I took these pictures between 7:15 and 8:30. Then I stepped into my neighborhood church, Santa Trinita, for a bit and when I came out, there was sun and blue in the sky and people on the street. But, my longing for silence and solitude had been nourished.
I sleep while the city remains awake. That’s the way it’s always been with me, from my earliest memories. This morning at 6:30 I lay in bed deciding that I would walk up to Piazzale Michelangelo, but when I opened the windows and shutters, all I could hear and see was rain. Ah, but I have an umbrella, so off I went on an early field trip in a combination of rain, drizzle, or no precipitation at all. I took these pictures between 7:15 and 8:30. Then I stepped into my neighborhood church, Santa Trinita, for a bit and when I came out, there was sun and blue in the sky and people on the street. But, my longing for silence and solitude had been nourished. The Arno in the drizzle
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I am continually amazed that I can travel alone here in this bustling tourist ‘mecca’ and still feel the solitude. Here I was in this narrow stair well, certainly not climbing alone. At ground level there were many of us, at level two fewer, and by the top we were hardly a crowd. The more pounds you carry the harder it is to raise one foot up in front of the other 441 times. Tourist are kind; they give you room to pass, they take your photograph if asked. In spite of the inadvertent bumps, they give you your space. Today my plan was to visit the church of Santa Maria Novella, but along the way I made a few unexpected stops, which is particularly easy to do when traveling alone. You want to stop at the exhibit of the Parte Guelfa? Go right ahead. A merry-go-round ride? Sure. Join the crowds at Orsanmichele? Why not? Antipasto at Ciro’s? By all means. The Palazzo di Parte Guelfa, usually not open to the public, was completing a month-long exhibit of contemporary paintings and today was the last day. I entered with some trepidation because the reception room looked rather disorganized and the director appeared surprised to see me. But, once again Boston seemed to be the ticket. He had visited there twenty-five years ago! With that began a private tour of the headquarters of this important political party in 12th,13th and 14th century Italy: the public hall designed by Brunelleschi (1377-1446), with ceiling and side paneling by Vasari (1511-1574) a hundred or so years later: the secret door in the paneling leading to a little terrace over looking the piazza below: and finally the private rooms of the party, with a little medallion of the head of Christ sculpted by Donatello above the door. My advice: wherever you go, enter with or without trepidation; just be sure to enter.
First a disappointment; then a marvelous discovery. Il Museo di Firenze com’era (The Museum of Florence As It Was) has been moved to the Palazzo Vecchio. I know there are sensible reasons for all this upgrading of museum logistics (combination tickets, relocation of ticket offices, etc) but it feels like the heart of Florence as it was has been attacked. The quiet, simple museum, once situated in an ancient cloister, is now located in the middle of the political ethos of the busy Piazzale Signorina My friend Karen had mentioned the wonderful public library, Biblioteca delle Oblate in the heart of Florence on her American in Italy blog but I had forgotten about it until I came upon it right next door to the desecrated museum spot. Newly renovated, spectacular views of the Duomo, and a welcoming sign inviting us into open stacks, internet access, quiet rooms for reading and writing, a children’s section, a museum, a café, and the International Tribune. So here I am, living my life in Florence, enjoying my library. To paraphrase Thich Nhat Hahn, Wherever I go here I am; or Horace, Carpe Diem, or Eckhart Tolle, the present moment is all you ever have. P.S. I just read that the library was inaugurated in March 2007. I wouldn’t be surprised if it is planning to take over space of the Museo di Firenze com’era. All part of the same convent. I feel less disappointed already. I have discovered an outdoor writing place—I Giardini Boboli. All so simple. The main entrance to the Gardens is via the Pitti Palace and that means long lines, even with my Amici Degli Uffizi pass. But walk past the Pitti and ecco, an entrance just to the gardens. And yes, the attendant accepted my pass. At the moment I am sitting on a little stone bridge along one of the hundreds of paths that make up this labyrinth of a garden. As I mentioned previously, I left my journal at home, so I’m doing all my writing on my MacBook Air—light as air and fits in my backpack. In case you missed it in a previous blog, or who knows, in case I didn’t explain it very well, I have rented an apartment in Florence for a month. I’ll be alone for three weeks before my daughter joins me for last six days here and then three in Rome. This city isn’t new to me. I’ve been here at least twelve times, with my parents, my mom, and alone. My love for Florence started when I spent my junior year of college here way back when such programs hadn’t really started, and when most women age twenty didn’t travel alone. My parents and I wrote letters and on Christmas day they called from the States. Cell phones weren’t even a thought. This was my first extended journey into solitude, and believe me it was immersion. Sure, sometimes I was lonely, but that’s not what I remember. I remember learning to be independent. I remember walking the streets, visiting the museums and churches, reading, living in a pensione, and trying to speak and read Italian. In retrospect I realize that it was here that I developed my love for solitude, a love which I fostered as a child with all my solitary play, but which came into its own that junior year, a year that I am repeating now in some ways during these three weeks. I glad I’m independent, and no, I’m not a bit lonely. No way!! This Sunday morning I visited my favorite cathedral and favorite monastery church and all before 11 o’clock. Up early to Santa Maria dei Fiori for Mass. I’ve learned through the years that one way to enter these huge cathedrals before they become crowded with tourists is to go to early mass. And so I did. Outside a side entrance I encountered a friendly, optimistic old priest, cane-in-hand, waiting for security to open the doors for 7:30 Mass. “I’m a priest here….Oh, I love Boston… I’ve been to Worcester. And New York…Poughkeepsie. I decided that I would try Mass again under this magnificent dome. It would be my third time. The other two were rather upsetting; I must have exuded guilt that I was a non-Roman Catholic taking Communion. The first time, easily more than fifteen years, I was reprimanded by the priest. I came forward with open hands, only to have him shake a finger in my face and with a loud “NO” place the wafer in my mouth. I figured he was speaking out against Vatican II, but it sure shook me up—I’m not accustomed to being yelled at by men (or women). A few years later I tried again, but this time the priest called me back, and then said, “Va bene,” and I returned to my seat. It seems that he hadn’t see me eat the wafer and was concerned that I was saving it. (To sell? To save? To give to someone?) I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, but clearly I didn’t know the rules. So, with trepidation I decided to try again, and this time all went well. There was my friendly priest who loves Boston helping me on my way. Next on to the Church of St. Francis, a hefty climb from the piazza in Fiesole where Bus 7 from the Piazza San Marco in Florence had left me at the central square. A twenty minute ride through the suburbs of Florence and then up the winding ‘Fiesole hills’ with magnificent views of Florence and the Duomo below. A magical spot. The Franciscan complex, situated on the top of a hill, is a simple, working monastery. The section open to the public includes a small church with some minor early Renaissance paintings, two miniscule cloisters, and a winding staircase leading to six cells of the early monks. Ah, if I were a privileged monk I’d have two cells; one here in Fiesole, and another in Florence at the Convent of San Marco. What arrogance; I have a long way to go!!!!
Here’s a little humor I experienced before my cappuccino and climb to the most awesome view of Florence this morning. Another early start, this time, out in the sun by 7:30. Again I found myself crossing the Ponte Vecchio on my walk to Piazzale Michelangelo and San Miniato al Monte, the church on the mount. But first a brief pause on the bridge! The other day I hadn’t noticed the love padlocks, all clean, shiny, understated, that were attached to the fence around the statue of the bust of Cellini (1500-71), Italian goldsmith, sculptor, draftsman, soldier, musician, and guardian of the bridge. I’d seen padlock bridges in Paris, Dublin, and even Washington DC, so I wasn’t particularly startled until I read the sign attached to the railing: “It is not allowed to hang locks to the railing. As it is ruled by the municipal police, Art 112 Fine 160.00 Euros to transgressors" That’s $209 for attaching a padlock. Really? Security is excellent around here, and I’d just as soon have the officials keep it that way. Arresting a couple for declaring their love by attaching a padlock would definitely be a distraction. They can’t be serious about this, can they? And then I look up to see the security police sitting in their van. Were they waiting to arrest me? No, of course not; I travel alone. I understand that it is very time consuming, and thus expensive, to remove each of those padlocks. Maybe they should just leave them on, forever, or at least as long as the Ponte Vecchio remains standing. Dante wrote about it, and thanks to Nazi commander Gerhard Wolf, it was the only bridge the Germans did not bomb as the retreated north.
Uffizi staircase
Traveling alone offers a simplicity of schedule. Follow your bliss. This morning I set out about 8. First stop, as always: cappuccino and today a pastry. Good thing because I was on my way and needed sustenance to last the morning. Next stop, photo op of the Ponte Vecchio in the early morning before the goldsmith shops opened and before crowds gathered to soak up all that golden sun and well-being. Early morning on the Ponte Vecchio And then, I found myself walking by the entrance to the Uffizi. No lines although I have an Amichi degli Uffizi pass that lets me by-pass the cues. In I went, settling into the 13th, 14th and 15th century rooms displaying Tuscan, Sienese and Florentine paintings--my favorites, without exception. No photographing allowed, which is a good thing: JUST LOOK AT THE PAINTINGS. The Uffizi has a recently constructed outside café on the roof of the Loggia de Lanzi. As is the way in Italy, if you sit down to drink your coffee, you play more; stand at the bar, you pay less. Fine. I know that. But today there was a twist. Since I chose to stand, my coffee was served in a Styrofoam cup; those sitting drank from the usual white porcelain. I figure this was the way for the attendants be sure we were all following the rules. But this was the first paper/Styrofoam cup I have seen in Italy. No Starbucks, no Dunkin’ Donuts advertisements thrown on the streets, because those companies don’t exist here. No coffee on the run for Italians; it’s all consumed at the local bars. Views from the Uffizi Please note that I didn't take a picture of my disposable cup .I sure hope this is the last that I’ll be writing about.
I don’t know where to begin. Certainly not at the beginning. I’ll begin with whatever runs off my fingers. Ah, simplicity, and what I’m doing to keep this month of living in Florence simple and within budget. Um, food comes to mind. Good thing someone told me about the nearest supermarket because I would have walk right by it. No big signs, hardly a sign at all. But I did find it and bought yogurt, olive oil, milk, Weetabix and at the moment I’m boiling a half dozen eggs for a snack. Little local shops are supplying me with bread, cheese and prosciutto, and the outdoor market across the Arno at Piazza Santo Spirito offers fresh clean lettuce. Sometime during the day I’ve made myself a salad. So far, except for cappucchino, I’ve been preparing my breakfast, lunch and snacks. Then out to dinner for a appetizer, primo or secondo course and a glass of wine. “You can’t get a poor meal in Italy,” so I’ve heard and come to believe. Why would I want to cook? |
Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
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