IN ITALIAN "MALE"

Yesterday was an ordinary day.
Breakfast and the news on-line.
A shave and a shower and I was on my way.
By the way I have become quite proficient at taking a shower.
Yes, I know that sounds strange. But….

I can now shower using only one hand, while the other remains, on guard, firmly attached to the “hot-cold” joystick. As the pressure fluctuates my left hand can immediately compensate. It is rather like using the joystick controls when flying a helicopter. With this new skill I have been able to avoid scald marks, freezer burn and sometimes yelps of pain; when, as I have mentioned, someone flushes their toilet in Pisa.

On the way to the gym I needed to have some letters weighed and then I had to get a color-cartridge and flash drive at the computer store. I spend a few minutes with Babel Fish reviewing the key new words that would be necessary for the computer store. I did fine at the computer store. I even managed, in Italian, when the postal guy gave me the wrong amount of stamps. We won’t discuss the periodically pathetic pronunciation, or the profound lack of tense and word gender skills or my reliance on extreme truncation. But I managed!

However, that pride was taken away at the gym. When I arrived I was greeted by the girl at the desk and managed the cursory, “Come va.” and the recent “Fa caldo oggi. Molto caldo.” Then a few brief greetings to some of the staff. However, when I got onto the workout floor all changed.

Very few women work out on the weight floors. They mostly take the many aerobic classes offered. So the weight floors are a testosterone minefield of strutting cliques. Fortunately, I have managed, in a few cases, to break through the pecking order. I feel comfortable. Some are even friendly and manage more than a “Buongiorno” grunt. Ilario is one of the friendlier and he tries his best to expand my language skills. Usually he speaks slower for me but today he started a four-day holiday from school and work and he was excited (this weekend is the holiday for some important Florentine saint). I understood the gist of the conversation but I was reduced to “Non capisco,” “Non capisco,” “Non capisco.” I sounded like a skipping LP.

Despite the heat I had a good workout. I was out the door and on the way to the market. At the Stanza Supermercati, I got the same cashier whose area was graced by my broken container of “insalata di mare con olio.” All you need to know is that there was lots of “olio” (oil). It was a mess. The line was long. He was very nice and didn’t even make the sign of the cross as I got in his line.

As I re-read that last sentence it sounds like he usually makes the sign of the cross when I get into his line. That is not what I meant. He doesn’t. But after the previous experience with me I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had.

On the way home I ate an entire baguette.

I ate dinner and put a load of wash in the Ariston and putzed around on the computer.

Unfortunately there wasn’t anything sweet in the apartment. I decided to go out to fulfill that need.

It was still hot. What better than a “grande Granita di cioccolato.” I think I pronounced chocolate as “cioccolata” not “cioccolato.” However, I still got a large glass filled with semi-sweet heaven. As I was leaving two Americans said, “Look at that” so I clued them in on what it was. And the other delights of the shop. Oh, yes. I forgot to tell you that this gelateria sells chocolate-pepperincino gelato. It isn’t semi-sweet and theirs is fiery hot, but it is good. Not as good as Vernazza though.

I took a walk to the colonnade of the Ufizzi and listened to my favorite violinist while I slurped the chocolate.

Back home to blog, then out again.

The Filarmonica Comunale Fresole was playing in front of the Palazzo Vecchio. It was after the tour-groups and before the younger-set come out, after dinner, so there were only a few hundred people milling around and sitting on the edges of the Loggia. No seats were set up. The orchestra played everything from Can-Can to Puccini. It was a perfect balmy night for this. The orchestra knew what to play to get the audience involved. A fun night. They played until 11:00 PM and afterwards the American who always plays flute, between the Ufizzi and the Loggia, began his session. I walked from the Signoria through the deserted side of the Ufizzi (behind the flutist) and made my way to the Arno. I watched the lights dancing on the surface of the water and listened to the music for an hour then made my way to the apartment. Just an ordinary day in Florence. Marvelous!

I shouldn’t have that much chocolate that late. I didn’t get to sleep until 3:00 AM.

A blog or two ago I mentioned that the graffiti in the train stations here is different than that of Florence. So tonight you get graffiti!

The train-station graffiti is like that of New York City. And there is indeed some of that in Florence. The first of the pictures is the specific kind that I am talking about; stylized colorful lettering. However, the vast majority of graffiti in the Centro Storico is different, as illustrated in the remaining pictures. All this is not to let you believe that I condone graffiti. I certainly do not. It is “Male” (bad) wherever it is or whatever it looks like but it is an interesting side of Florence that I thought you might enjoy.

Train station graffiti (i.e., NYC graffiti)


Centro Storico graffiti



"MALE"








"He Haw, He How"

BUCKSKIN ROAN

There are so many places to visit, only a hour or so from Florence, that it is difficult to decide where to go and what to see. On Thursday, I got to the train station, v-e-r-y...e-a-r-l-y. When I arrived I looked at the 1930’s schedule board (the ones that you see in old black and white films that have the individual metal tabs that flip through the entire alphabet and numerals until the right character displays). The tinny-sound, of the constant flipping, creates the sound and mood of impending suspense.

The “Partenza” (Departure) board indicated, that if I hurried, I could be on the rails in five minutes. So the decision was made. Siena.

Again, I had a quiet train, sparsely filled “ordinario” car (“ordinario" sounds so much better than second-class). Although peaceful, I was too interested in the views to snooze. Siena is in the Chianti area of central Tuscany, south of Florence. It is amazing how much the scenery changes going south. The thing that struck me was the color. It impressed me completely. Unfortunately, the one drawback to train travel is that I cannot pull the bright-red emergency lever to stop the locomotive for a picture. Well, I guess I could but the picture possibilities are even fewer in the “prigione” (jail). The one shot that I took was, unfortunately, through the very spot on the window that had a schemeer of cheek-oil from a previous snoozing passenger. The blurred picture was decidely past impressionist. So you will have to suffer through my florid explanation.

Previously I have mentioned the red poppy. It seems to be ubiquitous. However here it is painted with a heavy-nap roller in wide swaths across the rolling fields. More so than the lavender I anticipated. Although I am accustomed to magnificent wildflower displays in Upstate New York, this was a sight to behold. Especially in the fields of adult spring wheat. You can travel for miles here accompanied by large fields of heavy-headed wispy-topped wheat swaying in the breeze. But in many of these crop-fields, the poppy has invaded. It is a shorter plant so the taller lighter colored wheat softens its vibrant color. Like the color of a Buckskin horse softened by a Roan-cross.

Of these, my favorite, field of wheat, was not planted this year but germinated in patches from last years accidental seeding. The wheat was rather mangy in distribution allowing the poppies to dominate in some areas giving the appearance of two colors of the red with many shades between. And of course other wildflower volunteers made their presence known in this fallow situation. There were purples, many yellow buttercups and myriad shades of various other botanical characters. Not to insult or diminish the Italians, it often looked like a 1930’s plen air California landscape.

Before I knew it, I was in Siena.

The Sienaese are very cleaver. Most tourists come in by train; either directly or from the airports of Florence or Pisa. To catch the bus to the city center (which isn’t that close), you must walk through a newly built shopping mall. And, may I firmly note, not a direct line through the mall. They wind you around in front of all the shops.

One is immediately struck by the topography of the city. While Florence is flat, in the Centro Storico anyway, Siena is very hilly. Even its huge Piazza del Campo (The Field) is not flat. Its bricked surface ululates. Unless you have a wide-angle lens a picture doesn’t do it justice. Sorry, I didn’t bring all my camera equipment.

Their City Hall is in the gothic Palazzo Pubblico and, as in Florence, it has acted as the City Hall for hundreds of years. There is a picture in tonight’s gallery but the top of the Torre del Mangia is cut off (it can be seen in another picture). The atmosphere on the Campo was very relaxed. Groups of people just sat on the deliberately varied patterns of brick comprising the field. With the brilliant sun, the majority sat in the shadow of the Torre. Shops and eateries line the perimeter. I had something to eat and then went to explore the less traveled areas, away from the abundance of high-end shops.

The city is very nice. I was impressed by all the green-space and trees. And as it is hilly one can find a spot, as I did, to look out to the countryside. I lingered for some time. It would be wonderful to be here for the Palio (a medieval horse race run throughout the city twice each year).

After hours of my aimless wandering I passed the downtown bus station and decided to catch a bus to San Gimignano. I goofed. It was a local bus. It stopped at every corner...in every village...for the 24 miles to San Gimignano. The sights were lovely. The leg-room not so lovely, especially considering the duration. The seats were so close, I had to spread my legs further apart than a woman at the mercy of a pelvic exam. I walked out of the bus like I had been riding the previously mentioned Buckskin Roan the entire length of the Chrisom Trail.

As you approach the walled town you are profoundly impressed. The status symbol of that historical period in Italy is evident in the towers that San Gimignano is known for. Built ostensibility for protection, even today they appear to say, “Mine is bigger than yours.” The remaining 14 towers rise proudly above the walled silhouette of the city as you approach. They are the tangible evidence of victory over time and now stand as monolithic guardians to the city’s future. The city lives in the shadow and at the mercy of these towering sights, that must be seen. All is geared to the tourist. And they have done a great job. It would appear Disney himself must have had his hand in this. The grime of living isn’t allowed. The streets are gleaming, the window boxes brimming, emblazoned flags everywhere and not a square inch that isn’t for sale. It is a charming and beautiful diorama of a city. It doesn't live, it poses. It exists from bus-load to bus-load. A Brigadoon existence. I spent three hours walking the back-alleys and barely saw an article of clothing hanging out of a window. No graffiti, shoemaker or hardware store to be found but in their place was store after store of painted ceramic-ware and postcards. It reminded me of Venice. The Venetians bemoan the loss of local everyday stores to the endless Carnivale mask shops. “But you can’t eat masks” they say. San Gimignano is a beautifully scrubbed and marketed enterprise. It is an impressive sight, without doubt. But a full diet of ceramic and postcards is difficult to live on. If I had my choice or was to make a recommendation I would say take a helicopter ride and circle once. Take “the great shot” and move along to the rolling hills and vineyards.

Give me Florence any day. Yes, the Centro Storico has a constant roaming mini street-sweeper and garbage is pretty much hidden. And yes, the tourists are like overly indulged wriggling Bot Fly larva devouring their host. But just outside the Area Pedonale there is life with all its foibles and grime. Florence is a tourist mecca, at the top of the list, but it still lives and breathes. Actually, let me rescind that. It doesn’t just live and breath. That is what we do when we get old. The stones of Florence may be old but her spirit is vibrant and youthful. Daring and forbidden. Indulgent and bold. Civilized, moody and mysterious. I hate the thought of leaving.

After the return trip from San Gimignano to Siena, in the OB-GYN stirrups of the local bus, I hopped a train and was back in Florence by nine-thirty. On my walk from the Santa Maria Novella I passed one of the more posh areas of town. All was barricaded. Lights were flashing. Crowds gathered. I investigated.

It was a couture-runway-fashion-show. The runway was set-up outside on the cobbled street. I had never seen one of these shows, in person, so I stayed. It had turned dark. Klieg lights and photoflashes mixed with current “wow” music and made for a fantastic show. Then it was home for a ravenous attack on the refrigerator.


BY THE WAY: If you click on a picture, in any post, it will enlarge.


Countryside


Piazza del Campo in Siena


Palazzo Pubblico (the Torre cut off) overlooking the Campo


Torre del Mangia from another location


Horrible new lights installed all over the city



Siena's Founder Senius was the son of Remus (of Romulus and Remus)




Taken from the Museo Botanico


Gothic Duomo of Siena


Detail of Duomo


The following: San Gimignano









Fashion show

O MIO BABBINO CARO

I arrived early at the Santa Maria Novella train station and easily passed through the ticket line, so I hopped an earlier train for the 80-minute ride to Lucca. This was a comfortable newer-train with few passengers at 8:30 AM. The tourists were probably still lingering over coffee. The day was bright with occasional clouds. With the hills to our right we passed by household gardens, bucolic streams, crumbling old stone farmhouses, and the small towns of Prato, Pistoia, Montecatini Terme, and Pescia. Most of the areas leading up to the stations are covered with graffiti, somewhat different from that of Florence and more closely resembling what one would see in New York City. Most of the stations (including Lucca) are old and unremarkable paint-peeling-buildings. It is just a short walk from the station to the elaborate walled fortifications of Lucca.

Puccini was born here 150 years ago and Fodor’s says “Caesar, Pompey and Crassus agreed to rule Rome as a triumvirate in 56 BC”. So it has a lot of history. Well, history aside, it is a lovely town. All the ramparts around the city are covered with a tree-lined car-less avenue, walkways and benches. The dozen spade-shaped protrusions or “baluardo” (bastions) have clusters of trees; some have impressive statues. It is a pleasant walk. I did more than half of it but my time was focused on the inner city.

I wandered and shot pictures for a while, then settled down to a light lunch in the Piazza Anfiteatro. Then back to more wandering, during which I saw the Torre Guinigi. This is the tower (of a medieval Palazzo) that has a grove of ilex trees growing on the top. I walked up and got a great view… and a nice breeze. From there I took a picture of the Torre delle Ore. This clock tower was built in the 12th century and has a weight driven clock that was installed soon after. It still has a weight driven clock (although I am not sure, from the looks of it, that it is the same one). You can climb the tower to see the workings. I climbed the steps. Every narrow rickety one. It was worth it. Again, a nice view of the countryside and the clock mechanism. The guy who takes tickets at the clock tower was dealing with the police when I arrived. Seems some kids threw rocks off the tower a few minutes earlier. He grumbled “Kids!” I said “Yea, and some adults” to which he looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t you throw any rocks.” I said "no" then took the walk to the top. When I returned I started to talk with him about the tower. Seems that the clock weights have to be pulled each night. I asked if that job was his responsibility. He was adamant in saying “No” going on to inform me that it must be done every night and you don’t get any days off. It seemed strange that no one else could do the job, occasionally. But that is what he said.

As I was about to leave two American women came to climb the stairs. He asked them to come back in a half-hour as he had to lock up to use the bathroom. He went on to say that he “full up to here” using his hand to indicate his forehead. Seems he has no one to relieve him either (no pun intended).

I continued to wander and take pictures. I stuck my head into some of the 99 churches in the city but by now I know what churches look like. My interest was in artsy photos and just walking. Well, also a bit of time was spent snacking on gelato. It was a bargain here at $1.50 euro.

It started to cloud up, so I headed back to the station and caught the train. This train seemed to be brand new with the same blue theme as the older ones. The route was just the reverse of the morning ride but I did notice, for the first time, a number of large farms dedicated to growing trees, shrubs and flowering plants. There were a couple of large fields of bluish-pink hydrangeas. The mass of billowy color was beautiful. I had taken the other side of the train for the return and saw many more crumbling old stone homes that cried out for repair. Oh, would I love to do that. Anyway it started to rain hard so I half-dozed the rest of the way back.

The market, home, dinner and then I took out the garbage. When I dropped the bag of trash outside the building, I heard an opera aria echoing through the Signoria. I investigated and it was the same women I saw a couple of weeks earlier at the Orsanmichele. I quickly ran upstairs and got my camera to video tape her singing. She sang my favorite aria “O mio babbino caro” from Gianni Schicchi by Giacomo Puccini. How appropriate I mused, since I just visited the city of his birth. Between songs I went up to tell her I had been looking for her, for two weeks, and thanked her for singing my favorite aria. Although I didn’t tell her I thought the opera itself sucks. Sorry Giacomo!

Were you aware that you can click on any picture for an enlargement?

The entrance to Lucca


Outside of the ramparts


The top of the ramparts


Inside (city side) of the ramparts


Torre Guinigi



Piazza Anfiteatro


Me with a new haircut (yet another story)


Chlostro della Cattedrale





Piazza Napoleone



The view of Torre delle Ore from Torre Guinigi


Looking down at the clock mechanism




Upper windows in the Central Market