I am in Florence. Standing on the tarmac of the Peretola Airport, I smell wildflowers and notice . exquisitely groomed men and women, of the constantly snapping fingers, who demand their luggage be retrieved sooner than later.
I dreamed of being in Tuscany, of standing on top of hills and looking down at valleys. My dream might have been a prophecy, yet I visit Florence after exchanging a year of messages with a Tuscan man on an international dating site. Even then, I knew Matteo would remain only a penpal/friend (our communication never gave way to desire, tension, or yearning and stayed instead in the framework of books read, recipes shared, and the Tuscan way of life). I will meet him later, but now I explore the city on my own.
My hotel room is across from the Arno River with a window view of a bridge, church bells, and steeples--in the distance, the Tuscan hills. At the hotel bar, I sip on a Montalcino martini. I can't believe its intoxicating purity with its ruby red "ink" and resucitative properties. The waiter says the local wine is reduced within an "inch of its life," before being mixed with vodka. That is all he knows he says with a finger to his lips and a wink, a gesture of secrecy and respect for the chef's creation. (Florence, with its private entrances to homes, gatherings, restaurants loves secrets, as if that is the key ingredient to perfection.)
From the bar, I spy restaurant waiters, dressed in white coats and black ties, haggling with a dinner table, which causes them endless grief. They remove and replace napkins, tablecloth, silverware, plates, and candles before solemnly marching the "guilty" table out of the restaurant as if for execution. (Florence is also obsessed with the most minute of details.)
As I walk around the city, I stop at a storefront to purchase a vibrant colored cashmere scarf, and place it on my cheek to feel its softness (the salesperson owns the mill and talks about spinning and weaving the wool into a warm, beautiful layers of luxury).
On the street, older men shout "bella," at me and the younger ones smile in a city still throbbing with the eroticism, magic, and desire of colorful court jesters who once winked and cartwheeled their way around town. Not only can testament to its ancient ways be purchased in the touristy rings, dolls, but everywhere there is a hint of fun, an trickery as if the place is draped in a hues of vibrant, deep yellows, violets, blues, pinks and all these colors persist even in overcast January days.
The pharmacist from whom I purchase essential oils of Gardenia and Ginger wears a white coat and is expert on how to gather herbs and flowers and refine them into essential oils; and the nuns who are cloaked in black from head to toe chant the mass at the evening service in the cathedral across from the street from my hotel. One evening, I "ooh" and "ahh," with every other happy reveler, at pieces of jewelry in the windows of stores on the Ponte Vecchio.
At the Uffizi, I walk down endless halls filled with busts as if the head of every ancient Roman was molded for posterity. At the Pitti Palace, I notice every inch of every wall is adorned with tapestries, paintings, curtains, as if to shield those who once lived inside from the vibrancy, stress, and discomfort outside. From one of the palace windows, I stare-- as if caught in a time warp--at a soccer match broadcast from a t.v. screen of an apartment in a building across the way.
I spend an entire morning walking to the Boboli Gardens because the directions given to me by a local Tuscan are over-simplified and misleading,"go straight on this street two more minutes," he says (every direction I request requires two minutes of walking even if my destination is miles away). I don't find the gardens and spend the afternoon eating at the trattoria and listening to the excited chatter of Italian women who wear bracelets, earring and necklaces, distinctive pieces probably inherited from relatives long gone.
I walk by African emigres who stand on streets as if lost. And, I forget to visit the statue of David because I am overwhelmed by Florence.
Read my exciting memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com
On the street, older men shout "bella," at me and the younger ones smile in a city still throbbing with the eroticism, magic, and desire of colorful court jesters who once winked and cartwheeled their way around town. Not only can testament to its ancient ways be purchased in the touristy rings, dolls, but everywhere there is a hint of fun, an trickery as if the place is draped in a hues of vibrant, deep yellows, violets, blues, pinks and all these colors persist even in overcast January days.
The pharmacist from whom I purchase essential oils of Gardenia and Ginger wears a white coat and is expert on how to gather herbs and flowers and refine them into essential oils; and the nuns who are cloaked in black from head to toe chant the mass at the evening service in the cathedral across from the street from my hotel. One evening, I "ooh" and "ahh," with every other happy reveler, at pieces of jewelry in the windows of stores on the Ponte Vecchio.
At the Uffizi, I walk down endless halls filled with busts as if the head of every ancient Roman was molded for posterity. At the Pitti Palace, I notice every inch of every wall is adorned with tapestries, paintings, curtains, as if to shield those who once lived inside from the vibrancy, stress, and discomfort outside. From one of the palace windows, I stare-- as if caught in a time warp--at a soccer match broadcast from a t.v. screen of an apartment in a building across the way.
I spend an entire morning walking to the Boboli Gardens because the directions given to me by a local Tuscan are over-simplified and misleading,"go straight on this street two more minutes," he says (every direction I request requires two minutes of walking even if my destination is miles away). I don't find the gardens and spend the afternoon eating at the trattoria and listening to the excited chatter of Italian women who wear bracelets, earring and necklaces, distinctive pieces probably inherited from relatives long gone.
I walk by African emigres who stand on streets as if lost. And, I forget to visit the statue of David because I am overwhelmed by Florence.
Read my exciting memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com
No comments:
Post a Comment