LAWRENCE NEUMEISTER: 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