. I had been told that lines would be horrible, so I chose one area, the Florence historic center (Firenze centro storico) for concentration, just north of the Duomo. I must have chosen the wrong area. No lines. I was there as the staff arrived at Palazzo Niccolini (now offices). I could have slept another hour. One of the staff informed me that only the “cortile” (courtyard) could be visited at Niccolini. That was fine. The exterior has wonderful frescos (though incomplete) and the to-the-point simplicity of the court is handsome and worth seeing. As I was the only one there, at this hour of thieves and drunken husbands, I was able to walk about imagining it was the entrance to my own home. Ah, yes. Quite a nice flight-of-fancy.

On to the next “indirizzo” (address) just at the end of the same Via dei Servi adjacent/attached to the Piazza SS Annunziata.

Here at the private Palazzo Grifoni Budini Gattai both the entry and gardens were open. I was also the first to arrive. The court was enclosed and protected. Weather and time had taken little from the craftsmanship of this space. The loggia-style furniture said “1940” and probably set the date at which time, and maintenance, became less important than the occupant’s survival. The space wasn’t grand when it was built but it had been well to do. However, as I walked from the entry area through the still well preserved intricately mullioned windows into the garden I wasn’t carried back in time. Unmistakably, I was hit with the blunt reality that all are not Medici’s; all do not have the gentle and moneyed touch of preservationists. There were occasional vignettes of beauty; but few. The exposed palazzo surrounding the garden, although one could tell it had been elegant, showed the ravages of time. And time had struck a massive blow to all but a few areas. This wasn’t a grand scene out of a Merchant and Ivory film it was a gritty independent film chronicling the surroundings of a crumbling old dowager spending her dwindling days amidst the decaying remains of her past. The weathered exterior frescos of the garden were barely visible behind the stooped and wizened gardener, gallantly doing battle with the weeds in the rose garden. It was a losing battle with overgrowth. The huge fountain on the wall of the garden-house was dry, crumbling. The story once told by the sculptures of the fountain was lost, except perhaps to the remembrances of the owner. Barely visible, as I peered through the water-fogged greenhouse glass, were the old bicycles, rusting toys and forgotten remnants of a life that was. Entangled vines had disrupted the tile on the summerhouse. A bronze Mercury was pitted and ravaged by the acid rain that was unknown when he took his place between the azaleas. This was an amazing look into the life of an ordinary Florentine. A crash course in the reality that Florence isn’t just the theme park grandeur presented to tourists. I was saddened but felt I knew the city a little better.

I went on to visit a few other places but then got lost. Just a little after I stuck my nose in the Convent of the Penitents (1257) I found another palazzo on the tour. Of the 22 homes that could be visited I stumbled on #19. This is the Palazzo Ximenes Panciatichi. The last stop on bus line #23 that I take to the gym is Panciatichi; this must be providence.

Yes, I think it was. This was a life-sized display-case of an era. This Palazzo, although not immaculately preserved, affords a perfect example of a wealthy home of that era. It was reminiscent of the great palazzos of the Grand Canal of Venice. Most notably the cake-decorating plasterwork. Intricate scrolling, ribbons, shell-work, acanthus leaves and borders covered the frescoed ceiling. The over-windows were detailed plaster coats-of-arms commemorating marriage alliances that took place in the 1700’s. There were crystal and Murano chandeliers. Paintings, statuary and long corridors lined with relatives captured in oil. The often, stern faces of the long-dead residents seemed to look down at you as you walked through, as though this was still “their” home, they might still be in charge. There were emblazoned silk hangings over some of the doorways to keep us out. One’s imagination could run rampant with guessing. There was no furniture, to speak of, except for an occasional period-bench under a leaded glass window or a bust on a pedestal, also giving you the eye; keeping watch. This sparseness of furnishings allowed me to meander aimlessly across the ancient floors and throughout the rooms gazing up and turning as if I were a camera capturing the mood of the space. This was a great and uplifting example to end my private palazzo tour.

On the way home I happened on the Museo del Bargello. I had seen it, in passing, before but today there weren’t many people, so I ventured in. This space was the first public palazzo in Florence. You enter an anteroom with the featured exhibit of the “Grandi Bronzi del Battistero (The Great Bronzes of the Baptistery) by Vincenzo Danti, a disciple of Michelangelo. The three-piece work of the beheading of John the Baptist is literally larger than life and immensely imposing. There are many other works here including the Cosimo I authorized castings, of some of Michelangelo's work, done by Danti in the 1500’s.

This is a grand space and worth the visit just for the loggia. It is open for three floors. The walls are covered with the coats-of-arms of the former Administrators of Justice that governed here. There is a three story brightly colored abstract installation piece in the center that adds balance and lightness to an otherwise dry historic assemblage. It is the only piece that is not historic. Otherwise, the place is chock-a-block with statues and artifacts. Most amusingly, the remnants of a fountain by Bartolomeo Ammannati, in one corner, with two female nudes that urinated the water into the fountain or spewed it from their nipples. If I had a palazzo I would have artists working on copies of the fountain as we speak.

Except for the first level, all the floors are ancient wood. The creaking sounds, like voices trying to tell a story. On all these levels you look up to outstandingly beautiful polychromed wood or groined plaster ceilings with wonderful frescoed scenes. Yes, there are extensive exhibits of glassware, porcelain, tapestries, intricately carved ivory, jewelry, gold and precious stones, huge Giovanni della Robia glazed wall pieces, coins and medallions, an especially wonderful (though very worn) red velvet jacket encrusted with innumerable gold studs and all sorts of sculpture from Cellini and Michelangelo to Giambologna (who did one of the great pieces in the Loggia della Signoria that I have mentioned). But the space itself is the attraction for me.

Enough. I have been very long winded and probably too historically dry tonight. No doubt I will hear about it from Alfredo tomorrow.

Your pictures for tonight are: windows going out into the forgotten garden, eaves detail of the same palazzo, a small hotel ceiling I just happened to see during the garden tour, a chandelier from the last palazzo I visited and a photo (that I had to sneak) of the ceiling in the Bargello museum.

COMPETITION

I was perched at a posh spot in the southwest corner of the 14th century Loggia della Signoria, on the stone rail. My favorite Pio Fedi to the right and the entire piazza, in full view, before me. I would be above the fray. The column of stone would make it impossible for me to be moved from my vantage point. Like a general plotting a battle, it was calculated. I had walked around and around, viewed the battlefield, before making my decision as to which spot best suited viewing the festivities, the annual flag tossing competition. Sun vs. shadow. Distance and height, with its advantage for panorama vs. proximity and the drawback of the gesticulating push and shove of the masses. Once chosen there would be no turning back. No bathroom breaks or the spot would be gone. I knew I would have to be patient and wait. But it was a beautiful day. Shorts and a tee shirt. Gelato weather if ever there was. I just sat there leaning against ancient stone watching the ebb and flow of the camera laden sight-searching crowd. The sun was tempered by a cool clean breeze. There were always at least a thousand people milling around with a constant turnover of new explorers. Singlely, in small groups or a long stream gaggled together by yellow caps or blue lanyard earphones with an alpha guide at point; mushing onward with arm out-stretched, pointing forward and upward, brandishing a flag or umbrella to keep the chicks together. All this humanity and the noise wasn’t…noise. It was more subdued. It most closely resembled white noise. Yes, occasionally there was something audible that stood out, but seldom. It was like the rushing hiss of waves on the beach. So I closed my eyes, for a long time. I felt the cool air flow across my face. I relaxed and nearly fell asleep. I didn’t have a schedule or commitment (well there was laundry to do, but screw it!). I just waited.

The pace of the scene changed. Slowly the city-crew began setting up barriers. Chairs were set up in front of the Palazzo Vecchio. They, the masses, knew something was going to happen but were forced onward by their commanding general of a tour guide. Slowly as the barrier was closed off some of the street-clothed competitors began blocking out their movements. Pushy tourists still wandered through, as the planning competitors weren’t especially prominent or noticeable.

The Loggia began to fill with Florentines. They knew the treat in store. Team Firenze would compete. They were here to cheer. Soon my patience would be rewarded. Not that the time spent was anything but salubrious.

An announcer, with the ability to speak but not breath, began the ceremonies with a monologue of monumental stellar mass. All time seemed to cease. His voice and speech pattern had the gravity of a black hole. It seemed nothing nor any of us would escape. Not even time. But then, from down the Via dei Calzaiuoli and just around the corner of the Via Porta Rossa came a cannon blast. Chills bumped the skin at the back of my neck and arms. The announcer ceased. There was a split second of total silence and then the crowd roared with an open floodgate of enthusiasm. Through the now gathered, many-thousand-mass of tourists, I could see colorful flags streaming, billowing and thrusting above. The crowd quieted, a bit, and Team Firenze was announced. The crowd roared again and the period instruments began. Brass heralded. Drums beat. The stream of history began.

A banner bearer came first with the colors of Firenze followed by the dignitaries in their period costume. Then more instruments. Heavy drumming that reverberated in the vaulted and groined Loggia. It was almost as if the drumbeats were answering back. As they drew closer the crowd intensified but parted to allow, to pay tribute to, the procession.

They entered the cordoned area. Instruments were at the back facing the Palazzo Vecchio, guarded by David, as the regally costumed dignitaries took their place below the Palazzo. Finally, Team Firenze entered. Two huge flags to a person were whipping, flowing and undulating in the breeze that was intensifying by the moment. Mother nature seemed to be as caught up in the impending battle as the audience.

The procession continued with the brightly costumed teams, from Liguria, San Marino and Bologna along with their costumed hierarchy and brightly festooned instrumentalists. They filled the area to the brim with silks, brocades, velvets, leather, brass, enthusiasm and music to rattle the swallows from their nests. It was a goose-bump event.

We had a breather from cheers and applause. The long-winded announcer cranked up yet again. But each time he mentioned Firenze…. Liguria…. San Marino…. or Bologna the cheers roared and the applause battered him into quiet.

Let the competition begin.

Twice, each of the groups came out… individually. The dignitaries remained seated in their place of distinction. First was, of course, Firenze. More cannon blasts. Trumpets heralded and the competitors began. Ballet with large poles and yards of brightly emblazoned fabric. Like the performance of a fan-dancer but the fabric was so much larger and had so much more movement. The whipping and snapping of the fabric in the ever-increasing breeze added yet another voice to the sound of it all. With each ever increasingly difficult maneuver the applause rang out. But when the poles began to fly through the air, there were gasps of breath. Cheers of pride that seemed to taunt the competitors to ever-greater distance and feats. When the flags flew farther and farther across the playing field it took the audience further and further into frenzy. Especially the little Firenzer boys held up by their fathers as they screamed out the number of times the flags flew. Uno, due, tre, guattro and even qinque. If not the feats of skill, the civic pride displayed was a tearjerker.

I pulled myself back to force myself to imagine. These competitions have been assembled, in this place of historic presence, for hundreds of years. The pride is deep seated. Like the fans for the Yankees…if the Yankees had been playing and winning and seats were available when Columbus sailed the ocean blue. I don’t think we, or I as an American can imagine the thread of historic pride that is at play here.

It was a breathtaking moment in my history.