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.
