ESSELUNGA

In an effort not to experience Florence from behind a lens, I don’t always take my camera with me. However, when I do take it, I insist on being prepared. One never knows when the battery will run dry, so I take an extra one with me. One of those super strong long-lasting Lithium batteries. May I suggest that you heed the warnings of my foolish mistake. Don’t put loose batteries in the same pocket as you put your loose change. The coins made contact and completed the circuit. I couldn’t quite roast weenies on my pocket of Euro change but it all got pretty darn hot. And the battery will probably run dry sooner than usual (and they are four times more expensive here).

Confession is good for the soul, so I’ll continue. Laundry chores came along again. Everything I brought from California had been washed many times making it easier to mix all clothes in the same load. Thus saving on separate smaller washes. Unfortunately, I forgot… briefly forgot that the temperature gauge was in Celsius. I basically pushed the boil button. This one green shirt bled green like a giant dismembered praying mantis. Now my white socks and the landlords white towels are pastel green. And I can’t find a bottle of Clorox to save my life. If you saw the apartment pictures I posted you might notice the color of the tiles…yes, green…light green. I wonder if the landlord will notice the change in color if I just leave the towels the lovely praying mantis green?

Household chores-day is Wednesday, after the gym.

Quaint little neighborhood shops provide a large percentage of my groceries. I also do the central and neighborhood market days. But sometimes one just has to march directly into the new century and do the supermarket. For me that means a #23 bus ride to Firenze Nova and Esselunga (the supermarket). They have nifty little hand-held gadgets that you can use to scan things as you put them in your cart and then have a digital running total of what you have spent. On the way home I stopped again at my usual flower market (at the post office) for fresh flowers.

No! I don’t just shop, scrub clothes and do the gym. But all those usual easy mundane things at home are a bit out of one’s safety zone here and thereby make those normally dull chores very interesting. At the very least I pick up a few more Italian words, to mangle.

Ok, I do confess that even at home I love to go to the grocery store.

Yesterday was my appointment at the Ufizzi. Even with reserved appointment times the line was about 20 minutes (including the metal detector and pocket contents check). I was there very early so there were no horrible crowds. The building is “U” shaped with the bottom of the “U” at the edge of the Arno River (and a great view). The place is packed with art following a chronological placement, except the hallways that are just abundantly lined with sculpture (and the upper rails of the hallways have portraits side by side for the entire length of the entire structure).

The ceilings throughout the building (as with the rest of Firenze) are great but the hallways are spectacular. The art collection has the famous “Birth of Venus” by Botticelli, “Portrait as an Old Man” by Rembrandt and the “Bacchus” by Caravaggio (although I liked the shield with Medusa head better). It is an overload of famous and not so well known art but a great stroll through history. The Medici’s certainly did love to collect.

I tried last night and will try again this weekend to get “wait-list” admittance to the Corridoio Vasariano (if people don’t show you get in and don’t have to pay). The Medici used this corridor to go from the Palazzo Vecchio through the Ufizzi and to the Ponte Vecchio without having to mingle with the commoners. Since the Vasariano was bombed in the early 1990’s it isn’t open much except for special occasions. These tours, that I am trying to get in (on wait-list), have been fully booked for some time through the festivities of Il Genio Fiorentino.

Your pictures for today are: Ufizzi ceiling detail, back of Ufizzi overlooking the Arno, fountain in Piazza SS Annunziata, palazzo patio furniture and window overlooking the Arno.

MY APARTMENT

A number of requests have been made. The first was a tour of my apartment. So here it is. It is actually much cozier and roomier than I had envisioned from the pictures posted with the placement agency in London. The ceilings are about eleven feet high which makes for a very spacious feeling. Originally this was one large apartment (like Daniele Lococo's apartment which is entered by the door directly next to the elevator, the only other apartment on this floor...she owns it). My area was divided by Vito, the owner of just these two subdivided apartments (he is from Sicily). His son Germano (I called him by the wrong name for the first two weeks!) lives in one half (he is a first year medical student) and Vito rents the other half out (mine). It is a very sunny apartment with windows in every room. There is plenty of closet and cupboard space and all the amenities I need (AC, washer, high-speed wireless internet, microwave/convection oven, range and refrigerator...and of course a bidet...it is Europe!).



Coffin elevator with the door to Germano's apartment and my apartment (far left).


Inside our hallway. Germano's apartment ahead mine down the hall to the right.


Entrance to my apartment.


Entry from inside hall.


Entry with window (door is to the right).


Hallway looking toward the entry with double bath door to left.


Looking out the bathroom toward the entry.


Looking into bathroom, window to the right.


Looking into bedroom.


Head of bed from the window.


Bedroom view from the window (with ugly-ass mirror).


Kitchen counter with hall to the left.


Livingroom view from kitchen area.


Far corner (if you can be far in 45 sq. meters) of the livingroom.


Diningroom table with window.

THE SHADOWY FIGURE

On Tuesday night I went to a free concert at the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore (the Duomo). I was the first in line until two Italian Lucile Ball redheads drenched in jewelry and perfume shoved their way to the head of the line. May I point out that I had the last laugh. It was apparent when the doors opened that they were trying to balance far too much weight on far too spiked a heel, for centuries polished marble. They were no match for the speed of my tennis shoes, with a posh seat at stake. This concert was part of Il Genio Fiorentino (The Florentine Genius); their motto this year is “Le idee non fanno paura a chi ne ha (Ideas scare those who do not have them).”

The concert was set up in the small domed alcove of the left transept. The orchestra was at the outer wall below a three-foot high stunning jewel encrusted crucifix (it glittered only somewhat more than the two red heads). We faced the orchestra (the Vivaldi experts of Modo Antiquo) with our backs just under the edge of Brunelleschi’s dome. Reliquaries to the left. Reliquaries to the right. Red-shaded oil lamps hung fifteen feet from ceiling supports. Great paintings and sculpture. A draft of cool air coming in from the open eye of the dome. And a little bit too much garlic from the tourist behind me.

Set up in the aisle was a wooden lectern with the patina of great age. It stood nine-feet high with amazing details. The lower part was three-feet high and five-feet square. There was a carved two-foot high pillar holding up the remaining three- sided section that held massive opened books of illuminated antique scripture and music. The setting was impressive.

There were a few announcements and then the orchestra came in, they warmed up and began the program of Veracine and Vivaldi with the added bonus of a mezzo-soprano.

The Veracine is dull classical elevator music. But I enjoyed the privilege of being exposed to something new. The next piece they chose was a Vivaldi that wasn’t much more exciting. Still, I tried to block out the klieg lights they brought into the alcove and all the electronic bric-a-brac and imagined this was being played 300 years ago, despite the plastic chairs. The mezzo-soprano came next. Vivaldi, her weapon of choice. She contorted her body to wrench out the notes as if she were a dishcloth being twisted to extract the moisture. Ok, perhaps it wasn’t that bad, it was just that I could have been at any concert anywhere.

Then I heard it. And the chills caught the nap of my neck. I damn well didn’t care if I was up front. I got up, walked down the long aisle and left the alcove, drawn away by the haunting echo of the mezzo’s voice bouncing around the corner in the nave (the long area from the front door to the altar). There are no pews. The nave is completely open. The sound of the orchestra floated through the massive empty space like the miasma of history calling to me. The deserted cathedral beckoned for a presence, for me. I was alone in the entire area except for one unmoving shadowy figure nestled between the font and a pillar, who I later noticed. Huge carved marble monuments to the people buried here stood guard but let me pass. The masculine large cut multi-colored mosaic of seemingly unending marble floor pulled me to the center of the long column lined space. To stand there in the middle of that ancient chamber of history was profound. The centuries of politics and intrigues that these walls have seen were there for my imagining, unencumbered by tourists or guards. And synergistically intensified by the music that seemed to float from out of the past. There were only a few lights. When I positioned myself just right the lights were just a glow from behind the columns and jewel-tone rays from the stained glass. The oil lamps and the glow from the illuminated icons and artwork of the lunettes at the rear drew the eye to the distance, granting a greater sense of depth, a greater feeling of being lost in the expanse. Glimpses of paintings. Shadows of sculpture. I was all but alone in the dark. Then the aria ended and the applause began. It saturated the space with a roar of sound. And as I took it in I realized it sounded exactly like the sound of a torrential downpour. Those weren’t people clapping it was just a rainy night and I was alone in this monument. It seemed to be mine alone to enjoy. The rush of sound ceased. Then, a moment of utter, stark, silence. I could almost hear my own heart beat. I had been walking and circling around taking in every sense of the moment that I could. I was amazed that no one else realized what they were missing. Except perhaps for the shadowy figure below the font. A woman I think.

I did the same she. I took a position below the sandaled feet of a carved marble saint and just stared up at the dome. I nestled myself within the folds of stone with the cold marble pressing at the flesh of my neck. The music began again. To me they were notes wrenched from the marble and the past. The mezzo began. I was entranced. I floated on an intensity of raw emotion.

It was a giddy feeling. I had escaped. I could still be sitting there with all the others. Watching, listening and clapping just like at any other concert in any hall in any town, anywhere. Yes, they were… we were, in the Duomo but that fenced in herd was squeezed tightly into a corner. I, however, was at liberty. Moving freely within this centuries old Renaissance masterpiece, this benchmark architectural achievement whose architect rests just below my feet, there in that shadowy time-etched space. I stood alone between him and his immortal dome. I was soaking in every detailed moment of this dream, every vision I could imagine.

There are two rows of immense columns on either side of the central nave supporting the huge arching groined ceiling. The groins sprouted from the stone columns like the branches of a tree. I was crouched in a forest of stone haunted by the voice of the mezzo-soprano, as it wrapped around me chilling me with dreams.

There are eight 15-foot horizontal, richly colored, stained glass windows all along the lower half of the cathedral that were backlit from the surrounding streetlights. The lead-lined figures in the glass stared at me, teasing me on to further flights of fancy.

In addition, there are eight round stained glass windows just below the arching ceiling that cast their crackled light on to the curves of the ceiling like the dappled light falling from the forest. In some areas, as the street-light passed through the glass and washed the curved ceiling the light cast patches of red, white or amber. It appeared in my state of heightened susceptibility to be glimpses of the sunset through the branches of a tree.

Eight more round stained glass windows adorn the lower part of Brunelleschi’s dome bringing just enough light into the frescoed scenes to give a sense that one was peering through the curtain of history at the enactments portrayed there.

Once again I got up and began to circle and pan around this cavernous marble display of man’s ingenuity. I moved as though I was the camera setting the scene in the opening of a Cecil B. DeMille epic. Finally, the musicians have mustered up a rousing tempo and the mezzo was in overdrive. The walls echoed and re-echoed until it seemed there was a chorus. I was chilled by the intensity and as I panned around the lone shadowy figure moved. She, yes I could now see that it was a women. She got up and came toward me with a determined step. I stood there, frozen. Her pace quickened so that she came at me like a lover comes to greet a husband from war. I was transfixed by this approaching figure. What was about to happen?

She came but inches from my body and put her hand on my arm. In a strong but whispered voice she said, “I’m so thrilled you were here.” There wasn’t a second of hesitation in her delivery (in English) as she went on with “Although we didn’t speak it was wonderful that I had someone who shared this amazing experience with me.” She, as I, was puzzled that no one else thought to enjoy the space as we did.

She is from San Francisco and was lamenting that she is soon going home after a month in a rented apartment in Santa Croce. For a few moments we exchanged incites about our shared but separate moments. Then came the final downpour of rain. And our moment ended.

Your pictures for tonight are: The Duomo from the hill south of the Arno, Ponte Vecchio at sunset, close-up of the Duomo, top of the Duomo and handbags for sale at Mercato Nuovo (Porcellino).

THUNDER

Last evening, in the middle of a conversation with my father the phone just quits.
I feel like swearing but the only Italian cuss phrase is the one Simona taught me and it doesn’t seem quite appropriate to invoke slanders about a grandmother’s privates on this occasion.

Anyway, I made sure those little gleaming numbers, on the cell, knew just how angry I was…just by the way I punched in 4916. Fortunately, I have converted the 4916 portion of the TIM phone service numbers to English prompts.

In her very perky authoritarian voice, the automated bitch-circuit with her poshly proper uppity British accent chimed in (literally there is a chime but only a little sorta constipated Big Ben sound). In perfectly phrased Brit bits of circuitry I am given notice “TIM Pre-Paid Service.” Her passive aggressive circuitry goes on with a long drawn out “Good Evening” like the circuit ran a little too close to a Bella Legosi Dracula download. “Your remaining credit is 25.09 Euro cents, VAT included.” Why did that rude-ass circuit leave me 25 Euro cents? She officiously continued on through my thought process “Up dated to the last recorded transaction.” Why the bloody hell 25 Euro cents? Then it finally dawns on me that this amount allows just enough time is leave a TEXT MESSAGE for the person they cut off. Yea, like I’m going to TEXT my dad or he is going to TEXT me. Why not just chime in one minute earlier, like any other self-respecting pay-phone would do and warn a bloke that it’s time to bugger-off and go have a pint.

So I scrambled out the door to see if the TIM Store was open. Of course not. Ok, so where is there a tobacco shop (they sell pre-paid cards). Santa Croce is always busy late, so I ventured over there and I was right to do so. Jolly Good!

Got home and used a coin to scratch off the foil to get the secret code number…not remembering until halfway through that there was an Internet traveler’s admonition to scrape lightly.

T-O-O-O LATE!

Now only half of the numbers remain. I tried to piece together the dust-light remains as best I could and tried to enter my best archeological reconstruction of the numbers but the bitch circuit admonished me for my inaccuracy. It was late, I went to bed.

It rained on and off during the day yesterday but was clear and nice in the evening. The same weather pattern lingered today. It was early to rise, as I had to get to the TIM store before my reservation for the “Secret Passages” tour of the Palazzo Vecchio (my second trip to the building).

The special tour is only given a few times a day and only to small groups. There were seven of us plus the guide and the door-unlocker-relocker person. There was a great introductory to the history of the building then down into the lower reaches of the structure to start the tour. From the original foundations to the attic structure and the separate attic ceiling support structure for the ceiling of the grand “Room of the 500” and everything in between that isn’t open for the general admittance fee. This was only $2.00 Euro more and well worth it. We spent a lot of time in Cosimo’s private quarters some of which are the only rooms that have never been changed nor have been reconstructed. We went into his safe room (dull stone but secure) and his (and later his son’s) secret room. His son did experiments here out of the sight of the clergy. No servants were even allowed in the room and it is one of the few that is not decorated with religious guilt art. All the paintings depict the science of the time. Even inside it is difficult to decide how to get out. The doors are framed paintings. One fascinating thing was the floor. Many of the original floors are comprised of dark gray stone, white marble and red marble. The dark stone is Florentine, the white is Carrara marble and the red marble if from Sienna. This was to show cohesiveness to these three regions under the domination of Florence at that time, as this was the governmental headquarters. The hour and a half was over before I realized. The guide was very knowledgeable and fielded any and all sorts of questions.

Afterwards I went home and had pasta and printed a “passport” sized picture for my gym card at the new gym, Palestra Ricciardi. It is located within a ten-minute walk. It is a great old gym spread out on the ground and basement levels of three ancient buildings. There is a garden courtyard in the middle and visible to all the workout spaces. Greenery, flowers and today even rain to watch while working out. Wonderfully relaxing. And some thunder to drown out the grunting weightlifters who want you to know they are tough and working out hard, to diminish the beer gut those types usually have.

There was a real downpour while I was at the gym. The windows were open letting in all the freshly rain scrubbed air. A cool breeze came through the azaleas and roses right into the workout room. It was such a rejuvenating atmosphere to focus on while working out. It made the time fly.

Some equipment is very old and some is state of the art. The staff is helpful, the price is reasonable and there are precious few people there in the afternoon. I am so happy. It is an especially great thing to have to do when the rain limits other activities.

The rain was mostly stopped by the time I left. I stopped at the Magi Market to get a few things and then headed back home.

I just now got e-mail confirmation on a room with private bath and a balcony with a view of the sea. This is for the Cinque Terre for three nights beginning the 6th of June. With all the “no availability” e-mails I kept getting I was afraid I wouldn’t get to stay in that area. I am staying in Vernazza one of the five (cinque) towns of the area. All built on the cliffs over-looking the Ligurian sea. Great hiking trails between the five towns. No cars allowed. There will now be time for swimming.

Finally made contact with my friend Ross (Rosario Emanuele) from Montevarchi. We met at my gym in Los Angeles. He is visiting Lucca for a few days so we will make plans later in the week. Last year he had promised to take me motor scooter riding throughout the Chianti lake district. I hadn’t heard from him in so long I thought he was angry because I didn’t take the rental he offered. Unfortunately the apartment he rents is in Montevarchi located a half an hour out of Florence.

Well, I have driveled on long enough. I think I will go back out to listen to the violinist standing between the columns of the Ufizzi. He stands under the portico to stay warm. It is quite chilly and there are few people out. The mood of the music takes on a different meaning when I watch from the back of the Ufizzi portico, and he then appears to be playing in complete solitude among the columns and the statues. The mood is amazing.

Your pictures for the day are: Gelato from across the street, Giuliano Ghellli’s “Exercise in Terracotta,” fresh carved meats in a great working class Santa Croce outdoor market, “We Have Hunger, Help Thank You” although “thank you” is spelled wrong (Grazie) and a forgotten sundial.

I WAS AWE STRUCK

What was all the racket, that has replaced the usual bucolic swallow sounds and the romantic fingering of the accordion? This is the Area Pedonale. What are all those revving engines all about? And didn’t I hear helicopters when I was in the shower? I finished getting ready to visit Ric remodeling his apartment and went downstairs early, to investigate the drastic change in sounds.

Bright yellow Italian caution-tape glistened just three feet from my apartment door. That is what you could see of it behind the solid, unmoving mass of on-lookers cheering and peering around the corner. There was a flagman at the corner and police controlling the crowd.

I could hear it again. The racing of engines and the squeal of tires as a bright red classic Mercedes Grand Turismo sports car rounded the corner. Then another sport’s classic with wide fenders, open to the air and the driver sporting period goggles and a leather jacket. A beautiful woman sat in the navigators seat with scarf trailing in the wind. There were hoots and hollers and a wave of hands outstretched with thumbs pointing upward. Then another whoosh of classic forest green, light Baltic green, rocket silver and gleaming Caribbean-water blue.

This was the Mille Miglia. This was the historic road rally from Lombardy to Rome and back that was started in 1927. This was unexpected. This was great!

Although the race began in 1927 there was a horrific accident, caused by a blown tire, in 1957 that claimed the lives of driver, navigator and 11 spectators. It was a race of speed, then. Today, the three day affair is dominated less by intense speeds, although they got going quite fast occasionally. This rally-like road trip is now more a spectacular parade of pre-1957 classic cars.

On to Riccardo’s apartment.

I slipped by the crowds and headed toward the Duomo and a few short streets away to Via delgi Alfani, just around the corner from the Galleria dell’ Accademia where the real statue of David is housed. The Mille Miglia courses throughout the city and just as I arrived one block from Ric’s there was a screeching of rubber and tangled crash. The escorting police on motorcycle cordoned off the cars. The driver and navigator in Mille Miglia car number 132 were fine but the black Porsche hardtop with the wire-rimmed tires was out of the race.

The dominance of the nearby Duomo is apparent, as most of the buildings on these side streets were once owned by the church. The weatherworn stone emblem of the Pope adorns Ric’s building and most of the others on the street. I was somewhat confused as to the address, since businesses and residences in this area have quite separate numbers. Ric’s is #75 but it is between #143 and #145. I commented on the rusted sign over his door. “La Fondiaria” he says was the insurance agency that was housed on the lower floor of his building a century ago. That is when he pointed out the worn stone emblem and said, “Although those (the Pope’s emblem and church) are the ultimate insurance.”

The building is 450 years old. No elevator. Steep stairs. Four floors. Ric’s apartment is the second floor with many windows facing the quiet street and inner building space. This was his grandfather’s house, then his fathers and now his. Nothing has been done to it in 70 years. The ceiling has just been sandblasted revealing the beamed and nominally coffered panels and corbels. There are original “cotto” floors in the front bedroom. He is moving the kitchen to the main living space to create a second bedroom. To move the gas and electrical entails, he is using a jackhammer to make channels in the ancient stonewalls. The debris and dust is exhausting to look at let alone deal with. Bag upon bag of stone that remained after moving walls and doors plus many unbaged piles. More bags of the sand used to remove the white painted wooden ceiling, which he still has to detail (using a knife to remove paint from cracks and crevices). The place looks like post World War II Germany on a bad day. Fortunately, he has a country home and only does this on weekends. Reviewing his architectural plans gives solace that it will, one day, look beautiful.

He offered his free weekend pass to the Fitness Festival at the Fortezza da Basso. Gladly, I took it and departed before I was handed a broom, shovel or the jackhammer.

I was a beautiful morning but then it began to lightly sprinkle. There was the temptation to wait and use the pass on Sunday. But the moisture was a minimal mist so I walked on through the neighborhood that I hadn’t visited or discovered while finding my way during an episode of being lost. This is a working class neighborhood. No glitzy high-end trademark shops. No souvenirs lining the small streets. To the point stores and services. I passed laundry on lines out the window as anywhere else, the nimble music of someone at the piano and men sitting on their stoops talking.

The event was clearly audible blocks before I reached the site. It was held at the Fortenzza or fortress just outside the railway lines circling the outer edge of the city. It is medieval in appearance. I know nothing about it nor can I find any information. It is a huge space surrounded by immense walls. The sprinkling has stopped but the cloud cover keeps the venue cool.

One enters through brightly colored banners, posters and outlandishly large inflatable signage. There are freebees of food, designer coffee, sports drinks and lots of Coke Zero (one of the sponsors). Booths offering massage, skin treatments and athletic counseling. Free classes were available in spinning, aerobics and cardio of every sort plus demonstrations of every conceivable type of fitness equipment. Spinning, boxing, Shaolin, Kempo, roller-blade ramps, bungee and rock climbing areas abound. I saw the signs for swimming and American Football but never made it to those areas. There were precisely choreographed and theatrically costumed dance and hip-hop contests that held my attention for a long time. However, the Macumba was my favorite, an aerobics demonstration class. Young and old, fit and want-a-be fit attendees are mesmerized by the activity and abundance of choice.

There are camouflaged military everywhere. But no. When I looked closer the nametags were all the same. And because of Transparent Language Lesson Number Whatever, I knew that “Esercizio” meant, “exercise.” These were the staff costumes.

The highlight was in the main hall. It was a South American or African martial arts demonstration. There was a quartet of tribal stringed and percussion instruments with a lead chanter. All the individuals in the large troop clapped and resounded the chant of the lead guy as they all took turns jumping into combat, both men and women. It was a blur of legs thrusting into the air above their opponent’s heads, a swirl of flesh and white as they spun on the ground or threw their teammates around the floor. The enthusiasm was hypnotic. The music depleted the visually grazing crowd and drained interest from the neighboring demonstrations. They were performing when I arrived and still when I left. Drenched in sweat they still had the smiles of children seeing a Christmas tree for the first time. It was amazing.

I had forgotten the time. I checked my phone. It was close to seven o’clock. There was a Text Message. It was from Matteo asking if I wanted to meet for a drink.

It wasn’t bright to begin with and it was getting late and the light was fading. But I was forced, yet again, to deal with Text Messaging. It is irritatingly slow. That screen is frustrating small. And it is no secret how old my eyes are. I was forced to compose on the fly in the darkening corridor between buildings barely able to see those damn little letters. I am use to fast typing on a wide-screen laptop. “Yes” would have been the quick answer but what about where and when? Also, I needed to let him know I was six inches away from my apartment…on the map. It was necessary to stop to do this. I typed it out and then hit the wrong button (as I often do) and lost it. Twelve more words, again, by hunt and peck on a 10-digit phone. This is not technology.

I got the message off and made a beeline toward the apartment. Well, a drunken bee. I got lost. Then I encountered the crowds. Not only was it a Saturday but there was the Mille Miglia and the Festival. It was like moving through waist-high cold gruel. It was 7:45 when I got home. The new Text said “8:15 in Republic Square in front of Hugo Boss.” No time for dilly-dallying. I showered, made command decisions about what to wear and had to make a Text confirmation of “OK.” Where the hell is “Hugo Boss.”

I made it.

Matteo was there with Simona. We were to meet other friends of theirs at Chiaroscuro. It was packed so we got a private place upstairs. Eleanora joined us and we ate and had drinks. Later more friends arrived and found a table downstairs so we joined them. They were all very nice and Simona especially animated and gregarious. She understood a lot of English and spoke some. We were teaching each other bits and pieces of our languages and discussing old movies when Simona got a Text saying her childhood friend Elena was on her way. Many of these friends grew up in Southern Italy where they speak a completely different Italian dialect. Undecipherable here. Simona hatched the plot that when Elena arrives and introduces herself instead of my saying (in Italian) “I am very pleased to meet you” that I should say something else, in the regional dialect. It was confirmed by the crowd. I can’t say what the phrase is or means as it refers to someone’s grandmother’s private parts. Simona told me the phrase but I repeated it back (the first time) perfectly which delighted everyone. When Elena arrived I performed like a well-fed parrot and brought the crowd to tears laughing. We all had a great time.

We were there eating, drinking, talking and laughing until the owner turned up the lights and said he was closing. Matteo, Simona, Elena and I decided to go to a club but it was too early so we went to a bar for another drink. I was a very LA sorta bar in contrast to the very Florentine place we had just left. We stayed there and hooted and hollered for an hour. These are very cordial people.

Afterwards we went to a Santa Croce area club. Because of the close proximity to apartments and homes the club has an ingenious noise reduction system. Like an air lock to prevent contagion from spreading this is a noise-lock. There are double glazed auto sliding doors that let you into a six by twelve foot area. The attendant automatically closes those doors and when they are fully closed he switches open the next set of doors to let us in. One could barely hear the noise on the street but the music was at a twenty-something’s “I want to feel it” level.

I had a Negroni. It sounded good so, why not. They didn’t tell me what was in it. I frankly didn’t think you could mix gin and Compari and not start a fire. Perhaps it didn’t burst into flames because it also contained an equal part of Sweet Vermouth. A very potent, it will take paint off a ’57 Chevy, drink that tasted great after the first shock.

The three of them know everyone. Lots of introductions, silliness and dancing (in place) at the side bar. At one o’clock we decided to go. Paulo (author of “Ciao, come stai?” to teach Italian) left with us. We meandered and talked throughout the Croce and decided that we would go to Paulo’s. Come to find out he lives in the Piazza della Signoria. His is a very posh building. Beautiful decorative wrought iron. Doorman. Polished Venetian plaster, marble and rich wood. He lives on the top floor of the building on the west side of the Signoria. You enter his apartment's entry area facing three dark stone steps up to the main level with cotto floors throughout the apartment. There is a full kitchen to the right, then a door to the bathroom further to the left, then the door to the bedroom and the open area to the dining area and living room. Very classy. But the thing that brings a lump to your throat is the view from every window. Since we are on the fifth floor you look directly at the color emblazoned crests and shields of the top floors of the Palazzo Vecchio and its campanile. Paulo opened all the windows. As you walk closer you see the full piazza before you. The David, the Loggia della Signoria, the Uffizi and various bell towers beyond. If you look out the window to the left there is the multi-colored marble campanile of the Duomo and, not to leave out any of the main attractions of Florence, there in its full glory, is Brunelleschi’s dome. Because of the way the buildings are situated, I would venture to guess, there isn’t a greater span of view from any of the other building. I was awe struck.

I was brought back to reality when Simona turned on the stereo. We all danced there with the Palazzo Vecchio as the backdrop. I couldn’t have made it up if I tried. As touristy as it was I took pictures (with the phone). They are dark but prove I didn't just make it up.

The day was filled to the brim. Varied and colorful. Historical and also very now and today. I got home at 3:00 AM tired. But what a tired.

Your pictures for today are: Grand Turismo in the Piazza della Signoria, more Grand Turismo just for Victor, dance troupe at the Fitness Fest, Macumba aerobics at the Fest and the martial arts demonstration at the Fest.

MEANDERING

I woke to the familiar and electronic click, click, click of the white plastic IKEA clock in the kitchen. The sound is not quite the precise yet labored tick, tick, tick that comes from the antique clocks I grew up with (and still cherish each time I visit my father) but the sound, even electronic, still affords the warm heartbeat of a home.

As I was up a little earlier than normal, the clock sound was mixed with songbirds starting their day. I only seem to hear them between six and eight in the morning. Perhaps that is the end of their shift, and then the swallows begin theirs. As I lingered under the billowing feather comforter unwilling to get up, I imagined the stark white of the ceiling was coffered and gilded. Painting that image further, my mind added frescoes to the walls. I think my visit yesterday to the Palazzo Medici Riccardi has saturated my mind with opulence. The palazzo is the working headquarters of the Prefettura, the Provincia de Firenze and the Istituto Storico della Resistenza Toscana (regional government offices and the Historical Institute of Tuscany). As a former Medici residence it is top notch. There are more guards and handmaidens to the artwork than even in the Palazzo Vecchio. In addition, it is outfitted with marvelous electronics. There is one room with huge LCD/Plasma screens perhaps seven by nine feet each. You stand on (and under) a device and thus control the paintings you see on the screen with your hand movements. You are able, like a computer mouse, to highlight portions of the painting for explanation, enlargement or move on to other works that are of more interest. Just a big gadget but rather nifty. The courtyard is great and the working governmental rooms are over-the-top grandeur from floor to ceiling. The main attraction is the Cappella dei Magi, which is best described by Fodor’s as “like walking into the middle of a magnificently illustrated children’s storybook, and…makes it one of the most enjoyable rooms in the city.”

Later in the day I took a wrong turn and got lost thus discovering yet another side to Florence.

I went to the store then home to eat. Then I got ready for the gym. The gym session on Wednesday was independent and I did a little too much. I am still sore. On my trip to the gym today, I got on the correct bus but at the wrong street. It was awhile before I realized what I had done but I knew the bus made a full circle so I stayed on, not knowing that the circle was so big. Soon I was in Sorgorne about ten miles east and south of the Arno, in the opposite direction of where I should have gone. Once we landed in Sorgorne the bus stopped and the driver got off. Fifteen minutes later he came back and the return trip began. A few minutes later, into the trip, the bus driver lit up a cigarette. Smoking is not allowed on the bus. In the U.S., I would have said something but my Italian is not that good. However, the woman behind me decided to do just that. She and the driver had a heated argument the likes of which only Italians seem to have. He promptly pulled the bus over and shut it off. He walked off the bus and took the next ten minutes or so finishing his cigarette, while glaring at her sitting there waiting. I guess he told her!

When I got back I was no longer in the mood to go to the gym. I exited the bus at the Duomo and just went into the Duomo museum (Opera di Santa Maria Del Fiore). This is where they keep all the former façades of the cathedral (it has changed many times), as well as those “parts” that have suffered from exposure. Yes, many of the carved pillars, lunettes, most of the statues and detailing are copies, made (as I saw) just a block or so away. The Donatello choir loft and many of the other items from the now stripped interior of the cathedral are also kept here. Michelangelo’s later life Pieta is housed here. It was meant to be his burial monument. It was never finished. Also housed in nitrogen protective cases are the actual restored gold-leafed bronze doors of the Battistero by Ghiberti. The ones that the public sees are copies made from molds.

Later, dinner and a concert in Piazza Santa Croce and at the Uffizi. The guy at the Uffizi was new and played not only the usually expected Vivaldi but some rather abstract piece that was pleasant to listen to but watching his facial movements as he jumped around the scale was most amusing. On my way home walking under the swarming swallows I noticed a sweets-shop with gelato filled brioche. It was a little cool for gelato but I have made a mental note for a future visit. They left the lights on again in the upper floors of the Palazzo Vecchio. The rich colors illuminated by the crystal chandeliers of the rooms shined through the leaded glass windows like a strip of jewels. I visually panned around the Piazza della Signoria just to take it in. It still hasn’t lost its allure. I got home and was serenaded by a guy whistling as he worked around the restaurant below. Into clean line-dried sheets tonight, what else could I wish for?

Your pictures for tonight are: Michelangelo Pieta in Opera Di Santa Maria Del Fiore, lemon tree in Santa Corce, meeting hall in Palazzo Medici Riccardi, scribed stucco walls of the exterior and courtyard of Palazzo Medici Riccardi and the crowds admiring the fake Battistero doors of Ghiberti.