Stormy Weather

It was chucking it down when I walked home this evening, and it was still fun and beautiful. The bridges, river, and sky were all silver and pewter, with a streak of white-gold sun, and the contrast from the usual colour of this city was startling. People were huddled inside the cafes, and the shining streets were almost empty. Going home and getting out of the rain when you don’t have to leave the house again for the evening is one of the great pleasures in life.

The only downside was that my sandal broke just before I passed Gucci headquarters, so in my drowned rat, broken shoe’d state, the contrast was even more striking than usual between me and the terribly chic women who constantly stand outside with one hip thrust out, holding their cigarettes as ladies used to hold their fans.

The Cherry Guy and Other Confusions

As my houseguest had a rental car, we took the opportunity to get out of the city for a while this weekend. We spent a day in Arezzo, home of Vasari and setting of various parts of Life is Beautiful. Charming little city. We visited Vasari’s house (one of my old teachers said you can’t call yourself a well-read person until you’ve read his Lives of the Artists. I’ve only dipped into them, so I’m not qualified yet, but I do like him and his sympathetic descriptions of his fellow painters and sculptors). After visiting various museums and frescoes (lots of Piero della Francesca), I was on the brink of starvation and heatstroke, saved only by what tasted like the best pizza in the world sold by the only pizzeria that appeared to be open after two.

Now, here’s what we thought was the Roman anfiteatro.










Here’s the real anfiteatro that we discovered later. P. was a bit dubious about picture A. being the real deal from the start, as befits someone who used to teach history in college, so we revisited the map and happened upon this much more impressive version.















Here’s the carabiniera who, if she understands English, probably enjoyed a hearty laugh at our expense later as she was standing right by us while we were looking at the pseudo anfiteatro and taking pictures of it.















We then visited San Gimignano on the way home, which was lovely. Medieval towers galore. And much cheaper tourist junk than in Firenze, for future reference. AND, this:











Yep, possibly the best gelato in the world. We can testify that the ananas, chocolate, pistachio, and kiwi deserved the title alone.

We were pretty close to the Chianti road, so thought it would be nice to drive back that way. It should be noted that at this point we had a GPS and three maps with us. (Admittedly, the GPS wasn’t really functioning). Anyway, using the maps and street signs, I navigated us to a roundabout at Poggibonsi, where there was a sign pointing to the Chianti road. We paused by a man selling cherries to check the map, and followed the sign.

About ten minutes later we found ourselves back at the exact same spot. Turns out the sign led to a t-junction with no signs that wasn’t on our admittedly not-very-detailed map. No problem, we thought. We’ll just take the other direction at the T this time.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say that we ended up back in front of the cherry seller three more times, got to know the surrounding area of Poggibonsi better than I had ever dreamed, and never found the Chianti road that day. There was also the point when P said “you know, if the cherry guy speaks English, we could ask…”

“I am NOT asking for directions! We have maps.”

Pause to reflect on gender identities.

As it happens, we found another very lovely route back to Florence, had a delicious dinner (seriously, how can they make things like peas so incredibly more-ish), and on Sunday afternoon we took a picnic and found the Chianti road from the other direction. And it really is gorgeous. I’ve got pictures to prove it.




But I am a little annoyed that I’ve hiked the Black Mountains in Wales and the High Uintahs armed with compasses and maps (and, admittedly, friends with senses of direction) without getting lost, but couldn’t find my way round one of the more popular tourist desitnations in Western Europe with street signs.

Lilies

I once read that to have a pleasant expression on your face when having your photo taken, you should say “lilies,” as the shutter opens. That may work for people who are photogenic anyway, but I do not follow this advice as I’m pretty sure I would just look gormless. However, lilies were responsible for my very happy expression on Saturday.

I got up early to buy food. Stopped at the bakery first to pick up a pastry or two, and ate them in the p. S. Spirito, as the shops pulled up their shutters, and the market vendors set up their stalls. I love shopping at all the little pasticcerias, panettarias, macellarias, and latterias, and enjoying the morning sunlight and serenity before all the tourists start flooding the streets. I bought calla lilies at the market, thinking that they were 3 euro per stem – and then the lady at the market handed me the entire bunch – 8 lilies! Beautiful calla lilies, which are now on my coffee table. Now I really do feel like I’m in a movie.

Lena and the Brazilian Sexologist

...which does NOT sound like a good title for a fairytale. Once again, the fun of travelling alone. You wait in line for hours at the Uffizi, and get talking, and before you know it you’re eating pizza and discussing religion and men with the very nice aforesaid Brazilian. Now I have a standing invitation to Rio. This world is full of such fun people.

What was really fun, was seeing the David with someone else in awe of it/him. I’m perfectly happy in museums on my own on the whole, but it’s also lovely to have someone there to enthuse with. It was Fernanda’s first visit to Italy, and so I got to feel that slight and completely inauthentic sense of ownership that you get when you’re the one whose seen it before – but of course the really amazing part is that seeing David doesn’t feel familiar or in any way less awe-inspiring having seen it or one of its reproductions before. I won’t attempt to describe him as it’s been done by numerous people far more eloquently than I ever can.

Macchine di Tempo

A flyer I picked up in the bakery told me that the Maggiolata would transform the Piazza Santa Spirito for an evening and take me back in time. Naturally I had to see.

The Piazza was full of people, mostly kiddies. There were tables of food provided free by the local bakeries and grocers- miniature pizzas, little cubes of ham, tiny pastries, non-alcoholic punch, all totally delicious. Baskets of cherries were placed around the fountain. A small group with guitars and a tambourine started playing music that people clapped and chanted along to.

A few young men and women in costumes that were a combo of Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing and their own wardrobes were holding games for the kids. There was jousting with big sponge-covered jousty things, a sort of maze made of a spiral of rope with a ‘princess’ waiting in the middle, and my favourite, where a pair of kids was each given a scarf to tuck in the back of the waistband of their trousers – they then had to try and grab each other’s scarf. Totally simple, but the kids LOVED it, and the grownups loved watching them.

Roses and Vespers

San Miniato del Monte is a monastery, and one of only a couple of places left in the world where you can hear Gregorian chant. You can hear it every afternoon at Vespers, if you climb the hill, past the Piazza Michelangelo, past the cafes, and go downstairs in the church. The coolness and peace inside are a welcome change from the May afternoon heat and tourists (yes I know I'm one).

On the way down, there is the Giardini de rose – open only two months of the year, filled with roses and lemon trees, rosemary, and lilies. It smells just as you may imagine, especially in the warm evening, when colours and scents are at their height.
People were reading, sunbathing, studying, dozing. I took a magazine there on Sunday and joined them for a while.

What Lena Did

I learned a valuable lesson today (not for the first time, as it happens) that I’d like to share with you all: As a rule, don’t think that you know better than the guide book.

I wanted to take a day trip to Fiesole to look at the Etruscan ruins and study the Roman excavations. Oh, who am I kidding. I wanted to go because Susan Coolidge wrote about it in “What Katy Did Next.” There’s a great scene with Katy and Mrs Ashe in the amphitheatre that describes their day there, and the flowers on the walls, and then Lieutenant Worthington turns up, and oh, the romance. (that was my childhood self, before I got all hardbitten and cynical).

Well, the guidebook said to take the number 7 bus, and some Americans I talked to said to take the number 7 bus, but I decided to take a train, because I’d seen a timetable to Fiesole, and trains don’t make me carsick.

The only problem being that the Fiesole station isn’t actually in Fiesole, which I realised as soon as I stepped onto the platform, and which is the sort of Italianism that makes your head explode once in a while.

No, the Fiesole station is in Cardine, of course, which is a place of no literary interest a few miles away (and downhill from) Fiesole, and doesn’t have another train going back in the other direction for 7 hours.

No problem, I thought. I’m in Italy, I will be calm and live in the moment, and enjoy the nice weather while I wait two hours for the bus that I see is actually going to Fiesole (and which I verified with the owner and customers of the tobacconist- see, I’m learning). Va bene. So I bought a Sudoku book, and begged a pencil off the lady in the post office, and waited for two hours, and then waved at the number 45 bus as it sailed past me (with the driver looking RIGHT AT ME).

Have you ever felt that you are NEVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO LEAVE a place, that you will die from exposure there and will have to be buried there in an unmarked grave because no-one knows who you are, and even your family will forget your name in a year and start referring to you as “the one who disappeared in Italy”, though cognitively you know that probably isn’t true? That’s how I felt, looking at the back of that bus.

Anyway, to skip forward, that afternoon did find me finally stepping nauseatedly off a bus in the central Piazza of Fiesole, all prepared to loathe the place by this point. But it was actually quite charming, and the Etruscan and Roman remains were genuinely interesting. There were roses by the Roman theatre, there’s a lovely little church at the tip top of the hill, and a spectacular view of Florence and the area. My dad happened to ring as I was sitting there, so I had the vista and conversation for a very pleasant hour, before taking the bus home.





The Roman Theatre
















Roman or possibly Etruscan temple ruins













View over Florence

The Costume Museum

Imagine you are a struggling opera singer. You finally get a key role in an important production in Florence, with large audiences expected, and great production values. You can’t wait to tell your mum, and she’s thrilled – so proud of you, it’s what you deserved, finally someone appreciating you for what you are…and those Florence productions are always so beautiful – the scenery, the costumes, oh the COSTUMES – all silk and hand embroidery, she can’t WAIT to see what you’ll wear – what will your costume be like???

“Well, mum, I’m the spirit of the harvest, so it’s all very pastoral…not ball gowns or anything.”

“Oh, that’s all right, I saw the spring costume last year and it was divine – beautiful little flowers everywhere, the very essence of new life and beginnings. I suppose yours will have chrysanthemums and golden leaves or something…?”

“Well, not exactly, I think they’re really focussing on the rural, farming aspect.”

“Darling?”

“I’m going to be wearing a pig on my head. With a sausage necklace.”



…






As you can see, they have some terrific creations, which made me wish, not for the first time, that we lived in a less practical era in terms of clothing, and that I could wear an embroidered kimono or lace ballgown once in a while.

Bits and Pieces (which is what I’ll be in if I don’t watch out)

Distance is measured so differently in Europe from the US, and I’m not just talking about km vs. miles. One of my fave quotes about Britain and American is “the difference between America and England is that 100 years is a long time in America, and 100 miles is a long way in England.” Distances and streets are just smaller, and so everything gets scaled down – how close people park to each other, stand next to each other. I’m writing this because I had my first contact with a moving car today and what struck me (besides the wing mirror) was that it didn’t bother me – a “near miss” like that in the states would probably have left me shaken, but here a little contact still feels within the limits of safety. But I should really probably start looking both ways instead of philosophising about traffic safety.
***
I went to the leather school today. It’s set back from the road, isn’t very clearly signposted, and there was no-one around when I went in, so I felt a little like I was trespassing. I’ve always loved trespassing. Inside there is a row of worktables, and I watched an old man putting gold leaf on the green leather spine of a book cover. It was all very serene and church-like.
***
I found a great little shop that sells flowers and clothes. And why not?
***
I’m living in the Oltrarno area, which is sort of the Left Bank of Florence. It’s quieter, quainter; you won’t find a Guess shop on this side of the river, and not everyone speaks English. I really like it –it feels quite village-like. It’s also an artists’ area, so one of my daily pleasures is walking by open studios and catching glimpses of what’s going on inside- men sanding, mysteriously draped blocks of stone waiting to be sculpted, beautifully painted vases in a dusty room full of tools, trailing vines of ironwork, painters, palettes, and easels.
***
I bought the best grapes EVER yesterday. They are divine, they taste like elderflowers. I would bring some home for everyone, but I know the Agri people would confiscate them at customs like they did my pate once.
***
I really love my apartment, and the 37 flights of stairs are good exercise. But there are mosquitos. They buzz in my ear as I’m dropping off to sleep, and one bit me on the eyelid last night. Anyone know if they have West Nile Virus here? Yes, I use repellant. No, it doesn’t work.
***
There are a lot of people who smoke here. But interestingly, none of them are addicted. They’ll tell you themselves!
***
Italian telly is hysterical. There’s a nightly game show which progresses as expected with the usual cheesy host and easy questions, and then has little random interludes where a chick in a low cut blouse sashays out and does a little dance to music that seriously is straight from “Poles n’ Passion: the Greatest Hits of 70s Strip Clubs,” looks provocatively at the camera, and then goes on to talk to the host and ask the audience a question like the nice Catholic girl that she probably is. In the commercial break, the host turns up again in an infomercial type ad, where he interviews a young man who gives a testimonial about the wonderful bed he’s lying on, whilst more of the low cut chicks stand around the bed. It’s not terribly subtle.
***




The Leather School, inside and out (check it - I rotated!)

I do like Florence.

This is my apartment. It’s quite a big one-bedroom place, up fifty-six flights of stairs (admittedly I lost count after the first four or so, but believe me, it’s a long way to the top carrying a suitcase). This means I have a lovely view of the roofs of Florence, and Florence is a city with lovely roofs. It’s quieter than Rome, cleaner than Pisa, friendlier-feeling than either, and THERE IS A CHURCH WITH MASACCIO’S FRESCOES OF THE TRIBUTE MONEY AND THE EXPULSION FROM PARADISE within FIVE minutes walk from my flat! Sorry for the all caps, but one of my art teachers specialised in the early Renaissance, and it’s pretty exciting to see lectures and essays come alive on the wall RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME! Ahem.

In less artistically elevated news, there’s also a Salvatore Ferragamo shop down the street, lots of very fetching little shops selling paper and pastries and olive oil, and a market where nuns buy their asparaghi (and take forever doing it, might I add). I’m still looking for the shop where TLC says I will buy flowers every day. She said it would be next to the place where I meet the charming Italian violinist/pianist/something romantic. I reminded her that I was moving to Florence for two months, not into a Meg Ryan movie.

I never claimed to be a romantic

Some of you know (and share) my irritation with PDA (public displays of affection), and it hits new heights here in Italy. I noticed in my skimming of EPL, that the author commented on people making out EVERYWHERE in Rome, and she’s not wrong. And I can see it’s all very lovely and romantic and appropriate on the river banks, and bridges, and the Spanish steps and all, but what really gets me are the trains. I’m not sitting opposite any more couples until Italians learn to kiss quietly. The urge to yell “get a room” is becoming too strong. Though I must admit that I was getting all nauseated by a couple that got on the train and barely waited to sit down until they were at it, and then realised that they were saying goodbye, and the guy was getting off the train. Oh. Well, that’s all right then. Carry on.

Maybe they should stick a cattle ranch on the cliffs of Dover

Cinqueterre, if you’re not familiar, is a national park that encompasses five villages (cinque terre = five lands). Apparently, some time ago, some people thought it would be a brilliant idea to start farming up the side of a cliff (clearly there’d been some mountain goat mixed in with their genes). This resulted in some rather pretty towns and gorgeous views. It’s getting pretty touristy now – I gather all the cool kids are going to Palermo or somewhere this year, but I really wanted to see it, so here I am. The hiking’s moderately strenuous with a backpack – lots and lots of rock stairclimbing, but the views are worth it. And I got to see the Mediterranean for the first time!!

BTW, if anyone knows how to rotate pics on this, let me know. The sideways look was particularly ridiculous with the leaning tower.

I’m sure it can’t be good for me to see the sunrise this often.

I must say, I was a little reluctant to get up early and leave England this morning. I didn’t want to leave my family and the lovely weather and go back to a hot foreign country where the men wear gold chains and don’t speak English or eat steak and kidney pie. Why am I wasting time in Italy when I could be doing something useful with my time, like job hunting in London (kidding, Heather!)

Well, I got to Pisa and the Piazza di Miracoli and cheered up a little. The tower really does lean as advertised, quite dramatically, poor thing – it looks like it must have a nasty backache after all these years. Independent of its leaning, it’s really quite a lovely tower, too. My dad did mention that the church tower in the nearby village of Buxton also leans quite noticeably, but he allowed that Pisa’s tower was probably a little more impressive.

I guess for all anyone knows, I could just be holding the camera wonkily.








I cheered up even more when I got to La Spezia, near Cinqueterra. The village, Bassia or something, where I’m staying is right up in the hills, and very pretty. The hostel’s nice, and I’m only sharing a room with one other person, an Australian girl. We went to dinner tonight and talked about our travels, and I got a bit more enthused again. I mean, in what other situation do you randomly go to dinner with strangers and have discussions about the integration of Aborigines into mainstream modern Australian culture over pasta? We also talked about smoking (she’s trying to quit) so it counted as work time (kidding, Heather!).

There was something on the menu I didn’t recognise, so I asked the waiter about it. He gestured for me to come and see – there was a cook in the screened corner of the dining room with a stove and hot clay dishes over the fire. He took several dishes and spreak what looked like thick pancake batter in them, and stacked them on top of one another. A few minutes later, our waiter brought the results to our table – sort of a thin, crispy at the edges flatbread. See, there’s always something food-related to cheer me.

And if I get really homesick, I’ll just go to plan B and get a flight to England for the remainder of my two months.

The Russian Baroness and the Cat

Doesn’t that sound like a great title for a fairytale?

Once upon a time, there was a Russian Baroness (we’ll call her Natasha) who loved cats. She wanted to have a very special, friendly cat with green slanted eyes and a smooth coat, so she mated two of her favourite cats and came up with a new breed.
This breed became more popular, and people started refining different strains, but these people weren’t always very nice. They were unkind to Natasha, and soon she wasn’t able to be involved in all of the cat breeding events and activities that she had helped to begin.

Natasha died, but two of her friends (one of whom is my brother’s ma-in-law) decided to honour her by starting an association for the cats that she had created. They breed, hold cat shows, use the royal colours of purple and silver to represent her, and insist that all their organisation’s activities are conducted in a spirit of friendship, with no politicking or backbiting.

This meant that on Saturday, I spent the morning and afternoon in woolavington village hall, helping my brother make bacon sarnies, sausage baps, cheese rolls and cups of tea, and serving them with Victoria sponge to a bunch of cat fanciers in lavender. Lady B. walked in with a bright purple sweatshirt with sequinned pictures of Siamese cats on it. “Tasteful, I thought,” she remarked.

It was rather fun. I’ve got no personal interest in pedigree cats – my policy on animals being that I like and get on well with most of the ones not in the rat family (which includes gerbils, guinea pigs, spiders, and chihuahuas wearing jackets), but I prefer them to be outside catching mice or other members of said rat family. However, it is people who are enthused about something are usually interesting (I might exempt star trek from that), and the kitties were really cute and not the rat-like kinds that have had most of their fur bred out of them. In the end, most hobbies are a good excuse to bring people together to drink tea and socialise, and I’m always in favour of that.



And here is one of the cats.













Fertile Fortunes

Fertile Fortunes is the name of a book my dad got me last Christmas. It’s a good Sunday dip-into book, and tells the story, with pictures, of Tyntesfield, the former home of Lord Wraxall (Wraxall’s a nearby village).

The family made their money by discovering a market for guano – bird droppings from South America that made great fertiliser. They used the money first to pay off some family debts before thinking about building a house, but when they did – wow.

Lord W. died six years ago leaving no heir, and the National Trust was able to buy the estate and begin restoration. I believe it just opened a year ago, and there’s still plenty to do – the kitchens are piled high with old things, and we passed through a room where a man had just finished polishing a chandelier and looked quite happy about it. He agreed that it’s an Aladdin’s cave of interesting pieces.

The house is beautifully decorated in a comfortable Edwardian style. Apparently, the family like to keep up with the times, so last century they covered up all the fussy Victorian stencilling with stretched silk wall coverings. There are interesting little curios everywhere, like an incredibly ornate carved ivory chest (from before we knew ivory was evil). They also have a bit of an art collection, including a Rubens and a Stoebels (sp??). One of the last built parts, said to be very close to Lord W’s heart, was a beautiful little chapel where the family and staff had Sunday services.

My favourite aspect, though, was the grounds. I believe they have about 500 acres, and they’ve been beautifully landscaped – it’s a painting with trees and flowers as the media.

There are formal gardens close to the house – clipped yew topiaries, variegated and dark holly hedges ringed by almost black purple tulips, red-gold wallflowers, yellow snapdragons, and vivid pink tulips. The walls have white and apricot honeysuckle and light purple wisteria all over them, so the place smells gorgeous as well.

Then you look out over the grounds, and it’s breathtaking. Oaks next to copper beeches, next to wild cherry blossom in bloom, deep pink rhododendrons, all against these sweeping green expanses that must have been quite lovely to begin with.

There’s a popular English poem with the line “England’s the one place I know where men with splendid hearts may go.” A trifle overblown, perhaps, but looking over this place, and seeing what vision, taste (and money) can accomplish, you get the impression that the W. family were splendid men indeed. It’s very refreshing to visit an amazing place like this that wasn’t built on the backs of slaves, or from tobacco, baby seal clubbing, or some other heinous but lucrative business of yore.

Drink Up Thy Zider

As you’re probably not interested in lunch with my aunt and mowing the lawn, here’s some Somerset Trivia for you. You can use in your next pub quiz night if you happen to be at the Butcher’s Arms on a Friday evening.

Somerset is well known for many things, including (hard) cider and The Wurzels, a band started by Adge Cutler back in the 70s. They were immensely popular, mainly for being total…wurzels (a mango-wurzel is sort of a turnip, and the term wurzel is used interchangeably with yokel). They sang in Somerset dialect (pronounce Somerset “Zummerrzet”, and sort of speak with a pirate accent – ooh ARRRR!) and about topics of local interest. Songs like “I am a cider drinker,” “I’ve got a brand new combine harvester”, and “Drink up thy Zider” were HUGE hits in my youth. “Combine Harvester” was remixed as a dance hit a few years ago, and I think even made it to the States. The Wurzels are sort of Bristol City’s Football Club mascot, and whenever BCFC scores a goal, the whole crowd sings “Drink up thy zider.”