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.