Room with a View

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.

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...

And so it begins...

What is it about getting ready for an extended trip that is both wonderful and maddening at the same time? Why is it the prescription always needs renewing, the car breaks down, the work accelerates, the shirts get lost at the cleaners, the favorite suitcase breaks and the cussed Italian airline can't get a ticket issued despite 12 weeks advanced notice??? Kismet. Karma. Just desserts?

No matter. What must be done will be and in 48 hours I will return to Piazza Santa Croce to my little flat on the square. I hope you will join me on my adventures... Until then, ciao...

Making lemonaide

It's drizzling here in Firenza. The night sky is watercolored, hazy, muted. The air is heavy, but warm. Ever so blurry. After a long day and night of travel, after a long few weeks of decline, demise and remorse, my mother and I are here. My dad is gone. 

I rubbed the cinghiale's nose, and, as was foretold, I have returned. I am grateful, and sad all at the same time. But, there's much to celebrate.  And to share.  Onward.

The adventure begins

Note to self: belief that bankrupt airline nothing but trouble now in doubt. Alitalia delivered nearly flawless experience Boston-Firenze including fast check in, no queues at security, lovely food, served on china with metal utensils, flat beds and Frette duvets, on time arrival and, gloria in exchelsis deo, all 97 pounds of my luggage.

A short cab ride though a city with, it appears, everything in sight "en solde' (on sale...oh my...) I arrive at Piazza Santa Croce, that medieval wonder, where some say football was invented.

Up four flights, it's my little flat, Mimi (Get the reference? garret apartment, coughing girl?) resplendent with views to everywhere, wine glasses for 6 and a dishwasher. Downstairs and right next door, a perfectly great Enoteca, "Bocadama," offers up Tagliatelle Chinghiale, vino rosso sfuso, and that strange, wonderful saltless Tuscan bread.

Later, a cruise around the neighborhood yields a chic little wine/cappuccino bar, a surly tobacconist who refuses to refill my Italian sim card and a little supermarket filled with grottos and niches of tiny, packaged goods.

Hills of Fiesole to the north, San Miniato al Monte across the Arno to the south and Duomo on the west mark the way. Voyage to somewhere begins today.