This is totally harshing my Italy vibe.

I know airline stories are like bad childbirth stories (spare us the gory details!), but I’m writing this anyway. (you know, catharsis).

After getting up at 3:30 AM to catch my flight from Milan, I got to the airport to find they’d re-booked all of my flights – this meant that I didn’t have a lot of time to spare at Heathrow. I arrived with less than the minimum amount of time recommended between terminals, and sprinted to security. The guy there took a look at my boarding card and signalled to the people in the Fast Track line to take care of me, saying, “you have ONE HOUR.” I ran off, stripping myself of belts and shoes as I went, with the theme to Mission Impossible swelling in the background.

I made that connection, but my luggage didn’t. Due to filing my lost luggage report, I missed my connection to SL – they rebooked me on the next flight, I boarded, and then…

Flight Attendant: Was that lighting?

(Interesting FAA Fact: At an airport, if traffic control sees lighting, nobody gets to move for five minutes. Ground crews go inside, everything stops.)

We were on the tarmac for six hours.

That actually wasn’t so bad. The flight attendants were great, and the plane developed something of a cocktail party atmosphere (though I don’t usually sleep through 50 % of cocktail parties).

They led us back through the airport, and we found ourselves outside security. This was a mistake. If you ever get stuck in an airport due to a weather cancellation, avoid leaving the gate area. They have carpet there. And for non-airline-caused cancellations, they won’t put you up in a hotel.

A nice Korean guy and I found a space on the second floor by the chapel, and I slept with my pack towel under me, and my pashmina over me.

The next day went something like this: Stand in line. Get standby tickets. Fail to clear standby. Be told by arm-folded desk agent that he/she can’t help us and he/she is off duty anyway. Repeat.

I did weasel my way into the Crown lounge and got biscuits, drinks, and a nap in a comfy chair.

One of the other girls and I were bonding over our hardships.
Girl: I don’t want to spend another night on the floor with one of their little pillows!
Pause.
Me: You had a pillow?
Girl: It was a really small one!

Then, magically, standby worked. My Korean friend and I were the last people on the plane, and were ridiculously excited to be there. I watched the weather, practiced my yoga breathing until we actually were in the air, and seriously considered biting my nails.

I have never been so happy to see those big salt flats and touch down in Utah.

How did my life go so quickly from “idyllic” to “I want my mummy!” on the Suckometer? But to be honest, it was a small price to pay for three months of easy living, and I didn’t have any of the horror stories of some of the other passengers (missed wedding, lost job, split up from kids).

The flight was a stunning journey – I had window seats, and so saw the snowy alps and blue lakes by Milan, then a picture postcard view over the Thames, where I got to count the famous edifices- Tower Bridge, Millennium dome, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Buck House. Then New York,and the wild west.

Now, if they could just find my luggage…

Hot in the City: Milan

Milan was hot. Not sure that I have much else to say. Really hot. Exhaustingly, drainingly, stickily, why am I bothering to lift my lukewarm water bottle to my lips, it’s just a waste of valuable energy as I’m going to die of heatstroke anyway, and I might as well use my last vestiges of strength to drag myself to that gelateria in the distance so I can die happy, although it’s probably a mirage come to think of it hot.

OK, so there were one or two interesting sights. Apparently I’m still having issues with believing guidebooks, or at least internalising what I read in them, because the guidebook told me that Milan’s duomo was the fourth largest cathedral in the world, and my reaction when I saw it was still “wow, that’s absolutely enormous!!!” And beautiful, and quite different from all the Tuscan ones I’ve got used to lately.








There was a rather creepy crypt downstairs, where I couldn’t help imagining nasty Inquisitional-type things happening (not based on historical fact), and an installation that consisted of a big black square overlaying most of the screen of a segment of Zeffirelli’s film about the Passion.

And then I went to the Brera Pinoteca, where they had everything from 4000 year-old figures to Braque. Standouts were Piero della Francesca’s Pala Montefeltro, Raphael’s Spozalizio della vergine, and Hayez’s Kiss. There are some paintings that seem to light up the room when you enter, and those were the ones for me today. The fact that I could still care about paintings when I was on the brink of death from dehydration says a lot about Piero and his colleagues.

Here’s the park. Doesn’t it look nice and green and cool? It’s not.










Here’s me ready to go home now. Utah’s probably lovely and cool right now, isn’t it?







I might manage one or two more posts before I wrap this up, but if not, thanks for reading - I can't tell you how nice it's been to get your blog comments and emails!

Una Bella Notte

As I was leaving in a day or two, Firenze decided to hold a fireworks display in honour of me, which I thought was rather sweet. It happened to be St. John the Baptist’s day, too. We went down to the Ponte Vecchio, listened to the singer there and watched the sunset. We walked a little way along the river as the fireworks began. There were people EVERYWHERE, lining the streets on both sides of the Arno, and spilling out of the Uffizi area. The fireworks were lit from the Piazza Michelangelo, and were stunning, going on forever, with a big gold, red, white and green finale.









Evening on the Ponte Vecchio. My camera was in the wrong mode, so my fireworks pics are rubbish.

Lucca

Silk working and the many merchants with their great abilities brought great richness and the town was interested by a lots of transformations. But wealth and richness oft mean envy and rivalry between the families; Lucca, Guelph, was in contrast with the Ghibelline Pisa.

That’s not me, that’s the Citta of Lucca tourist brochure. I do love dodgy Italian-English translations. Plus I thought it might be nice to get one or two real live facts on my blog before I wrap it up, in case you’re tired of me being all “omigosh you guys this is like totally awesome.”

I didn’t have incredibly high expectations of Lucca. I’d heard of its famous walls, but couldn’t somehow bring myself to a state of frenzied anticipation over some walls. Besides, I’d seen the Etruscan walls at Fiesole – what more could bricks and mortar hold for me?

Well, it turns out that “walls” was a pale shadow of a description. What we have in Lucca, I would describe as ramparts, and massive ones at that. There are grassy picnic areas and a wide path on top, and they give you a great view down onto the town’s buildings and into the walled gardens. I rented a bike for an hour and cycled around there, ringing my bell at the tourists, and on such a hot day it was great to have a little breeze in my hair.

(It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been on a bike, but apparently it’s just one of those things you don’t forget how to do. It’s like…it’s like…gosh, I just can’t think of a good analogy here.)

Then I explored the town all afternoon. It’s a great city to walk around— amazingly unspoiled, laid-back atmosphere, friendly people. I visited a few of the churches and museums, then flaked out in the sun on the ramparts for a while.




The Walls







parts of "portrait of a lady' were filmed here.








really pretty church. Santa something.







the duomo







The roman amphitheatre

Really, Mind-numbingly Stupid Things I Did That I Was Too Embarrassed to Write About Before Now (Incomplete).

And you thought the train to Fiesole was a low point. As I start preparing to go home, I thought I’d share this little summary. This list is clearly marked INCOMPLETE, hopefully ensuring that the Gods of Karma and Superstition don’t think I am suffering from hubris and make me do something even stupider in the next few days.

Don’t judge me.

Booking my overnight train to Rome for the WRONG day and not realising until the conductor told me, and then being freaked out for the whole journey, as every time a new conductor came round I expected them to drag me off the train and either leave me on a platform in the middle of Austria/Italy in the middle of the night to be murdered by mountain bandits, or put me in jail for train fraud and then have me SHOT by firing squad in the morning. What? It was night – so maybe my imagination gets a little overactive at night. Leave me alone.

Leaving my computer cord in P’s car in Vienna, before taking the train to Rome. Thank you, Royal Mail. The Italian postal service refused to take it to the convent, thus beginning my rocky relationship with them.

Taking the train to Fiumicino airport in Rome. Well, part of the way there. This was unwise, as my plane was leaving from Ciampino. Fortunately something said “maybe you should check your ticket,” and I hopped off quick smart at the next station.

Leaving my camera at the hostel in Rome. Bless the honest innkeeper and his safe for keeping it secure for me. And bless the voice in my head for making me check my bag just before I got on the train. The right train, for once.

Yes, I know I shouldn’t be let out on my own. I now check my plane ticket home about six times a day. I do notice that all these things seem to be connected to Rome, so let’s hope that that is the Bermuda triangle of my brain. But NOT hope in a HUBRISTIC, ASKING FOR TROUBLE kind of way.

Summer Days

Theatre in the Street
Italians apparently have a real thing for Charlie Chaplin (did everyone in the world know this but me?). There was a Charlie Chaplin exhibit in Bologna, there are books on him all over the place, and there was a Chaplin impersonator/performer on the street near my apt the other night. He started setting up, and within minutes a big crowd had assembled to watch him swing his cane and make balloon animals.

Music in the Square
A piano was placed in the Piazza della Signoria today, and handsome men took turns playing it, rather brilliantly. I stood and listened for some time, and then heard a burst of clapping from behind me – a bride had just tossed her bouquet and a middle-aged woman caught it. You see quite a few wedding parties in the piazza – it’s apparently Florence’s equivalent of temple square, and is a beautiful place for a wedding – and you automatically have about a thousand people there who are happy to celebrate with you.



Don't you think the man on the right looks astonishingly like the nervous guy in Ocean's 11?




















Singing in the Hills
In the evening, I went to a concert given by an American girl I met at church. When I first beheld her I thought she might be a bit touched, but it turns out she’s just rather brilliant, and once I disabused her of the idea that I was a BYU undergrad we got along famously. She’s a graduate voice student at a prestigious school, and has sung for all sorts of prestigious people. She’s got a wonderful, wall-shaking voice, is a knockout performer, beautiful, and has the energy and likeability of an excited six-year-old (not the kind that kicks your airplane seat and pulls your hair –feel free to be a hater of that breed). She’s also got one of those quirky names that usually only daughters of Hollywood actresses have, so I really hope she’ll be a big star and we can all enjoy seeing it in print.

The concert was held up the hill behind the Bardini gardens, in Barbie’s Tuscan Dream-villa, complete with beautiful gardens and panoramic view. The concert was held in the frescoed library, and was a rather fun program of Italian and American music (mostly opera). After everyone had clapped and kissed, we sipped drinks out on the patio in the late solstice sunshine.

And for variety’s sake, around 11 PM there was a brass band playing the theme to the Flintstones under my window.

Festa

Tonight I was in my apartment, working diligently, when I became aware of a noise outside my window. I didn’t pay much attention at first, assuming it was the street washers (they have little trucks that wash the streets every so often, which is a GOOD THING given the amount of dog poop around. I should introduce the pooper scooper amd make zillions), or possibly the Hare Krishnas (they like to chant a LOT), but then I realised it was a more regular noise – thump thump THUMP…thump thump THUMP…and when I looked out my window, there was a long line of men wearing renaissance costume, banging drums, and twirling flags, making their way to the Ponte Vecchio. I have NO idea why, but it was very colourful and Florentine.




(Check out the guy in the orange trews. In a very stylish country, orange and mustard-coloured trousers with everything are a rather questionable trend.








Life imitating art.

It’s fun being able to see Italian art and people at the same time. You can see the same faces on the street that are in the 600 year-old paintings. Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.

Oh, that?

The other day I walked round the corner and wondered why everyone was looking up and taking pictures – was something happening? – and then realised that it was the Palazzo Vecchio drawing their attention. When did I become blasé about the palazzo Vecchio? It’s not that I don’t still notice how beautiful it is, it’s just not a novelty any more.

I love daily life here – and I love that it’s become familiar to me. I don’t need a map to find my way to the supermarket. I have my favourite places to read, favourite street bands, and I notice when my favourite shop window displays change.

Only one more week of this…



My own pic of the Palazzo Vecchio, taken when I was a young tourist two months ago.

A Beautiful Pome.

I got up earlyish (not dawn),
On Friday morn and took a train,
To CastiGLIoncello beach,
(My last week’s try had been in vain
For though I planned to sea to go
The weather played me false and so
With my vacation time a-wastin’
I spent the morning in the station)

I’m pleased to say the town was sweet,
It’s really quite a charming place
Few tourists, quiet, off the beat,
Quite far from where the rats all race
Trees line the coast beyond the beach,
It’s clean and sunny, there I swum,
And shade is still within one’s reach
(Sun got a little warm for one)

The sea was blue, the sand-–not gold
But brownish coloured, truth be told
Yet warm and smooth and good for naps
Though now I find it in my daps*
And in true time-respected fashion
It ended up inside my rations.

While on the train, as reading palled,
My writing plans began to foment
And so, with small regard for style (or scansion),
I share these special Tuscan moments.

I understand that you may think,
That on my hands I’ve too much time.
For as you see, for just today,
This work, my blog, I’ve made it rhyme.

(* trainers)

She’s writing about food again.

The chief reason I spend so much time writing about my gastronomic adventures is that I want everyone to understand when I arrive back in Utah weighing 50 extra pounds. I should perhaps mention here that the correct reaction will be based on Tom in BJD, viz “Bridget! You’re looking thin.” (Is it bad that I use BJD in the same “everyone surely knows what that means” way as, say, “KJV”?).

Some very special foodie experiences:

Hemingways: It’s a chocolatier’s – big pictures of Hemingway on the walls (not sure what the connection is), and books about chocolate in cabinets (which is actually kind of annoying – I want to be able to READ the books about chocolate. Possibly lick the pictures. I had some beautiful little cioccolata torta thing with chocolate in many forms–white, dark, mousse, ganache, praline. The kind where you savour every mouthful and slow down when you approach the end because you can’t bear to see it disappear forever.

Vestri – also a chocolatiers, the kind with foodie magazine articles about itself posted on the walls– I had the cioccolata freddo. You’d think it would be like chocolate milk (like when TLC ordered an iced steamer and the waitress rather snottily said “so you want a glass of milk?”), but it’s not. It’s richer and more chocolatey, and mmm….

Vivoli: Some say the best gelato in Florence. I can’t say I’ve tried EVERY other place to compare, but it was definitely way up there. I had mine on a warm day after visiting Santa Croce. Cioccolata ricci (are we spotting the theme?), pere caramellata, and fragola. I ate it leaning on a stone pillar looking at the basilica, enjoying the sunshine, and giving directions to the Accademia to an American lady and her daughter. I really hope they made it there – they didn’t have a map and kept calling the Duomo the “Dromer” so I’m a little worried for them.

Caffe Loggia dell’Albizi: It suddenly started raining heavily on the way home from the supermarket, so I ducked into this caffe that I’ve wanted to visit for a while. I ordered a cioccolata, and a chocolate croissant. The hot chocolate is that gorgeous thick kind, and comes unsweetened, so you get to dissolve your little packets of sugar in it and taste the flavour coming alive as you do. The croissant was even better than expected. The chocolate was melted on the inside, so I ended up getting it messily and deliciously over my fingers, and got to lick them off because I’m in Florence and it's not like my mum’s watching.

The Friendliest People in the World

You thought I was talking about Italians, didn’t you? Ma no, mi amici, it’s Indians. I was told as much yesterday by one, and I have no evidence to the contrary. He’s super friendly and sweet, if slightly overwhelming. I met him on the way to the supermarket; he came grocery shopping with me (“I am Christian – you are ok with me”), and tried to buy my groceries for me – we compromised on him buying me a drink.

“you have very beautiful figure…I have apartment in San Marco. I am not married – no girlfriend. Do you have boyfriend?”

WHEN am I going to learn to lie?

“Um, no.”

“Good! You have no boyfriend, I have no girlfriend, I like English people, we are good for each other.”

“But… I am several years older than you. I am OLD.”

“We are in Italy – only hearts matter. I have good heart. You have good heart. I am taller than you. “

Can’t argue with that.

He likes to cook Indian food (doesn’t like Italian pasta), speaks Hindi, English, and Italian, goes to the gym regularly, “I am strong!” (shows me his bicep). And likes cricket (shows me his cricket ball scar). And David Beckham.

“You are Christian, I am Christian – I think we are good for each other. You are first England girl I talk with.”

“Really?”

Very seriously: “I swear on my mother.”

Oh, the “really” was more, er, rhetorical, actually. No need for that.

“Do you like beer? I can get you beer. I have scooter. We meet and go to discotheque. I pay – I have money. We walk hand in hand in the streets.”

As Dave Barry might say, I am not making this up. But I do quite fancy a curry.

This is why you’re not getting postcards. (Bit of a lengthy post, sorry)

It occurs to me that there’s been a bit too much sweetness and light in here lately, so I thought I’d remedy that before it all gets rather Stepford Wives-y.

I should mention that this episode was entirely in Italian, which on one hand I’m quite proud of, but on the other hand is very dispiriting, because clearly I was missing some vital element of what was going on, and I don’t know what that was.

I went to the post office for an envelope and stamps, and started at the window of the grumpy old man I bought stamps from the other day (stamps are francobolli, which I think is a delicious word). He wasn’t grumpy just with me, I saw him being snippy with some perfectly sweet American girls.

I asked him if I could pay him for my envelope, and he said no, and pointed at the opposite counter.

“and the stamps?”

“Afterwards,” nodding and waving at the same counter.

Grazie.

I got one of those little numbered tickets for a place in line; the tickets are subdivided by the kind of service you want – deposits and withdrawals, forms, post and packages. The descriptions are in English as well as Italian, which was helpful. I THOUGHT.

So, I waited my turn, and it was busy, so it took a while, and then brought my stuff to the lady at the counter, and asked for stamps.

“Stamps?” (You’d have thought I had asked for a kilo of prime rib, by her expression). “For stamps, you go there,” pointing to the grumpy man.

“But-he told me here…”

She turns to him and has brief discussion in fast Italian. He looks at me with loathing.

“There.” She points again.

“And this?” pointing to my envelope.

“Over there,” waving to the opposite counter.

OK.

I went back to Grumpy, and he totally ignored me while he leafed through his book of stamps.

I waited.

And waited.

“Excuse me?”

“Wait a minute,” he snarled (honestly – snarled).

“I’ve BEEN waiting twenty minutes.”

Ignores me for a few more minutes, then finally gets me my stamps. I once again tried to pay for my envelope, and he again waved me to the opposite counter.
Grazie MILLE.

So, I went over there, and tried to pay for my envelope, and she waved me to the opposite counter. Seriously.

“But, but….” Italian was definitely letting me down at this point, and she didn’t speak English. “They told me…”

“Over there.”

I got out my 50 eurocents, plonked it down on her counter, and walked off, with her calling after me.

Then I went to address my envelope. I finished, and the man next to me asked if he could borrow my pen. I handed it over while I licked stamps and sealed, then realised that he was filling out the longest form in the world.

Now, I completely realise that this is when I really should have just LET it GO. The pen, after all, is not a vintage Cross, Waterman, or Mont Blanc. In fact, now that I look at it, I see that it has “Trailer Sales, Shelley Idaho,” written on it. There are other pens in Florence. I’m pretty sure I could have walked out the door and found one quite easily, perhaps with a picture of the Duomo on it. But I knew I’d need my pen again in a minute, and didn’t WANT to buy another simply because this man lacked the foresight to bring one to the post office, even though he had presumably come here expressly to fill out his epic form.

“Sir? Sir, I have to go – my pen?”

He says something about “can’t you wait?” He carries on writing.

“Sir?”

HE TOTALLY IGNORES ME.

“Sir! My PEN.”

He hands it over with very bad grace.

It was as I was stalking out the door that I realised I wasn’t entirely sure that I’d paid the correct amount for my envelope. This means that, somehow, tomorrow I have to go back to the post office where everyone now hates me, hoping that they don’t recognise me (sometimes it is inconvenient to be 5’10”, red-haired, and foreign), and if necessary, find some way of sneaking the extra 10-20 cents onto someone’s counter, because there’s really no way that I’m going to be able to explain it in Italian.

I think I’ll just throw it and run.

Santa Croce

I visited Santa Croce and got to see Giotto’s fresco of St. Francis, with those astonishingly solid-looking figures and expressive faces. I remember drawing a copy of that fresco from a book in school, so feel a special affinity to the lines and characters. It is thrilling to come across these jewels. Some time I must have heard that the Death of St. Francis was in Santa Croce in Florence, but it clearly didn’t mean a lot at the time, as when I saw it, it was totally unexpected. I wanted to point at it to all the other tourists. Look! Giotto! He’s a friend of mine…sort of.

Couple more

At Hestercombe.

More pics from England

Near Clevedon pier












The Theatre Royal, Bath. The Last Confession, with David Suchet in the lead. It's going to the West End next, and I want everyone to see it.








One of the lambs is lame, poor little thing! Its front legs are all shaky and it spends most of its time on its knees (foot rot, Pa D. suggests?) It’s pathetic-looking enough to be written by Dickens.





Winchester Cathedral. Met my bro and sis-in-law for picnic here.

Close to Solstice

How many bookstores do you know that have a shelf dedicated to witchcraft? Maybe one or two little obscure places? Well, how about one that has multiple shelves, subdivided by “Spells and witchcraft,” “High Magic,” “Wicca,” “Golden Dawn” (or Golden Goddess or something) and similar? If you do, I’m guessing you’ve been to Glastonbury – spiritualist/hippie capital of England, if not the world. It’s a place where people walk around wearing robes and carrying staffs, and you can smell incense in the air.

It’s the old Isle of Avalon, and King Arthur and Guinevere were buried in the Abbey (at least, it has the most credible evidence of his burial, but I prefer to believe that he’s still sleeping in his cave, ready to help with a Great British Emergency).
It’s also where Joseph of Arimethea planted a staff that grew into a tree, and where the Chalice Well is found. Add these to Glastonbury Tor, which just LOOKS mystical, and you have a place where you can buy crystals, Giotto-themed Tarot cards, and tie-dye clothes, if one likes those, which one might have done once upon a time, in one’s teens.

They also have really bad singers on the streets. My dad: “What’s that bl--dy noise?”
Bookshop owner a few minutes later: “Oh good, my busker’s gone. I can open the door again.”

When's Bingo Night?

I flew back to England for a few days to visit my dad; I really needed to do laundry. No, my dad said that it was cheaper than him continuing to pay for long phone calls to Italy, and as he decided not to visit me there, I got to be Mohammed, so to speak.
As soon as I arrived, we went off to St. Paul’s to marvel at the wonders of its architecture and history. Or, we might have sat at home doing the Telegraph crossword and complaining about the table manners of kids today. You don’t know.

Later, we went to a community theatre production of Fawlty Towers, today I mowed the lawn, and I think tonight we’ll watch a Jane Austen TV adaptation that my dad kindly taped for me. On Monday I will collect my pension from the post office and buy a knitted tea cosy.

I know I should be hitting Annabel’s and buying crack at King’s Cross Station – you know, making the most of London nightlife, but I actually like doing these old fogey activities.

Oh, and here’s the poster outside the community centre, which I think sums up local life quite well. See who’s next to the Cheeky Girls?

Palazzo Vecchio

Now, who doesn’t enjoy a good secret passageway? The Palazzo Vecchio is veritably riddled with them. One of the Medicis (Francesco?) was an aspiring scientist (he seems like a nice self-effacing chap, except that he poisoned his brother – but you never know, perhaps the brother deserved it), but his studies were considered heretical back in the day (as our guide said “remember, this was even before Galileo – who said something true and …”), so he had a little study built that no servants entered, and that had various secret doors and passageways leading off it.

My usual complaint of secret passageways is that you can always see the “secret” doors that lead to them – they might have been invisible at one time, but years and use have worn the edges, widened the cracks, or left the door more or less faded than the surroundings. Not here. Can you spot the doors?









Well, you can probably spot the one that’s open, but trust me, there are more, and I was totally unaware until our guide open sesame’d. It’s due to my hero Vasari, who as well as painting and writing, was something of an architect and engineer. Now find Waldo.

Will Flirt for Gelato

I went to a solo violin concert tonight, at the Chiesa Santa Maria. The soloist was not at all what I expected, visually. She was a middle aged, rather dumpy woman, with gypsy hair and features, and she bowed to the audience slightly awkwardly. As she finished each piece, she would carelessly drop her violin to her side and look slightly bored during the clapping – “si, si, si, let me finish and go home,” seemed her attitude. But she could play! And the acoustics in the church were fantastic. We had Bach, Schubert, Mozart, Ysaye, Paganini, and I believe Massenet for an encore.

Walking home, there was still music everywhere, from cafes, the merry-go-round in the Piazza della Republica, people playing on the street. I stopped and listened for a few minutes to a five-piece band playing Blue Moon. The atmosphere here at night is wonderful. With the street vendors packed up, and in the lights from the city, the pillars on the piazza di mercato nuovo look even more imposing and ancient. Everyone looked relaxed and happy, and a little girl was twirling among the pillars. People were eating gelato – it was definitely a gelato night. I hadn’t brought much money – just enough for the concert and a couple more euro, but I was looking at the flavours and prices at one place, and the waiter ciao bella’d me. Oh, I don’t have enough, I said – io ho soltanto…I showed him my coins.

Well, see, it’s Italy.

A minute later I walked away with a big cup of ananas and limone and a baccino (and an invitation to a disco later, but I left it at the baccino).

Apparently they needed another brick (or two) in the wall

Bologna shows us why weather is important, and English people are justified in talking about it all the time. It can totally change the character of a city.

It was my first visit to Bologna, and I picked a day when it was tipping down with rain (it’s been raining a lot lately) and was also a public holiday, so everything was shut. It all felt a bit blah, to be honest. The compensation was that I got to watch a big military ceremony/parade in the Piazza Maggiore, and admire all the Italian uniforms. One of the guards made fun of me for taking pictures of the policemen. And for having my umbrella open under the loggia.

I saw the due torre – the two leaning towers (what is it with people not building towers that can stand straight here), and climbed the tallest. I’m putting a picture below, but I don’t think it captures how tall it really is, especially when you’re climbing its smooth wooden steps on a wet day. It’s a lot taller than you think. Taller than Pisa. 500 steps. Tall in the way that, you look up, and see a wooden roof, and think oh good, not much further (because you’ve already been climbing for a while) and then you get to the “roof” and realise it is merely a sort of landing, and there’re about five more of those to go before you gingerly step out at the top and edge your way around, staying just long enough to get your 3 euro’s worth before getting out of Dodge.

I’m ok with heights, but not great, and the tower really does lean, and I really wanted to sit down for a minute on the way to the ground to stop my legs wobbling, but had the feeling that if I did, I wouldn’t want to stand up again, and would have to bump my way down on my bottom, rather like winnie the pooh in that poem, if that’s the one I mean.

I had to fortify myself with gelato afterwards.

The other reason I threw in Pink Floyd above is that Bologna is the seat of the oldest University in Europe (am I just biased, or would you have expected that to be in England?). The streets covered by miles of loggias, apparently so that students and professors can have intellectual conversations while strolling round town independent of the weather (and tourists quite like the weather protection too).
I found a couple of open churches (the cantata of St Cecilia, who is possibly my favourite female saint, which had lovely fresoces. At least, they were lovely at first look, and then as so often happens, you find yourself thinking, oh, what rich colours, oh what a charming scene, how pure and pastoral, look at the peasants receiving blessings, oh that one’s being decapitated…)

Then I happened upon a museum that was open, bless it. The exhibition was about myths and world exploration, and I was glad I’d read Longitude, as I felt I had a special appreciation for the chronometer. And they had beautiful models of ships, and what I think was a sextant, except that in Italian it was called an octant? I’m a little confused.

In the permanent exhibition they had a very cool Newton room with prisms, nature collection with things like turtle shells, bezoars, and ostrich eggs, and some fascinating waxworks of human anatomy, including a rather cute one of a uterus with twins, though I won’t share pics as pregnant people may be reading and I don’t want to freak ‘em out.

When I came out, so had the sun, and the whole atmosphere had changed along with it. The streets were now crowded, people were sitting in the piazza, where there was rather an odd but entertaining band playing, and Bologna now seemed like quite a chipper place. I had the BEST PASTA EVER, with mushrooms and gorgonzola at the caffe Zamboni, and more than one hot chocolate.

It does feel like a university city, from the buildings to the gelato flavours (primo notte di testi =first exam night =caramel + wafers + yum), to the bookshops everywhere, to the kids wearing black and piercings that look a lot like the heroin addicts on the streets, but not enough alike that there isn’t enough difference to tell.

The academic atmosphere is rather exhilarating. You feel some of the explorers’ excitement of discovery.

Yeah, we need SOME education.

True Wuv in Italy

I LOVE my new apartment. I loved my old apartment, but this is a whole new level of cuteness. It’s little (this one’s a studio), and there’s no oven, just a hob and microwave, the flush makes a really scary noise, and I’m a little dubious about how I’m going to sleep on what’s basically a sofabed, but it’s beautifully compact, colourful and clean, there’s a mixture of Ikea and older things (like a rather nice walnut wardrobe) and there aren’t any mosquito corpses on the walls, which is an excellent sign. I should probably mention the juicer, too. The lady who helped me move in seemed very proud of the juicer. The location is amazing – just up the street from the ponte vecchio, and round the corner from the piazza signoria. AND, I have wireless Internet finally, which will make working simpler. But what I love most of all, what is going to ensure that I NEVER LEAVE, even though I won’t be able to pay rent and they will be trying to drag me out by the hair, is that there is a heated towel rail. Oh, I know that heated towel rails are a waste of space and energy, are bourgeois and nouveau and all sorts of bad things, but I adore them and want one for my own so badly.

Arrivederci everyone. If you feel like visiting Florence some day, my towel rail and I will be happy to receive you.

Art in Florence

Needless to say, there’s a lot of art here, of dramatically varying quality. There’s a million bad prints of the Duomo, and all the other sights. It can get a bit much- and I’d like to have a visual memory besides photos of the place, but I didn’t want to buy one of these 10-a-penny numbers.

But, I was walking home from the Pitti Palace, and saw an artist’s shop with some interesting pieces in the window. The artist was working on an oil painting at the time, but when I asked for his card, he stopped to show me his work and tell me about it. He showed me his printing press, how he makes the cotton paper, talked about the symbolism of his work, how he feels about Florence. He uses gold leaf in some of his work – re-inventing the use of ancient techniques, and re-visualising Florence. .He paints wind, using clothes pins as a metaphor. He uses a variety of media – oils, delicate etchings and bold woodcut prints. Such a pleasant man – he didn’t seem to mind in the least when I dropped one of his prints on the floor. My print (a woodcut –the bold style should work well in my living room, plus they’re actually affordable) is of Santo Spirito church, just down the street from my flat, and I’m pretty sure I know just where it’ll go. It’s being framed by a gentleman just down the street. My artist came with me to find him and interrupt his conversation in the street to open up his shop and to help me choose my frame. I’m picking it up tomorrow, and let’s hope I can get it home safely.

Random Florence

Ah, flowers. This is in the Giardini di Boboli. I could have taken photos forever. I meant to wander around a bit, and sit and read under a tree somewhere, but ended up spending almost the whole day walking round the gardens. So pretty, in the best Italian tradition. Now, I still think that English gardens have everyone else beat that I’ve seen for showing off nature at it’s best, but these elegant gardens are wonderful examples of their kind.

Now, shut your eyes (well, half shut, so you can keep reading), and imagine you can smell roses (maybe you have some perfume or your grandmother’s soap or something to help). Then open wide and look!














Movie Magic

The other night I went to see Spiderman 3 at the Odeon. I noticed that day that they were showing it in English, and I thought (mistakenly) that there’d be subtitles, so it would be a good Italian lesson as well as entertaining. I bought my Maltesers and went in after the lights went down, so only had time to notice how immensely large and comfortable the seats were, with acres of leg room. Then at intermission (yes, really),the lights went up for a big reveal. Ta da! It’s a real theatre, with boxes and a dress circle, gilding and a gorgeous blue, gold and green stained glass dome in the centre. Very magical moment.

Then making my way home over the Ponte Trinita in the warm evening air, seeing the Ponte Vecchio lit over the Arno, walking through groups of people enjoying a drink and the air in the Piazza Sante Spirito…


Getting Me Some Culture

I also went to the Cezanne and Followers’ exhibition at the Strozzi. Beautiful, beautiful, bellissima. Was made to feel rather outclassed and inadequate by 13 year old Emily who studies art and theatre in London, and whose precocious and educated insights “Through the Eyes of Emily” are quoted on signs around the exhibits. Felt much more able to bond with 11 year old Claire, who said things like “He looks sad in this,” and appeared to have got bored halfway through the exhibition, as they stopped quoting her in the middle. There’s a girl I could have lunch with.

This is the spozzo (well) of Beatrice. I also visited the church where Dante and Beatrice are said to have met. I’m sure I’d find it all incredibly moving if I knew anything whatsoever about Dante and Beatrice. I know I’m exposing woeful ignorance, and I should be reading Dante while I’m here, but I’m rather enjoying my slightly lighter books about renovating old houses in Italy.















Pretty Shoes

However, I was somewhat moved by the Ferragamo museum (in the corner of which the spozzo happens to be). There are some beautiful shoes in this world and we all owe Salvatore a little for his role in that, though I slightly resent him making me dissatisfied with all my footwear. He shod Audrey Hepburn, Katherine Hepburn, Sophia Loren, the Duchess of Windsor (their lasts are on display there) and so many more of the world’s beautiful people. He also invented the wedge, did you know? He started making shoes for his sisters as a child, and opened his first shop as the age of 11. I momentarily wished that my brothers were shoemakers, and then remembered all the times they’ve fixed my car/given me life advice/helped me with maths homework/done a billion other slightly more practical and helpful things for me.