Yesterday, I turned the corner on Via Vacchereccia (my street) onto Via Por Santa Maria heading south to the Ponte Vecchio just 50 yards away. It was 9:00 AM and the “old bridge” was nearly deserted. Some shop owners were opening their old heavily ornamented hinged and ironclad storefronts but it was quiet. The air and streets were damp and clean.
It was a sunny walk east on the south side of the Arno watching the sculls being rowed up and down the turtle filled water. Finally it dawned on me, why the huge obelisk (sorta) sculptures in front of the Santa Maria Novella sat on bronze turtles.
Crevasses, cracks and missing stones in the river embankment were filled with wild flowers and cooing pigeons. The predominant flower was actually a cluster of hundreds of very small rose-colored flowers; an inflorescence. Interspersed among these were small daisy-like flowers and many others that I didn’t know; although there are many plants, flowers and trees that are similar to Southern California. One in particular is night blooming jasmine which is just starting here and one I think is called “mock orange” that is heavy in the air this morning.
I hung a right up the hill and through the gates of the old wall of the city, similarly covered with grasses and wildflowers. Upward. And upward still, past the old decorative cast metal city water spigots flowing into marble basins. Upward. I was on my way to the Pizalle Michelangelo and the iris garden where the international competition had just taken place days before. It wasn’t yet the opening time for the iris garden when I noticed the Gardino delle Rose. I took the detour. Although not yet half way up to the summit the view was clear; the sky was brushed with a few wisps of white. There was a slight breeze. After taking many photos of the roses and other flowers…and enjoying the space…and smelling the flowers of course, it was off to the next level up the hill. That next level offered entry to the next detour at the Monastero di San Miniato. The cloister was built in 1295 along with a summer palace for the bishops of Florence, which was later to become part of the monastery. It has been a fortress, hospital and hospice but since 1924 it has been the home of Benedictine monks. They were walking around in their cassocks.
They have a cemetery!!!!
There are crypts, above ground graves, gated niches and…mausoleums. Oh yes, and lots of plastic flowers. I was first surprised by this in Venice. Many resting places have permanent pictures of the departed (also not new to me). However, there are individual lights on many crypt-faces and in niches and mausoleums. Some tiny, some larger. Lighting the way for occasional spirit visits? Night lights for the departed? My family plot is better than yours, I have 30 watts, you only have 25. I don’t know. But it adds to the lexicon of macabre cemetery lore. It is eerie. It is personal. When the eyes of photographs look at, down or up at you there is a feeling of presence: a greater feeling of the loss. Especially when it is a child’s face, a soldier’s face. Youth stolen that might not stand out if there were just dates carved in stone.
The monastery is striking and charming. The ceilings detailed, gilded and impressive. So much artistic endeavor in Florence requires one to look up. The sacristy is especially nice with all the inlaid woodwork. Frescos, paintings, sculpture, candles and quiet. A beggar was at the front door with a plastic cup and weatherworn picture of a family to prompt interest. Am I hardened? Am I jaded? Does he make more money than I do? I passed by and went looking for irises.
I looked and I looked. I walked and I walked farther. Nothing. I went halfway back down the hill. Yes, the sign points upward. Back up the hill, past the cat village. Yes, that is what I wrote. And that is why there are no rats. I haven’t seen one rat or even a sign of vermin in all my back-alley wanderings. I can see two or three each time I walk down the street to Whole Foods in LA.
There are little houses for the cats throughout the park (this I mention for Susan). There are signs that warn “you must not make evil against the cat residents” and if you do it is “punishable with the pain of four years in confinement” (I love the Babel Fish translator).
I walked around and around again. Past the monastery. Back again and past another reproduction of David (this one in bronze) in the other direction. Ok, I was giving myself only a few hundred yards more. I looked to my right and saw someone coming out of a gate on a motor scooter. When I looked in, the place was filled with beautiful irises. It was the backdoor. Well, damm I’m not walking all the way back around to the entrance. The iris garden is “ingresso libero” (not a literal translation but meaning it has no charge). I’ll just slip in the back.
Don’t raise your eyebrows at me. There are those among you reading this who have walked backwards in the exit of the Pasadena Showcase House to get in without paying. No judgments, please!
The gates began to close. I ran and just made it. Lucky!
The irises were beautiful. White to brown to royal bearded purple. I made my way up the road photographing all the way…around the corner I realized my mistake. This isn’t the public iris garden; it’s a private palazzo. Crap! Ok, no one has seen me yet…my panic is mild. The once cooling breeze that caressed my brow has disappeared. I feel the air closing in on me. I made my way down to the gate and…yes…you guessed it. No trip light for exiting vehicles. A key is necessary in both directions.
The panic steps up a notch. I now notice beads of sweat on the back of my neck. A neck that seems to be in an ever-tightening noose.
Ok, it’s not like I haven’t had to squeeze through a hedge before…no…there is a fence in the hedges. Ok, I’ll climb the wall. I did that at Lucille Ball’s house I can sure as hell do it here. And the wall is only four feet high. Lucy’s was six feet. No. It’s four feet on the inside and a 10-12 foot drop on the street side. That is even if I can avoid evisceration by way of the glass shards in the cement cap of the fence.
Crap!
Defeat.
Ok, swallow your pride Larry and hope the owners are kind and don’t have the Carabineri on speed dial.
It’s a great palazzo. Well taken care of and manicured. I knocked. No answer. So why not look in the windows. Very nice place. I would venture it was professionally designed. Muted tones and great antiques. Lots of textural interest and great fabric. Larry, I thought to myself, enough HGTV interest in the surrounding…on with the task at hand. I tried various windows and doors with various knocks and the occasional “scusi,” “buongiorno” or even a “hello.” No answer. I have to be at the gym in Firenze Nova at 6 PM, I can’t camp out. I figured it was time for a 12-foot drop. There will be no treadmill tonight for the compression-fracture ankles.
But as I passed the summerhouse I heard a voice. Strength Larry. Courage. Wipe the sweat from your brow and for mercy sakes put the camera in your pocket. Take a deep breath. And smile!
Cautiously I threw a “mi scusi” or two at the open door. Two middle age women came to the door. Fortunately by now I know a couple of variations of “I’m sorry” in Italian. “Mi dispiace,” “spiacente” and I went on with a “molto spiacente.” That was it. That’s all I could muster. There isn’t a Lesson 22 in my Transparent Language course for “Breaking and Entering.”
One of the women had left. I prayed she hadn’t left to dial the Italian version of 911. I continued firing at the other woman with all the Italian I knew. “Conosco solo qualche parola di italiano.” “Parla inglese?”
“No” she answered then went on with “Habla espanol?”
Great! At this point the only words and the limited topics I can muster in Spanish would only make the situation worse. “No hablo” was the safe answer at this point.
Sign language as the last resort. I took out the camera and pointed at the irises. “Bello” I said although the gender is probably wrong. Although better I get the iris’s gender wrong than hers! “Bello” I said again and then said “Pizzale Michelangelo.”
“No, no, no, no” in a stream of Spanish accent Italian. The ensuing one-sided conversation prompted me to gather she is from South America. She laughs and then the other woman comes back with an ancient withered woman in a wheelchair. The old woman is wearing a straw hat.
She, the old woman in the wheelchair, was a beautiful woman…once. One of the windows…I looked in…was her bedroom and there was a dresser with many framed pictures. The old woman never reacted to any of this. The other woman pushed the wheelchair towards me. Puzzlement crossed my brain and my face; I’m sure. The other woman showed me a set of keys and pointed to the gate and quelled the panic on my face. I pushed the utterly silent old woman and the group of us made our way to the gate. We all laughed and spoke, to ourselves in essence, in our own language…all the way to the gate, as I thought…once again I have been saved.
“Grazie, mille grazie” I said.
“Arrivederci.”
“Arrivederci.”
“Arrivederci.”
And silence from the once beautiful woman, with the magnificent iris garden, locked in her mind and confined to her chair.
Your pictures for tonight: the old wall of Florence, the public rose garden, stairs to the monastery, you all have seen an iris before but this one marks the adventure of the week and lights in the mausoleum.
