Room with a View

The more things change...

Thirty-five years ago,  two wide-eyed college girls gazed wistfully back at a vanishing city as their train crossed the Venetian lagoon. They had spent two weeks at the conclusion of a European semester surrounded by the mystic, surreal beauty of Venice, one of the world's treasures and most extraordinary republics. Hours spent lolling at cafés, lying in the sun on Lido beaches, sampling gelato, walking and shopping everywhere while reading required tomes on the history of this most extraordinary city.

Despite those years, through which two girls -- still close friends -- became women of the world: professionals, wives, and mothers, the city seems not to have changed at all. Locked in some sort of magic time space continuum, the narrow streets, the spectacular vistas, noisy vaporretos, inky cuttlefish and even the quiet of Campo Santo Stefano where they lived at the seedy (and maloderous) Locanda San Stefano seems almost exactly as they left it.

Retracing steps, remembering and reconnecting around profound shared memories. What a blessing.

Retreating now, again, across the same bridge (over a freakishly semi-frozen lagoon this time) those two girls vow to do it again, next time sooner.

Baby, it's (Freakin') cold outside!

Interesting, isn't it, how a mere four weeks can turn a person's concept of proper weather from one reality to another.  This morning, again, for the third day in a row, the dawn launched cold and gray. Snowflakes at the ready. Observing hardy tourists in the Piazza below, I noted all manner of bundling up from scarves and mittens to a blanket worn as outerwear and a flock of crazily ineffectual umbrellas. The fur coats -- from moth-eaten to simply luxe -- are out in force and a girl's thoughts turn to things stewed. (As if that's unusual for this girl...)

Truth is, it ain't that cold, (at least compared to the weather in Portland (Irwin says it's 28 there...) but here in Florence, we're in arctic climes at 34. The city seems oddly quiet, there are actual empty parking spaces adjacent to the Piazza and I believe the local schools are closed.  People are hunkering down, bundling up and talking ceaselessly over lunch about the historically low temperatures plagueing Europe at the moment.

 

To celebrate the winter weather, Davis and I trudged off to a favorite local luncherie,  the Bean Restaurant (ok, Ristoranti del Fagioli) to take our noonday repast.  We were treated with absolutely delicious beef stew and veal meatballs both served with a course mash of roasted potato. Pefect for a wintery day. A little wine, a little coffee, some hot out of the oven apple cake to share and I'm ready for a nap.  Davis, true to form, is off walking about.  I think I'll tackle that sock heel and see what follows. 

 

 

 

When I grow up...

Having developed complete insight into the lives of modern Florentines, and consequent sensitivity, I now offer my list of jobs I wouldn't want.

1. Tourist Restaurant Greeter. Person who stands -- menus (in 6 languages) at the ready -- near entrance employing a broad range of tactics (from laser-like direct eye contact to arm waving and whistles) to lure potential diners within. The worst part of this engagement appears to be answering questions about the availability of spaghetti and pizza from Asian tourists. 

2. News Stand Proprietor. Generally a sullen person (understandably) who sits, wrapped in blankets and fingerless gloves all day in a three sided aluminum box agreeing how miserable the weather/economy/kids/coffee/government is with patrons who never have the right change.

3. Gypsy. A relatively unfamiliar type to this Northern New England suburbanite, these sales workers and coin collectors make their (probably meagre) living walking around gesturing with a coffee cup containing several jingling coins or attempting to sell usually hideous scarfs in the piazzas and tourist streets of the city. Often older women or men, these workers are proficient at direct marketing. (I'm not trying to be insensitive here, but there appears to be a distinct difference between beggars, street people and gypsies.) And while I do not completely understand the politics of the European Union viz the Romani population, I am simply amazed at the dogged tenacity possessed by these individuals. I hear in major train stations, particularly in Rome and Naples that the sheer number of gypsies attempting to make a living through persistence is simply astounding. ) I watched one day as a particularly aggressive scarf vendor dogged one group of architectural tourists all over the Piazza for more than an hour hounding one poor woman to the point she hoisted her umbrella like an épeé when he wouldn't take no for an answer for the tenth time.

4. Bike Rental Agent (winter.) From my window here at Santa Croce, I have watched the same poor woman staff her bike rental stand from roughly ten in the morning till seven at night (with the customary 3 hours off for lunch.) On average, on a nice day, she appears to rent her cycles to no more than 4 customers. In between transactions, she sits, bundled up on a stone bench smoking cigarettes.  I certainly hope she is a union employee with good benefits.

5. Stocking Clerk at Grotto Grocery (aka "Meta.") Given that new merchandise appears to be delivered here no more than once a quarter (what with the one package of coffee, two cartons of out-of-date eggs, slimy looking mushrooms and artichokes usable as cannon balls,) it appears the two ever-present clerks at G.G. have little to do but sit outside on milk crates smoking. On my many visits, (It's close... what can I say... it's hard to screw up bottled water, laundry soap and toilet paper...) despite little to do and few patrons, I have never seen a smile, a happy face or a customer service-oriented attitude. I presume worker surliness is in direct proportion to a sense of engaged professional self-worth, but I would be guessing. 

6. Religious worker.  Here in a city with more churches, chapels, squares dedicated to saints and works of art depicting great moments in western religious history per square meter than almost anywhere else in the world, I must confess I have never seen a priest or a nun. (or a rabbi either, come to think of it, but they are less often in uniform, if you know what I mean.) Not one. I can only suspect the relative dirth of crucifix-wearing, rosary-toting black uniformed soldiers of the faith are so busy, given their relative scarcity, that they stay off the streets and out of the piazzas, and thus out of my view since I have not been to a religious service in Italy, maybe ever. According to a friend of mine who lives in Florence most of the year, indigenous Italians take their religion about as seriously as I do, which is to say, not very seriously at all. And with few faithful, it would seem a profession as spiritual leader must be lonely.

Summary? Like everywhere, there are jobs to love and jobs to do.  Here in Florence at the nadir of tourist season, jobs dependent on traffic can be kinda dull.

 

PREGO.

Introducing my new comic strip, Prego. More frame than strip, to be exact, but who's counting? (Me, apparently.) So, stay tuned and enjoy!  Prego.

When the going gets tough, the tough roast chicken.

I'd be lying if I said every day in Florence is a day in paradise.  In fact, this year, I've been a little blue... Lonely maybe? Bored (get over THAT...)  Thinking of a year ago? I dunno.  Just ain't been all prociutto and pecorino these first couple of weeks.

But today dawned glorious: nearly 60 degrees out, sunny and prime walking weather, so off I went for a toodle. It's funny how -- even in a place as various and spectacular as Florence -- we, or at least I, choose the same routes, the same vistas, the same experiences until something jolts us out of our expected ways. But today, I figured I needed a change of scene so I went a different way.

Crossing the Arno at "my bridge," (Ponte alle Grazie) I walked along the other side of the river heading toward the Ponte Vecchio. The sun was behind me and the weather so warm I took off my sweater and slung it over my bag walking in shirt sleeves. (Curious looks be damned from the Fiorentina senoras in their fur coats and boots who must have thought me crazy as a loon.) I walked passed gorgeous building on the Oltrarno side, (with fabulous flats on the upper stories) discovered restaurants and stores I had only read about and finally, gloriously, was rewarded with a wonderful find: Whole Foods Florence.

Okay, I'm speaking metaphorically here... It wasn't Whole Foods at all, but it was, praise be to Allah, not the awful grotto grocery store I usually visit on my side of the river.  This place, the fabuloso Sapori Dintorni (a Conad store, what ever that means...) was pretty great. Good produce, fine selection of meats and cheeses,  bakery, dry goods, wine... etc. etc.  All good, well stocked and delectable looking.

Intending, at first, to do reconnaisance for a later strike, I broke down and decided to just get 'er done.  So into my little rolly basket went salad, panna, veal cutlets for supper, vegetables for soup, q-tips and a lovely roasting chicken.  Bene.

I left the store, stuffing the bag into my purse (big purse... thank you, Richard,) and continued walking along Borgo S. Jacopo turning to cross the Arno again at Ponte S. Trinita. I came upon two women, one pushing a carriage speaking English. I said, "hello... cute baby," (as one would,) and in the course of a quick conversation learned one of the walkers (and a pretty posh one, at that) had spent summers at Black Point. Yep.  I'll bet she did.  And I'll bet she lives in one of those incredible apartments overlooking the river, too. (And nice Bottega Veneta bag, while we're at it...)

Back toward home now, stopping at my wine guy for a little bottle to go with the veal, and soon enough, up the stairs to my flat feeling much envigorated.

The chicken's in the oven, wine's in the glass and the windows are still open letting the twilight of a hopeful afternoon continue to permeate my sensibility.

I feel much better.

 

Warmth and social politics.

Let's be honest.  There are certain things about the good old U. S. of A. we take for granted. (Or at least I do. ) Plenty of good food, clean, abundant water and central heating come to mind. And over the last couple of weeks here at "Tosca" (this year's operatically-themed Santa Croce flat) the heat part has been, well, spotty.

With temperatures hovering around 30 degrees F here in Tuscany, a certain lack of warmth at home was beginning to take its toll. Oddly, the back bedrooms of the flat were warm as toast, but the front: the part containing the kitchen, living, dining, and master bedroom (and windows facing the square) felt as if the air conditioning was set to permafrost. There simply weren't enough socks, sweaters and scarfs to keep me warm. Yesterday, (as shocking as you will find this) I actually took to my bed for a nap to keep warm.

Hating to be a complainer, I postponed calling the management believing (incorrectly) that I could puzzle out the system and get the place heated up since something, obviously, was working on zone two and there couldn't be THAT much thermal loss through the windows. So I fiddled and observed and fiddled some more.  No dice. Ice on the windows. HVAC engineer I ain't.

So, this morning, having had enough of the Bob Cratchit routine, I called the ever-lovely Cecile (whom I insist on calling "Se-sil´" in my best Lewistonian patoise) who immediately arrived with plumber in tow to figure out the problem.  Wish I'd had my Vine on sooner. (Sorry, Larry, just don't have that "call the super" gene...) Turns out,  there was an "imbalance." A few tweaks of dials, knobs and gauges by Senore Idraulico and, as if by magic, the many Syracuse-made Carrier units throughout my place start pumping forth lovely warm air.

Fine. Happy it works.  Glad to be warm, but frustrated not to have been able to figure it out myself.  And unlike my friend Tony who blames the Italian economy and its social entitlement predicate for all faulty systems and thus my chill, I simply figured there would be a logical, mechanical solution to my temperature maladjustment. Wrong. There was nothing logical about the fix. The man needed to come.  He needed to wave a wand and chant some magical encantations over the thermostats. And if such methodology is evidence of evil
socialism, I'm all for it. All politics are local, turns out.

Swing your partner, do si dopo

What started as a little walk to the grocery store this morning evolved into a veritable circle of squares. Wandering aimlessly around Florence is one of its beckoning flirtations, and today did not disappoint. 

Starting at my own Piazza Santa Croce, the ancient square adjacent to the venerable Basilica da Santa Croce, burial ground of the Italian glories (you name 'em, from Dante to Da Vinci, that's where they're planted,) I traveled north ending up first at the Piazza de San Lorenzo, near the Mercato Centrale (home of fantastic and famous boiled beef sandwiches at Nerbonne.) From there, I walked east, stopping to admire the Medici Chapel. A right turn and short walk landed me at the Piazza Duomo, home to Florence's most popular architectural attractions, Santa Maria de la Fiore, baptistry and campanile. Continuing west, I  walked through the Piazza Stazione (home of McDonald's Firenze and a truly unattractive Mussolini era train station,) landing for a rest in the sun at Piazza Santa Maria Novella. It seemed unnatural to be so close to the Farmaceutica de S.M.N (home of arnica cream, smelly wonderfuls and lovely tea) without stopping, so I did -- ever so briefly -- before setting off for Piazza de la Repubblica. My intent, it being mid afternoon and time for a little vino, was to stop at one of the lovely outdoor cafes in the square, but as luck would have it,  Gilli and all the rest were closed. Unfortified, I continued, east again in hopes of a hot chocolate at Revoire the fabled confectioner on the square at Piazza della Signoria. But alas,  no chocolate to be had, so, back to Santa Croce I went, settling for a wholy unacceptable cafe espresso at the now shaded (and shady) cocktail bar with crappy service across from the Palazzo Antellesi.

My little tour all over Florence, an effortless and joyful square dance took a little over an hour and yielded 11,736 steps (yes, I counted...on my pedometer...) and no groceries.  Oh well,  there's always tomorrow. 

It's noon in Florence, do you know where your Euros are?

Settling in now to the homely life of a post-Renaissance spinster, I spent the morning doing what solitary, middle-aged females do. As Martha says, I "homekept." You know, a little laundry, a bit of straightening up, some bed-making and bathroom swishing. That done, and cutting ever the bella figura, (okay, I put on a scarf...) I embarked on my daily shopping adventure.  For fortification, I stopped at my favorite cafe (now positively illin' with UP! free wifi from Volkswagen -- but more about that later --) for a nice cappuccino. Overrun by silly American college students, now into their second week of Firenze semester, all giddy with take out coffee (not a thing...) I quickly took my leave and made for the shops. 

It's amazing how quickly one can burn up a 50 € note. So, not counting the 4€ advanced for caffeine, I acquired the following:

2 etti prociutto (snacks later... maybe a salad topping?)

1 etto salami (see prociutto above)

1 etto pecorino (on general principle)

1 etto olives grecque (see salad above or, perhaps sauce fortifier)

1/2 large chicken breast (protein building block of single girl dinner.)

2 fresh fennel sausage (I'm sure it's good for me in some way.)

1 piccolo head of Roman lettuce (roughage is never wrong.)

2 pomodori (important source of dietary Italian-ness.)

1 limone (prevents scurvy and improves flavor of local tap water.)

1 head alio (universal solvent of tastiness.)

1 basket (itty bitty) frangole (from Espagna, tsk.)

Change back?  About 13 €  So, at today's (rather generous) exchange rate, that's about $45 for two days worth of groceries.  Heavens,  makes Whole Paycheck feel like Save-a-Lot. 

 

 

Needles in a haystack

One would think here in Florence-- a city steeped in a long and rich tradition of fabric, wool and habadashery, that acquiring such a simple thing as needle and thread would be, well, easy. Turns out not.

In my neighborhood of Santa Croce, there's a leather goods shop every 50 feet, a cafe on each corner and Tabac vendors a stone's throw in any direction. Within a two minute walk one could find some of the best wine in the world, fresh pecorino, a side of beef, Gucci sunglasses and the Financial Times. Walk a little further and there are probably 15 pharmacies, three hardware stores, a dozen bakeries, gelaterias and sweet shops as well as purveyors of flowers, fruits, vegetables and beautiful handmade papers. But no needles and no thread.

Having done some shopping (strictly as a cautionary measure -- should my lost suitcase not show up--which it did, but no matter...) I have several pairs of new too-long pants needing hemming. And while I could probably find some local Nona to assist me in these matters, I'm reasonably handy with hand sewing so I figured I'd have a go.

But finding the most basic of tools turned out to be quite a challenge. Thank goodness, last night, our close quarters dinner companion at Vini e Vecchi Sapori was none other than famous Florentine jewelry designer (and one of my absolute design idols) Angela Caputi. http://angelacaputi.com How do I know this? Because quite serendipitously, I was wearing one of her necklaces which she recognized and commented on. What an absolute thrill! We talked at length about her business, the design environment, her new shop in NY, Garrand, fashion PR, the possibility of working together and finally, where to get a damned needle and thread in Florence.

She, one of the city's grand dames of style, pointed me to a tiny milliner's shop, the last one in Florence, in business over 50 years right next to Roberto Cavalli on Via della Spada.

Sure enough, needle, thread (and two boxes of linen pocket squares for good measure) were to be had. On a return trip I plan to more closely observe the many trays of lovely vintage buttons--many cool mid century beauties... Lovely souvenirs of a dressmaker's city.

Moon over the misbegotten

As my transatlantic flight neared Rome, a huge full moon lurked over the predawn suburbs. An omen I wondered? Precursor of things--fortunate or be-damed? Indeed. Both, turns out.

All had gone well enough so far, I suppose, if a last minute schedule snafu on Charles's Toronto flight and an unissued return ticket for me hadn't muddied the otherwise reasonably calm Alitalian waters.

But from Rome on, a certain Comedia del Arte of travel ensued... First the expected late flight to Florence (fog, you know...) followed by missing baggage (who needs more underwear? Hopefully, it will arrive today.) And, a rather comical run-in with Bruno, the sunny, drug-sniffing dog who identified one of my carry ons as suspect.

The sweet Italian security lass asked solemnly (as if addressing her mother) whether I understood that Bruno had sniffed "DRUGS, Madam!"

I smiled, and shook my head (somewhat wistfully) when she asked, further, if I had hashish, Mary-je-wanna or something else stashed in there.

Her supervisor gave me a "you've got to be kidding" look, laughing at the attention Bruno was paying to a bottle of Omega 3 capsules unearthed by the girl.

"He must be on a health kick," says Senore Security, waving me on.

Packing up, finally on my way, I'm thinking "That old devil moon."

Now, pray with me to the lost luggage gods...