THE BOXER

My curiosity trumped my vanity. I pulled a dirty shirt over my un-shaven, un-brushed, gel-fright-frozen slept-on hair and then added further to my aromatic impact by pulling on yesterday’s gym shorts and socks. The source of that commotion had to be ascertained. Afraid that the revelers might be gone by the time I got there; I even took the stairs. Do you realize how dizzy one gets running down four flights of narrow-radius stairs? Although it probably aired out the distinct fragrance of the old vinyl, covering the equipment at Palestra Ricciardi that transferred to my gym clothes. Having been sat on for a few decades, vinyl and leather always has such a distinctive “herd” scent.

The acoustics of my building, vicolo and street always seem to channel the sounds to my apartment ahead of the festivities so that I arrive “on scene” just as they are turning onto Via Vacchereccia.

My disheveled appearance fit the scene.

In front of my building was a clunky wood-slat-sided old truck plastered with posters. The sides of the truck were draped with dirty white sheets, which appeared to have been attacked by a three-inch wide paintbrush. They were coursing with angry wide drippy-red paint lettering about the “Criminalization of Diversity” and “Fascist Regurgitation” (in Italian). The driver was non-descript but ridding gunshot was a diminutive old middle-eastern woman in very colorful middle-eastern garb. She held her hands up indicating she didn’t want to have her picture taken. Give me a royal bloody break! She is sitting in the General’s seat of this division of panzer protestors entering Piazza Photo-central and she doesn’t want the thousand cameras to click her way. Please!

Behind marched a throng of college-age twenty-something-year-olds. They carried red flags with clenched fist emblems and ushered in the shimmering royal-blue banner with stiff house paint three-inch brushwork-lettering in yellow. FIRENZE VIVE LIBERA (Florence Live Free). Alternating between walking and kneeling were eight young men in handcuffs that were lashed together with rope. They each carried a heavily lettered hand-scrawled sheet of paper.

All this was accompanied by blaring music from two large speakers, on the truck-bed, that played a re-worded version of a common Italian restaurant song everyone recognizes.

Colorful, yes. But I was going back upstairs.

I finished my breakfast, rambled through the Times, slipped out of the vintage vinyl pheromone gym shorts and danced through the shower dodging the bursts of hot and cold. Then it was time to dry off with my newly bleached towels. Remember, the ones that turned green? Well, it seems that the accidental green, when subjected to bleach, turns buttercup yellow. It looks like there is a trip to IKEA in my future, for replacements of the Nächen towels from Bangladesh.

I grabbed a sweet-cake at a local confection pusher and headed in the direction of Palazzo Strozzi. I was expecting something much different but had an informative afternoon. The palazzo is imposing and masculine. It was constructed by a family that hoped to outshine the Palazzo Medici. This 15th century building is nice but now it mostly houses traveling art shows. Currently showing is the Passport to China concentrating on the Tang Dynasty. This was an interesting period, when Western culture, clothing and art permeated China. It was during this period that China had it’s only Empress. I found it informative and a nice break from the Renaissance.

On my way back home (after stopping at the CONAD market) I entered the Signoria as a troupe of Hari Krishna’s came chanting in. Everyone has seen the Krishna’s but in Florence there is a difference. Usually they have percussion instruments, drums, cymbals and other tingly-sounding things to supplement their chanting. Well, here the leader has an accordion. It adds a rather peculiar tone to the chant.

My favorite fungi tortellini for dinner and off to get tickets for the opera. There were no decent seats so I just took a walk. I ended up in Santa Croce and decided to hangout. While there I saw a stream of people going into the former cloistered area of the cathedral. I checked it out and there was a free evening concert of Gregorian Chants (Canto Gregoriano). Why not? The performance was in one of the smaller spaces of the complex yet the space is still cavernous. There is a high unpainted wood beamed ceiling and below the oldest frescos in the cathedral. The images are very worn and understated. The chorus had four men, four women and the male conductor (if that is what you call him). They started the chant in another building and slowly proceeded into our area from behind us. This was a suitably dramatic effect. First a mix of male and female voices, then just women and then the men with an encore of both. The concert was very enjoyable and only an hour long.

After leaving I headed home to find a guitarist and his female back-up singer doing “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkle in the Signoria. This is a new group for me. The day had cooled a bit making it a very pleasant evening to stay out. The crowd was the biggest I have seen since I arrived. They were also the most attentive I have seen. They were quiet for each song and duly appreciative with their applause. When they took their break I headed home.

Your pictures are: my favorite on-the-run confection (mentioned earlier), Strozzi courtyard (mentioned earlier), one of the different-every-day chalk-drawings on the street, a boat by the Arno and a pizza used to attract customers…attracting some non-paying customers.

A WEEK IN REVIEW

SATURDAY

Almond paste cookie filled with custard cream topped with almonds and powdered sugar.

SUNDAY

Cream caramel.

MONDAY

Chocolate filled, nut covered pie with cocoa and powered sugar.

TUESDAY

Chocolate topped custard filled tart with icing swirls.

WEDNESDAY

Chocolate covered custard Napoleon


THURSDAY

Chocolate filled, chocolate crust, cocoa covered tart with candy medallion.


FRIDAY

I felt that I had been overdoing, so I opted for fruit for dessert today.

My desserts for the week provided by: RIVOIRE, Fabbrica di Cioccolata, Firenze
(just across the street.....unfortunately!!!).

BETTE DAVIS' POOR FEET

Pre-dawn alarm clock settings are rare for me. It is an unacceptable era of the day. However, I will admit that this morning offered me a peaceful walk to the Galleria dell’Accademia unencumbered by tourists. I was the sixth in the reservation line, waited for about fifteen minutes, entered, dumped my bulging Captain Kangaroo cargo-pants pockets into the metal-detector tray and was third to reach the Michelangelo sculpture, for which the building was constructed, namely David. It is a dynamic statue without a doubt; even with it’s obviously out of proportion hands and especially its head. Scholars try to rationalize the problem saying that the statue was to sit high above a door (at the Duomo) and therefore the hands and especially the head would have to be larger to compensate for the fact that they would be farther away (of course none of the other statues have been treated that way and they look fine over the doors). However, if one accepts that theory then by the same reasoning the feet should be smaller than normal, as they would be closer. They are not. It’s like a docent parroting some critic-speak that Van Gogh’s Irises is painted thinly in spots (allowing the canvas to show through) so as to show the fleeting nature of spring. Bull! He was in an asylum when (it was painted) and probably ran low on paint.

Granted, Michelangelo did use a scrap piece of marble that no one wanted and turned it into a lasting symbol of Florence. And it is a thousand times better than I could imagine doing. Believe me I am well aware of how difficult the process is. But let’s be real. This is not the first time his work stretched the bounds of accurate proportioning. His Pieta (the one in the Vatican) is a wonderful act of sculpting beauty but if Mary stood up she would dwarf poor Jesus. With her, as with many, the drape of clothing can conceal a multitude of…errors.

I will admit, it was nice to see the David without bird-dropping coloration. However the hundreds of years of weathering while he was standing outside left so much wear on his foot that it looks like he has terminal Athlete’s Foot.

Just before you reach the cupola area where David stands, there is a long gallery affording a contemplative walk with the statue in full view. This is grand. However, lining the gallery are seven unfinished statues of Michelangelo. The varying stages of emergence from the marble gives a dynamic look into the process the artist employed and his caution with the material. These are simply wonderful.

The same can be said of the gallery in the far back left corner. Here are housed the plaster working models of a few hundred sculptures as well as some plaster copies made from molds of completed sculpture. Most of these are from the 18th century. Again, a wonderful look into the process. One was a working model of a sculpture I had seen. It was the model for the seated statue of Brunelleschi located across the street from his Duomo.

There is also a plaster model for the Gianfranco that resides in the Signoria Loggia that is a masterpiece in its own right.

There are hoards of great paintings by people I don’t know. Huge works and small works of different periods. If one is willing to tackle the stairs (or wuss out and do the elevator which I was…only…tempted to do) there is a rather sizeable collection of Russian Icons. On the top floor are older iconic style Italian church diptychs and triptychs. Religious guilt art.

When I left, David was standing ankle deep in a sea of humanity. Ok, 6:00 AM does have its advantages.

On the way home I stopped at the flower market to get my usual Thursday addition. Today it was a gardenia bush. (The fragrance subsequently filled the apartent.) Then I went back to the apartment, ate leftovers and…..took an hour nap.

Next for the challenge of finding printer ink.

But when I went outside it was raining and I thought this would be a good time to stop by the Salvatore Ferragamo Museum. Located on the very upscale and trendy Via Tornabuoni (it has two Bulgari stores…Rodeo Drive can’t say that). This 13 century building is the headquarters of the shoemaker. It is in the Piazza Santa Trinita right next to the Trinita bridge (one down from the Ponte Vecchio). The museum is below the shop, in the basement, where in earlier days the craftsman worked.

My favorite part was the first room. There in a case were the “lasts”. These are the wooden forms of all the famous clients feet. Gene Tierney, Audrey Hepburn, Rita Hayworth, Greta Garbo, Ava Gardner, Lauren Bacall, Bette Davis, The Duchess of Winsor, etc. One can tell a lot about the star from their feet. Clara Bow had the smallest with Anna Magnani and Bette Davis next. As the client’s foot changed the “last” had to be adjusted and to do that thin patches of leather were glued to the “last” (thus approximating…say bunions, etc.). Tiny Ms. Davis’ “lasts” had the most changes over the years. Looked like she had bad bunions. She was quite a broad.

Greta Garbo seems to have been flat-footed.

There was a large wall with all the pictures of Ferragamo and the movie industry that made him famous. From pictures of fittings with Marylyn Monroe, to the famous still of Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice in her white shorts, white turban and, of course, white Ferragamo shoes. He provided shoes for Cecil B. DeMille’s bible epics, for Marylyn Monroe in Bus Stop, Katherine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story, for The Thief of Baghdad and wild platform shoes for Carmen Miranda.

He opened his first shoe store when he was eleven but it wasn’t enough for him so he joined his set decorator brother in Hollywood. Ferragamo started making boots for cowboy movies. Success was quick, after one of the major studio heads said something to the effect that the West would have been won sooner if they had been wearing Ferragamo boots. Soon after he opened his store on Hollywood Boulevard and Las Palmas.

The final case in the entry is the one that holds the receipts for the shoes sold to celebrities during the early days. Then you walk into The Exhibition: Creativity in Color and there is case after case with the model-shoes made for celebrities and the examples of all the major colorful styles he invented and promoted. He is responsible for big platform shoe because during the war he couldn’t get quality steel for the arch of his shoes and found his famous support in solid platforms rather than the thin metal support. When, also during the war, he couldn’t get leather he experimented. He used translucent gum wrappers twisted around gold threads to make sandals. There were shoes of fish skin and sea leopard. There were carved heals, stacked heals (some of Judy Garlands were dangerously high) and every sort of color and embellishment. It was fascinating. Amazing craftsmanship. Even when I sat down to watch a documentary in the screening room (on this man who never called himself more than a shoe maker) the seats were fine leather with especially fine stitching and detailing. Ah, the smell of fine leather.

Despite the fact that the likes of John Wayne, Danny Kaye, The Duke of Windsor, etc had their shoes made here, there were no examples of men’s shoes. Well, except in the boutique upstairs. The prices, the likes of which took my breath away.

It was fun.

It was still raining and the Pitti Palace was only across the river and down the street so I ventured that way. Yes, as I expected the rain dissuaded the tourists. I got a ticket for the Galleria Palatina (the private quarters of the palace) and the Galleria d’Arte Moderna.

This place goes on forever (I later found that it is 288,000 sq feet).

Most of the private areas were re-done under the rule of Napoleon (there is a great bust of him in the Art Museum by Antonio Canova; I forgot his name and it took me forever to find it online). These spaces are a wonderful look at that period but there are three rooms that have never been touched. Completely original. Again I am going to go off on the ceilings. Yes they have great frescos. But the relief work is over the top (no pun intended). In the bedroom of the Empress, the ceiling has life sized un-painted plaster sculptures holding up, folded into and wrapped around three-dimensional botanicals in gold. Interspersed are long three-dimensional swags of fruit sculpted in white plaster. The mixture of the two is great. Of course there are the usual amazing gilt and detailed borders. My neck is sore from looking up. There aren’t a lot of windows but the ones that were open had that wonderful view over the fountain and up the Boboli Garden hill.

Period furniture and period paintings have wonderful backdrops of colorful silks. Red in one room another in green or blue. Great woodwork and trompe loi on the window shutters. I read some of the general information but spent most of my time just taking in the feeling of being there. Certain sculptures and paintings caught my attention and I spent more time with them. Tinteretto was favorably represented.

Twice while looking at sculptures I walked around behind and set off the alarms. No one ever came. But they are just enough to make you jump back.

Most things appear modern when there is a juxtaposition involving the Pitti Palace. Even the Napoleonic redecorations and items appear relatively modern. The Galleria d’Arte Moderna is a Salon style gallery filled to the brim with to-the-ceiling paintings, sculpture, some furniture and bric-a-brac. There is a heavy concentration of work from the late 1700’s to the early 1800’s and among these there is an occasional contemporary piece, many resembling German Expressionism (especially one depicting the victims of the 1966 flood in Florence). My favorite area (and also widely represented) was the period of Italian Impressionists. There were a few from outside Italy. Pissarro comes to mind.

There was a great Pio Fedi (my favorite sculptor on this trip) plaster model that was finished to the point that it looked like a nearly finished marble sculpture.

I re-traced my steps to take one last look at my favorites then down the hill and over the bridge to home.

No. I take that back. It was time to look for printer ink. I had remembered seeing some on my way to the gym so I headed that way and was lucky. Then on the return trip I had to stop to take pictures of under-window bat reliefs and other unusual window detailing that I saw once but didn’t have the camera. That got me close to a shop that caught my eye. Cheaper batteries. What a find. Then, finally home.

Pasta, of course, then out to get some cereal. I was planning to go to the opera but felt I was too tired. Well, providence shined on me once again. On the way to the Via dei Servi store (my Magi market has no cereal) just three blocks away I hear an opera aria. I walked farther, in the lightly sprinkling cool evening air. There, across from my very favorite Orsanmichele (8th century building) stood a woman singing "a cappella" opera. Some people walked by oblivious and others stopped in their tracks. Her voice was so mellow and so strong. I leaned against the Orsanmichele and listened for some time. I wanted to go get my camera to video but was afraid I would miss the performance. She was dressed in casual almost frumpy clothes. She was not attractive, not unattractive. She was probably in her mid-forties. She occasionally wiped the raindrops from her face. She did so in a way that, I can’t explain, made me feel she was shy and this was very difficult for her. She had a hat positioned before her that others and I put some money in. When I left she was still singing and four blocks away, at the edge of the Duomo, I could still hear her impassioned notes. It seems Florence always has a memorable moment to offer.

I got All Bran. Actual All Bran. Not those industrial-grade Esselunga Bran Sticks that can lacerate if you don’t take forever to soak and soften them.

On the way home she was still singing. The rain was picking up. She finished and the now crowd-sized audience applauded, as did I. It was heartening to see that her hat was now graced with a lot of one and two-euro coins and a few five-euro bills.

On my way home lightening struck over the Ponte Vecchio. I quickly grabbed a confection at a nearby shop and headed that way. Most others were dashing home to avoid the rain. More lightening. How wonderful. My favorite. And then intense crashing thunder. Again. Another flash, lightening struck the area behind the monastery at the top of the hill. Beautiful. A bunch of college-age students were there and they too were excited. I stayed for about a half an hour. The air was cool and breezy. The air pure. The sound of the rain on the tile roofs was soothing and the electrical storm exciting. It was invigorating.

Home for the evening. And now for the experiment with the bleach that I also found at the Via dei Servi. Will a gallon bring my socks and the landlord’s towels back to normal? Tune in next time for the answer.

Pictures for tonight are: Boboli Gardens from a window of the Pitti Palace private rooms, window detail (from my walk; I think it would make a great mantle), an impromptu chorus in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, a wall shrine on Borgo Pinti (on the way to my gym) and an impromptu band in the Piazza della Santa Croce.

IT IS A PITTI

Yesterday on my way back from the gym, I noticed that the Signoria was again cordoned off for some function. I made note to wander around early, to check it out. After dinner when I went out there was a sound-check being made so I just went off walking. A few hours later when I came back I realized that it was just a City Hall Rally (the Palazzo Vecchio is the City Hall). This attracted a different crowd, so people-watching was even more interesting. There were a few of long-winded firebrands that spiced up the action but I was clueless so I went home. On my way back I noticed that the huge clock on the Vecchio was repaired. The time was accurate. It was just before eleven. As I entered the apartment the bell was striking eleven. Now that the clock was fixed so, I imagine, was the bell that I am hearing now for the first time. It is a very loud bell. The sound is rather high pitched, as though the walls of the bell were thin. I had a snack, played on the computer and went to bed.

At one in the morning I was about to fall asleep when the bell rang. But then it went on…two…three….four. I figured that perhaps Quasimodo was sleeping on the job and pushed the wrong button. Five…six…seven well they didn’t do a good job fixing it, did they. Eight….nine…..ten. Ok, perhaps I didn’t hear the chimes correctly earlier. The time is just off. Eleven…twelve….thirteen…..fourteen. Quasimodo must be drinking or the repairman really screwed up.

This went on and on.

After about five minutes I gave up trying to sleep. Bells are wonderful. They add such a colorful charm. They are romantic. They evoke nostalgia and a great sense of history. They are a pain in the ass when they run amuck. And remember this is a sharp sounding bell that is 100 feet away. Soon, I hoped, someone would go to the tower and shoot Quasimodo.

This went on for eight minutes. When it stopped there was cheering and the sound of trumpets. They did this on purpose! They were probably standing out there in their costumes. The set-up in the piazza and the speakers were probably all part of some dedication ceremony for the repaired clock. And I blamed poor Quasimodo.

It has been quite warm so I had hoped to get up early to go to the Pitti Palace but slept in to recover from the charm of the chiming last night.

The Pitti Palace is beautiful and the grounds are called the Giardino di Boboli (Boboli Gardens). This is all located in the Oltrarno, which means “the other side of the Arno.” It is just a short walk down the street from me and over the Ponte Vecchio.


I didn’t do it all today. There is just too much.

There is an extensive Galleria del Costume with wide ranging examples from the 17th century to the present with accompanying jewelry and footwear. My favorite in this area was the adjoining museum of buttons. There were also a number of galleries featuring the Medici tapestries. Impressive but rather…brown.

I must take time out to voice my concern. It is a shame to become famous or rich. They always dig you up. Housed in a darkened set of rooms of the Costume Museum are the clothing remains of Cosimo I and his wife Eleanor of Toledo. They were dug up three times poor sods. No rest for the wealthy. Their body-fluid stained clothes were laid out for all of us to see. How embarrassing. And poor Cosimo had such a little cod-piece.

Moving along.

The best of the museums for today was yet to come (as the royal apartments will be done another day and of course the Art Museum at the Pitti).

Tucked off to the far side of the courtyard is the entrance to the Treasures Museum. Unless you have to pee or want to visit the third gift shop one would not even know it was there. It was virtually deserted ( until…and fortunately just as I was leaving…a huge gaggle of Asian tourists took root at the entrance).

The “piano terra” (ground floor) is a beautifully frescoed space from floor to ceiling and houses the scientific collection of the Medici. The frescos are frequently scientific rather than religious. There is a substantial amount of gold leafing used in the body of the fresco work, not just at the borders as in other rooms throughout the city. This is a great space. There are some interesting portraits. One is of Cosimo III who’s lips stick out so far it looks like they got caught in some Medici experimental vacuum device. Poor unfortunate fellow…to be rich in a time when there weren’t gifted cosmetic surgeons around.

Down the hall there is a dull-brown inconspicuous sign (that says something that I forget) at the foot of a small set of stairs. It is a long journey that only two others took, when they saw me go up. The walk was well worth it. Housed on the upper floors are the silver and gold dining utensils and the jewelry. The jewelry collection spans the mid-fifteen hundreds to the present. As with the costume collection it is nice to see the span of change rather than just the artifacts of a particular era.

There is also a porcelain collection housed in the Treasures Museum (also part of the private areas of the Medici). It has the pieces that the original Medici used (rather than a general cross-sectional display of porcelain at the top of the Boboli hill). There were also many crystal pieces.

I was most interested to see (I suppose I should admit…I was thrilled to see) the wall-mounted mixed-media display containing the death mask of Lorenzo the Magnificent (Brunelesschi’s death mask is in the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo). The mask was my favorite thing to see today.

Next was my favorite collection.

Bowls, glasses, serving pieces and every sort of bric-a-brac carved from rock crystal. Oh, yes. Of course. There were even rock-crystal carved reliquaries (naturally…more of that sequoia-sized cross). Some of the serving pieces were of the most fanciful creatures and amazingly intricate. I wouldn’t want to be the scullery-maid washing those after dinner. Interspersed were huge serving pieces carved of lapis lazuli. The rock crystal was superb.

And on the way out there were three enormous period display cabinets filled with carved amber of any imaginable shape.

Next the Boboli hill.

I hiked to the top of that hill.

It is a very high hill.

Today was “molto caldo (very hot).”

However, an impressive collection of porcelain (from the mid-18th century to the contemporary) waits in the building at the top of the hill. Marianne would be impressed, especially with the Sevres. There is a large peony garden in full fragrant bloom at the entrance of the Museo delle Procellane with a crenellated castle on the distant hill. There was a cool breeze and the fragrance took me back to the peonies of my childhood. The rest of the gardens are a great relaxing experience. They are an expansive green-space but with few flowering plants.

On my way up the hill I was stopped by four schoolgirls who wanted to know where I was from. That led to more questions and before I knew it there were twenty 14 year-olds from the same Florence field trip wanting to know everything from my favorite football team (although they meant soccer team) to the latest plot twist on One Tree Hill (which I have never seen). It was a fun diversion half way up the hill…and some time to catch my breath.

I didn’t even do the entire museum on this trip and it took more than four hours. I was exhausted and dehydrated so I went home. It was a good thing I grabbed a “portare via” (take-away) on my way or I wouldn’t have had the energy to get back home.

More pasta. A nap and a walk.

Your pictures are all from the Palazzo Pitti: a fountain in the courtyard, view of the Palace, a tree on the grounds (Boboli), view from the top of the hill and a sculpture just before leaving the Treasures Museum.

AMAZING LUCK

It was Saturday night and I had recovered from the #4 stomach sandwich from earlier, got cleaned up and left to do the “reserve” (wait-list) for the Corridoir Vasariano.

I got there at 7:45 pm expecting a boring wait. Il Genio Firoentino had set up music and other entertainment in the Loggia della Signoria. As a result the wait was very pleasant. About fifteen minutes later two middle age Italian couples came and asked if I was waiting. “Si, groupo Corridoir Vasariano, Non appuntomento” was my truncated answer (excuse the spelling). They were also waiting without an appointment. The woman, I spoke to, didn’t seem happy that someone had arrived before them. I stood right in front of the door.

Half an hour later two official twenty-something blue-blazered official looking individuals started hanging around down by the next door. After a few minutes they took out sheets of paper. I experienced the proceedure the last night the tour was offered, so I knew that they were in charge of names. While I was thinking, that the woman I spoke to, who was also waiting, started off towards the two blue blazers. She may be a woman, she may speak Italian and indeed may be Italian but she wasn’t going to interlope and get her name on that list first. I dashed over and got there just ahead of her. These were different official name checkers from the other night and when I told them I was here for “reserve” they said just to wait. I politely mentioned that they might want to write down names. The waiting woman started in with a slurry of gatling-gun Italian. One of the blue blazers asked a question that I didn’t fully understand but I did recognize “primo (meaning first).” “Si” I said and pointed to me. The interloper woman wasn’t happy but my name was first on that list.

Since I was “primo” I went back to the apartment (just around the corner) to pee.

When I came back there was a crowd. Soon the blue jackets said to move to the Ufizzi entrance. They called off names for both of the groups, of about 30 people each. Everyone had arrived. They said sorry and went inside.

I wasn’t about to leave. I kept a positive attitude. Perhaps someone would have an attack of diarrhea and have to leave…and I would be there. Unfortunately there were no attacks of diarrhea. But two very attractive girls made begging faces, praying gestures and sad puppies caught in a cage pantomine to the guard in charge of the door, as he was about to lock it behind the two groups. He spoke to someone who was in charge of the Il Genio Fiorentino groups and came back. He said he was told “No.” The girls continued their anticsnand finally he said that perhaps two could come in. Of course.... the girls were cute. Well, now the interloper woman steps in and says something in a “wait a minute” way then points to me (in a “now he’s my best friend sorta way”) with a definite “primo” and then to herself as “secundo” with a party of four. “No, no, no” he replied "Solomente due." But the girls continued. The charm got thick, even for Italians. Then the interloper lady and her group started in with the begging charm. All I said or did through the entire affair was point at myself and say “primo”. As Mark Twain said “It is better to keep one’s mouth shut and appear ignorant than open it and remove all doubt.”

The guard went back inside (well, not totally as we had all inched our way inside the first set of doors) and he spoke with his comrade guard. He came back with a "Si" to all seven of us. NOTE: Let us not have any delusions here, it was the tight butts and the perky breasts of the two cute girls that got us in. And let it be known that, I am not too proud to accept feminine charity.

However, still not sure, I made myself first in the door. We all came in and the other guy locked the door behind us, as two more tried to get in. I immediately walked to the metal detector to empty my pockets, etc. “No, no, no” said the first guard as he took down the tan velvet rope and just welcomed us in without a search. All the $110 Euro-guests had to be screened…not us!

He told us to keep quiet... very quiet... and wait until the other groups of 30 each had left. This was one of the indications leading me to believe they were just custodians. A little of their conversation I understood and a few words were translated by two of the women in our group. After twenty minutes the two guys with keys (only custodians carry that many keys) began giving us our private tour of the Ufizzi and the Corridoio Vasariano.

We weren’t part of a huge group of 30. Just the seven of us, with two guides.

Those in charge of the other groups had locked the doors of each section after they left so we had to unlock and disarm the security. Three times the alarms went off resounding down the long football length galleries. Once a very official looking woman came up to investigate. When she figured out the situation, she just shook her head and left.

I begged. And one of the key-guys said I could take a picture with my phone but with no flash…I had to do it just to prove I was indeed there at night under such extraordinary circumstances. Unfortunately, one time I did push the “volume” button and the sound reverberated throughout the entire gallery. I was amazingly embarrassed.

We strolled down the halls with each of the two guys taking turns imparting their knowledge (5% of which I understood since they spoke no English and also why I don’t think they were docents). Sometimes we were two small groups each with a guide. I explained as best I could to them (and everyone else agreed) that it didn’t matter that I couldn’t understand everything because of how fantastic it was just to be here, with them, in such a small group…at night.

I would linger so that when they reached the end of the corridor, at the Arno, I could stand there and look down the entire football field length hall and pretend I was Cosimo or more appropriately Lorenzo the Magnificent on my way to the palace walking above the commoners on the streets. There was no music but this trumped the experience at the Duomo.

I didn’t realize, nor did the two girls that got us in, but the corridor goes all the way from the Palazzo Vecchio through the upper floors of the Ufizzi, over the Ponte Vecchio, sort of through the church of Santa Felicita (I think that is the name) and then on to the Palazzo Pitti. The entire route is lined with sculpture, paintings and miniatures and with windows that afford a wonderful view of the city, and as I mentioned the Arno, by night. I would linger silently as the others chatted and walked on. I would then pause, totally by myself, in front of a work of art, peering out the corner of my eye at the expanse behind. It was one thing to stand alone in front of an Albrect Durer, a Diego Velasques or even a Carraviago but there I stood alone in front of Rembrandt. One of the girls joined me, then called one of the “guides” over and asked why there seemed to be writing across the painting next to the Rembrandt. He grabbed the painting, pulled and twisted it away from the wall revealing the writing on the back of the linen that had soaked through. When he did that with the painting we all gasped. He said “Si” but “solomente” pointing at himself. We all laughed.

They would take down barrier ropes in the gallery and let us peer wherever we wanted. We got to see the area where the bomb had destroyed the corridor and the paintings that had been damaged. Our journey took over two hours of lingering with the art, mulling the sensations, savoring the views. Imagining.

As I mentioned the corridor winds down and around and up again, fully lined with the Medici collection. The corridor is over a kilometer in length and fully lined with an amazing collection, surrounded by perfect views. Especially as we walked above the Ponte Vecchio watching the collection of tourists gathered below who were listening to the musicians and drinking their wine. Out the other side of the corridor we would watch the shimmering light from the lamp posts cascade on the ripples of the water along the Arno. By now the interloper woman warmed up to me. Perhaps hoping to sell me something? She pointed out her shop, on the southwest corner of the Ponte Vecchio. She sells silver and some gold. As we passed through the corridor opening to the inside of the darkened church, all we could see were the remaining candles lit in offering. We finished our journey in the gardens of the Pitti Palace where news cameras were set up to cover this special evening of Il Genio Fiorentino from this the extra-special series called “le notti del genio (The Night of the Genius).”

The stars were perfectly aligned and someone must have shoved a handful of four leaf clovers in my pocket to allow me to experience this evening.

No pictures as I still haven't learned how to download them from my phone.

However, here is a picture (with path scribbled on a map) that shows the route of the Corridoio Vasariano from (10) the Palazzo Vecchio to (6) the Palazzo Pitti. The big scribble with the circle points to where my apartment is located.

GATHERING MOMENTUM

On Saturday morning I got up and had my, new, usual breakfast of Bran Sticks with blood orange juice. If bran doesn’t sound bad enough the Italians insist on calling it “sticks”. At any rate, it is better for me than the more delicious chunks of Parmesan cheese and bread I have had since I arrived. Since I found blood orange juice it is my favorite drink.

I was off to the TIM store for a transfusion to my cell phone, then an afternoon of just walking about. It was 3:00 PM when I realized I was hungry. I went through a few places but nothing interested me. It was all too usual. However, at the Lorenzo Flea Market the afternoon food-truck came by with food for the workers (like the traveling food trucks in Los Angeles…the so called “roach coaches”). This sounded great and definitely different. I ordered a tripe (stomach) panini (sandwich) alla Florentine. That was all gone… the woman indicated by showing me the empty pot. But behind cover #2 she still had stomach #4. That is the cow has four stomachs and she was out of the more popular innards and I could have the, apparently, less desirable stomach #4. It had a name that started with an “L” but I forget. I probably should have walked away at that point realizing that stomach #4 is closer to the “number two” end of the cow and therefore the less poop-ular (if you will forgive my bathroom humor). I ordered it. She chopped one of the very stomach looking pieces up and stuffed it into a hard roll that had been dipped in the juices. I declined the hot sauce but said yes to the unknown green stuff.

It tasted like stomach (I have had tripe before in the U.S.), although it seemed a little more intestinal; kinda like chitlins (intestines). Again, it was stomach #4 and closer to those regions.

It was a little like a French dip but with entrails. I chomped away…as its consistency fights you a little. And washed it down with an orange Fanta, while I waited in front of the Cappelle Medicee (Medici Chapels) for a tourist herd to leave.

Apparently it took marble workers several hundred years to complete these chapels. This wonder of marble is where Cosimo I and his lineage are laid to rest (his and his son’s sarcophagi are about 12 feet long by 7 feet high by 5 feet deep all of massive marble work). The lesser Sagrestia Nuova is the resting place of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Here are a number of Michelangelo’s unfinished works for the tomb. Quite impressive even if not complete. However it is the marble in the Principi that takes the prize and the height of the dome isn’t much less impressive than the Duomo.

In addition, there is a room off the Principi that houses every shape and size of adorned glass container containing pieces of bone and fragments of the cross. There are arm bones decorated like trees, vertebrae threaded with jewels, elaborately housed fingernails and every other fragment of humanity celebrated with jeweled and gold-leafed abandon. While I was in this room (containing nothing but these body parts) a girl wandered in and went running out with her hands over her mouth muffling the sounds of utter disgust. It was very amusing. The lower floors also have an impressive array of reliquary artifacts. Since I have been here I have seen so many of these purporting to be fragments of the cross that the cross would have to have been the size of a sequoia.

I meandered the rest of the afternoon then back to the apartment. By the time I got back home it was late but I wasn’t hungry… as the stomach #4 lunch sandwich was gathering momentum in my stomach.

Nothing ever came of the momentum but the picture sums up the feeling...check out the sculpture and from whense the liquid flows.

Here is a closer look.

MY NIGHTLY WALK

After the early morning procession in the Signoria (the last blog) and a shower, of course, I was off to the gym. Then I went home for leftover ricotta tortellini smothered in walnut and Parmesan pesto. After all the pasta, a walk was in order.

As I took my stroll, the evening air moved in and out, as currents, some heavy with the scent of mock orange. The warmth of the day was beginning to cool. Swallows were as thick as a swarm of gnats swirling and screeching around the church of Santa Croce. Below the statue of Dante Alighieri, on the steps of the church, there was the usual collection of college students playing guitar and singing. They were colorfully dressed in a free-form manner that sets them apart from others. Plied with cheap wine and very large bottles of beer, their serenade provided enthusiasm more than proficiency. But it added life to the cold marble of the church and the stern gaze of Dante. Their vocalized fun added energy to the thinning crowd in the square. The stone benches that line the square were now only filled with a few romantic couples, one pair holding the camera away from themselves and snapping their own cuddling picture, a small family group, two students eating take away together, and a few individuals just like myself taking in the vignette.

People on bicycles were on their way home and the shops are all closed. Some people walked casually, others with a briskness that made me imagine they needed to be somewhere. At that hour there is a big restaurant open on one side of the square and a smaller on the other. The accordion music from the smaller café was mixing with the guitar music of the students. It was a strange but interesting mélange of sound under the voices of the swallows. Just the sound of muffled conversation and the rustling of china, as the tables were bussed, came from the other café.

As I walked around the perimeter of the piazza I could see the rusted metal railings that cling tenaciously to the weathered and crumbling marble of the upper floor patios, strewn with random pots of flowering plants. The city still has lots of life but she is in need of repair, especially with respect to the individually owned apartments. The crumbling facades are charming but they speak of an economy suffered by most in Florence, especially the young.

One corner of the square of Santa Croce is clothed in scaffolding with a white fabric barrier. It is a commercial building in the process of needed renewal. The fountain just below is dry with a plain weathered metal fence around it. As I lean against the rusted metal I noticed that the few scattered clouds are white to steel gray. But soon the pink of the sunset sky had tinted some of the clouds and also added visual warmth to the stark cool marble of the Santa Croce church. Just to the left of the church as you face it, on the top floor is an apartment that I can imagine myself renting. It has two wonderful porches covered in old vines. The windows are dissimilar in a charming way. The view towards the Arno must be great from up there.

Someone brought a dog that played catch across the expanse of the square, fetching a small water-filled plastic bottle. That would have been impossible just a few hours earlier. On my way to the gym there were easily more than two thousand people in Piazza Santa Croce, there were less than a hundred in the evening cast. Most were at the two restaurants, on the church steps or on the benches watching the dog play. The area has morphed from a tourist sight back to a neighborhood, once again.

As I milled along I noticed the flaking frescos that were beginning to be muted by the dimming sunlight. The streetlights had started their watch.It was time to start towards the Arno to enjoy the sunset.

The souvenir vendors had closed up or were in the process of packing up their quiet electric motorized carts. Each evening they migrate out of the areas of the Centro Storico. Borgo dei Greci is nearly impassible during the day, with all the vendor carts and tourists. It was easily passable as the sun began to set.

It was getting chilly as I entered the Signoria and walked down the Ufizzi archade toward the Arno. There was a guitar player. I’ve heard him before; he is very good. He had a good audience. The street hawkers with their cheap off-set printed Botticelli and Michelangelo prints lined the arcade. They always have lookouts to watch for the ever-roving Carabineri. When the lookouts see the officials coming they make this clicking sound with their mouths and the hawkers quickly push their photos together and run. Those selling knockoff designer handbags and other trinkets have their wares on sheets and are able to quickly make off with the sack-like bundle of their belongings. Only once, since I have been here, have I seen them lose their merchandise. A few sanctioned artists were still out but most had wrapped things up by the time I reached the river.

The sunset was almost gone but still painted colors under the Vecchio bridge making for the shot everyone hopes to capture. Cameras and their masters lined the river walk, hoping for that perfect picture. As I leaned on the stone appointments along the river I heard the guitarist’s shift end and the flutist had begun. He started off with the theme song from The Little Mermaid. Schmaltzy, yes, but beautiful none-the-less. The flute and the violin are my favorite sounds to hear in the Signoria and Ufizzi arcade.

Streetlights that line the wall at the edge of the Arno always cast long rippling shadows across the dark nighttime water. Bursts of well-lit colored stone and stucco are ever-present in the evening, strewn across the hills behind. The brightly lit pastel marbles of the monastery glow at the top of the hill. The scene had now gone from sunset-tones to jewel-tones, sparkling lights in the darkness. I lingered for a while smelling the river and the scent of drifting orange blossoms but it was getting cold. It was time that I wandered back to take one of the seats along the slightly covered north side of the Loggia. The popular area is always filled with people listening to familiar songs and pondering their new memories. And when I arrived there were still some bursts of flash as people tried to capture a few last visual memories in the sound filled dusk.

Your pictures for tonight are: David with street signs, marble crypt marker, marble head in a private palazzo, metal tree seat in a private palazzo and Pope Urban VIII's coat of arms...on some unknown building.

ANY EXCUSE TO DRESS UP

On Thursday night there was a big accident just outside Florence so the staff at the Ufizzi prepared for a number of no shows to the fully booked Corridoio Vasariano (part of “Le Notti del Genio”). I approached the staff in charge and was told I would have to be very lucky to get in. They were not going to take my name but I insisted. I was number eleven. They take two groups of thirty, for which each pays $110 Euros. If someone doesn’t show then the “reserves” attend in their place for free.

They only took four people on the reserve list. I spoke to the woman in charge and she said that there were two more dates (Sat and Sun) and I should come early…perhaps 8:30 pm for the 9:00 PM entrance. I put it on my list of things to do (to be continued in an upcomming blog).

The next day:
It seems that the Florentines will find any excuse to dress up, in feathers, velvet and tassels. I was lingering over breakfast when all of a sudden the quiet of Friday morning was broken by deep heavy drumbeats. All this seemingly just below my window. My curiosity is my best trait (I think) and my worst…at times. I wasn’t about to let un-scrubbed teeth and vintage armpits stop me from running down to investigate. Ok, I paused long enough to pull on two-day old jeans and a tee. I pulled open the door and strikingly similar to the black and white to color sequence change in The Wizard of Oz, I revealed a dazzling array of color and sound as I walked from the muted earth tones of my building lobby to the Color by Deluxe street.

The 17th century maidens had just passed, dressed in proper black velvet carrying wicker baskets, strewing their flower petals… followed by period-dressed dignitaries and their wives in gold brocade. All the time the steady beat of the drum on this beautiful sunny day. Then just as I came out the door, the kaleidoscope of color had arrived by way of the red and white fleur-de-lis banner of Firenze accompanied by brass horns that announced their arrival in Piazza della Signoria. Flourishes filled the air. The huge crowd in the piazza cheered to the horns. The very long treble-range horns were carried by fellows dressed in deep fire engine red turban-like headwear with a sash of the turban fabric trailing two or more feet to the side. They wore heavy red lined white capes and mid-thigh white coats trimmed in red and cinched with leather that matched their boots. There were red fleur-de-lis emblems on their upper sleeves. One leg of their pants was white the other red. They all seemed to love doing this. One could often see them smiling for the cameras.

Right on their heels of rich brown leather, were the drummers. Apparently not to be out done, these base-drummers burst forth with even more color. They continued their steady cadence-rhythm beat. Their rich ultramarine satiny blue shirts-sleeves poked out of the sleeveless felt cadmium-yellow jackets trimmed in deep red. Their blusoned pantaloons were vertical stripes of blue and gold with yellow hose and blue leather shoes. The explosion of color was topped off with a blue velvet hat festooned with multicolored ostrich feathers.

Next were the flag bearers and jousting pole bearers dressed in warm brown soft-looking leather vests with costumes in red and white stripes. The dizzyingly varied array of stripes changed direction from garment to garment and even sported different directions on the same pair of pants like they were constructed by a stressed out seamstress on speed. They all had short pleated white-collar decorations. Most all had austere silvery metal helmets. One had a full metal breastplate and another had a costume that employed a myriad of extra colors, a red page hat and blue garters. Each time the trumpeters blasted away the flag-bearers waved their huge flags. As big as the flags were this was strenuous business and the costumes were heavy for the hot mid-morning sun.

They all marched into a cordoned area in the middle of the Signoria, close to the front of the Palazzo Vecchio. Out of the amazing array of color came a man who seemed to be the color-guard caller and band director. He called out loud and forcefully in a stream of sharp yelling notes that brought the flags and jousting poles to stiff attention. The brass shouted forth a triumphant display and the crowd cheered some more. Most of the people in the crowd had to be tourists. They must have just been cheering for the sheer pleasure of it. I must admit that even without knowing what was going on I was caught up in the excitement.

The director quickly turned and faced the front. Then from out of the Palazzo Vecchio came a stream of women in white robes stopping just before the fountain. This was the chorus. The white hooded priests came in following them. There was an announcement and out walked the same announcer from the flag competition. The one that never breathes. He was in a blue suit with blue shirt and blue and gold tie…boring. He did have a gold-fringed sash in the colors of Italia with a Firenze emblem.

There was a lot of Italian. I was clueless. But the spectacle was impressive.

The announcer and a red caped gold-sleeved man with red hat and baton laid a wreath of roses on the ancient pavers of the Signoria on a very large round stone spot that looks like this is an oft celebrated occassion. An opera aria commenced and the chorus continued. Their voices were as pale as the white of their costumes. There were trumpet flourishes and more Italian.

The entire procession left with the same pomp as when they arrived. I later went to look at the card on the wreath. I think it said something about a priest and I think a miracle. Although with the mistakes I make in Italian it could have been to commemorate the fiscal opening of gelato season. I will ask Ric or Matteo when I see them.

Now for a shower.

Your pictures for this blog are self explanatory, I hope.

NOTE: (added after research)
I photographed the commemorative circle in the Piazza della Signoria, after they removed the flowers. Babel Fish translation and then Google completed my research. It seems that the ceremony on the Friday (the 23rd of May) marks to the day in 1498 when the Dominican Friar Savonarola and two from his order were hanged and then burned on this spot. Savonarola began a monastic order that spoke out against the Florentine Republic. The Florentine Republic grew tired of his puritanical ways such as typified by “the bonfire of the vanities” where all worldly goods were burned. He was ordered to Rome for a trial under the Inquisition but the civil authorities of Florence had come to the end of their patience with Savonarola for alleged “schism, heresy, revealing confessional secrets, false prophesies and visions, as well as causing civil disorder.” It was apparently mostly as a result of the disorder he caused in Florence that led to his death. At his death he apparently became a Pre-Reformation martyr (REMEMBER I THOUGHT THE WORD WAS "MIRACLE" BUT I DID GET THE PRIEST PART RIGHT). Four hundred years later the city of Florence accepted their guilt in the affair and commemorated the spot in the square where he was executed. The pageantry I witnessed was the yearly commemoration ceremony of Savonarola’s execution.