Fiesolean heaven
Church of San Francesco, Fiesole
A quick post while the pasta’s on the boil…
This Franciscan church sits on the site of the Etruscan acropolis high up in Fiesole, and has a small museum underneath which gathers material brought back by the monks on missions around the world, particularly from China: combs, fans, statues, vases, plates, robes. There was a room of Egyptian artifacts, a mummified cat making quite an impression on Fi and I, though here’s a less stomach churning exhibit:
Church of San Francesco museum
The climb to the church is really not all that steep, and the views are stunning, and equally so from the museum windows, where you get the added benefit of shade and a cool wind.
While Fi had a look at the archaeological park earlier on in the day, I quietly played out my version of a Fiesolean heaven: Grazia Deledda’s Canne al Vento bought from the weekend market on Piazza Mino for a euro; an apple, a sandwich, a bottle of water; a bench under some trees by the Etruscan wall; and a good two hours with the world flung aside : ).
Picnic at Monte Senario
Fantastic day, cloudcover and all, for a quickly thrown together picnic at one of my favourite places around Florence. Fi the dynamo (really, and a touch unnerving actually if you’re a slow mover like myself) got us some roast chicken and we made good use of the excellent Sant’Ambrogio bought goodies we had in the fridge, hence: zucchini, ricotta and parmesan fritata; roasted eggplant and peppers or escalivada as I know it after a year living in Spain; chickpea and parsley salad; parmesan, gorgonzola and pecorino cheeses; plums, Tuscan bread and wine of course and these delightful blackberries Fi picked for us.
While F and I were getting lulled to sleep on the grass by the wind through the hedgerows, Fi was off picking berries, wildflowers and making ‘piggies’ from rosehip. Not a moment’s rest. Here she is at the deed.
Space, tranquillity and these views are reasons for returning again and again.
Breaking into my hoard
Driving up to Montesenario: mountains and space, a field and wildflowers, berries for the taking, sequinned owl on my hip, and F. One just unforgettable day.
Denizen, Piazza Santa Croce
Dante, Piazza Santa Croce
Nothing quite finishes off daylight like a laurel-crowned Dante glowering down on you in the twilight.
Not a liver lover but…
Crostini di fegatini con acciughe e capperi
I sapori di Toscana was a parting gift from L and S after a couple of months of English lessons, and has all the classics – ribollita, pappa col pomodoro, spaghetti con le vongole, bistecca alla fiorentina, several of the simple vegetable dishes I love so well, and starts its gorgeously textured pages of butcher paper with what for me is a standout dish – crostini di fegatini – yes, chicken liver on toast. I’m not really into liver but this was one of those love at first bite, where have you been all my life experiences, exactly like the one I had with Vegemite.
Quite simple really: a handful of chicken liver, butter, broth, anchovy fillets, capers, pepper, a glass of wine and a Tuscan to appreciate it with. Which it duly was…
Pine cone collected on Monday, about 45 minutes away from Florence in cool, shadowy pine woods in the mountains somewhere: sunlight in slow spirals filtering through the canopy; patches of light falling on wooden benches; bright, fragrant air and room to breathe in views and restful shades of green; and a hushed conversation in the silence.
Silently monumental
Etruscan wall, Fiesole
Rock cut into Cyclopean blocks, oftentimes angled, with smaller stones wedged in where gaps remained – thanks to S and L the archaeologists I have added a fascination with Etruscan masonry – for fascination it is – to an interest in stone. I spent an hour taking photographs of the wall, and have plans to return, largely due to the 19th century scholar George Dennis, whose Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria describes a little something I must try and find…
“Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin”
Fiesole archaeological area
So wrote Thomas Hardy in ‘In the Old Theatre, Fiesole‘, his mind opened to ‘the power, the pride, the reach of perished Rome’.
In contrast, DH Lawrence, weary of Roman virtue and inspired to write ‘Cypresses‘ during visits to Fiesole, invokes ‘the spirits of the lost’, the Etruscan-dusky, wavering, flickering men of Etruria, whose meaning is now ‘wrapt inviolable in soft cypress-trees’.
For Lawrence, the cypresses are Etruscan cypresses, ‘folded in like a dark thought / for which the language is lost’.
Haunted lines for a place equally so.
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- Etruscan cypresses and Roman arches
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- Pool, Roman baths
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- Detail, calidarium, Roman baths
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- Etruscan temple ruins
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- Etruscan temple wall
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- Arch and church
Fiesole of the winds, the gods and the poets
View from the Etruscan wall, Fiesole
Angelo Poliziano, poet-in-residence at the Villa Medici in Fiesole, writing to Marsilo Ficino in the 1480s:
When you are incommoded with the heat of the season in your retreat at Careggi, you will perhaps think the shelter of Fiesole not undeserving your notice. Seated between the sloping sides of the mountain we have here water in abundance and being constantly refreshed with moderate winds find little inconvenience from the glare of the sun. [...] Populous as the vicinity is, yet I can enjoy the solitude so gratifying to my disposition.
Eight kilometres and a 10-minute-drive north-east of Florence, there is certainly shelter, fresh winds and relative solitude to be found in Fiesole. With my companions, L and S, both archaeologists, I spent a dream morning among the ruins of the Etruscan temple, Roman theatre, baths, and archaeological museum; and after lunch in the modest strip of restaurants along Piazza Mino stayed to examine the Etruscan wall (about which more later) and to wander among the ruins, alone for the most part – surprising considering Fiesole’s proximity to Florence.
- Roman Theatre, 1st century BC
Angerona, goddess of the new year and the returning sun, protectress of Rome and as the Goddess of Silence custodian of the sacred name of the city, was worshipped in Fiesole as Ancharia, delivering supplicants from their ills and protecting their flocks.
A heady mix on a summer day, but with a change of clothes in my backpack it was easy to favour a more down-to-earth perspective of the landscape.
Three bests
In Fiesole
Was today really the best teaching day I’ve ever had in Florence?
How is it possible to beat my Friday morning class, for example, with my 3-strong group of 11-year-old girls, who had made me exceedingly nervous on that oh-so-long-ago Monday last week when I faced them, my first class of children ever, for the first time: intelligent, lively and too adorable for words. Cut to eight hours later on Friday for our last lesson, and Teresa, Camilla and Elena had filled the blackboard with some beautiful chalk drawings and some stunning phrases in English, such as “I had hiccough yesterday!” and in Italian: TVB for “Ti voglio bene”. I had already asked the DOS the day before to leave some time free to look after them while I ran down Via dei Mille for gelato – stracciatella, mint, cream and chocolate – affirmed wide-eyed as their favourite flavours in the previous class – and if you haven’t seen three ethereal little girls devour a bowl of gelato that really ought to be remedied: spoons and hair flying everywhere, mint and stracciatella streaked cheeks, globs of chocolate on pretty dresses: fabulous! I had already gotten a bounty of kisses and hugs, sharp attention to grammar, spot-on wild animal memory, creative kangaroo colouring, and by the end of the class had added: a divine turtle eraser, which we christened Balu and created a history for, ie his favourite gelato and what he keeps inside his house; Cecità by the Portuguese Nobel Laureate José Saramago; and some precious time with a pink sequinned hat – yeah!!!
Today was really quite special, however, starting with a panino and wine at a hole-in-the-wall eatery called I Due Fratellini in the centre of Florence, strictly on the sidewalk eating, then a meander around taking in the usual suspects while encouraging R, my student, in preparation for his trip to London to visit his girlfriend, to just hang with the language. Then a coffee at Caffe Florian, quite beloved in Florence and a must for the little chocolatey things one nibbles on, and the coffee of course, then surprise surprise, the rest of the time in beautiful, airy, light-flushed Fiesole – hence the reason for the phone call early on in the day asking me to bring my camera – wandering around the quiet, narrow streets taking in different panoramic views of Florence, a walk through a pine and oak forest, a drive through and around the area, including the long, narrow road that cuts through the valley and connects La Lastra to Fiesole.
Il Tucano, Via Antonio Gramsci, Fiesole
And the pistachio gelato at Il Tucano on Via Antonio Gramsci was the best I’ve had in Florence. A small cone is usually more than enough for me, but considering how good it was, I was seriously tempted to have another…
R, the law student
But what do I really need to say about R, who I’ve been teaching since February, in great hilarity usually, with independent bursts of laughter interspersed with great seriousness. The day – lunch, wandering around Florence, coffee and chocolate, Fiesole, gelato, a thoughtful travel book to end our time together – speaks for itself. Off he goes, to try and follow my instructions on how to get from Stansted to Liverpool Street to Holland Park, complete with tube maps, web shots, and an old Oyster card. Should his language skills fail him he has promised to call me from London to put whoever it is that’s making life difficult for him on to his teacher…
Thusnelda’s grief
Thusnelda, Loggia dei Lanzi
The six colossal female statues that line the back wall of the Loggia were discovered in Rome and formed part of the Cardinal della Valle antiquities collection by the mid-16th century. They were purchased by Ferdinando de Medici in the latter half of the century, and have graced the Loggia since 1789.
All compelling in their own way, this was the one that first caught my attention, probably because to my eyes she seems the least stylised – with her flowing hair centre-parted on her lowered head and her looser garments – and the most ‘natural’ in her stance and gesture, and almost as though – with her left leg crossed over the right leg which bears her weight, and her left hand at hip level supporting the right which is raised almost to her face in an aspect of weary contemplation, I had thought – the centuries had simply exhausted her.
She has been identified since 1841 as ‘Thusnelda’, the daughter of Segestes, a Germanic prince, and had been promised in marriage to another by her father before either eloping with or being abducted by or both, and marrying Arminius, who had fought fiercely against the Romans. While pregnant to him she was given over by her father, an ally to Rome, to Germanicus. According to Tacitus, her husband Arminius “was driven frantic by the seizure of his wife and the subjugation to slavery of her unborn child”. He never married again.
A beautiful 2.57 metre tall, heavily restored, marble expression of grief.
Cold as Dante’s inferno
After a brutally long winter, I’d promised never to complain about the heat, but over the last week I’m afraid I found myself letting a mystified “But there’s no wind at all” slip out and a “How do people put up with this year in, year out?” to a fellow antipodean. I console myself by thinking that I had to let off steam somehow considering the demands of what has truly been a challenging work week. And I still prefer the heat to the cold, oh, by about 99 per cent, and cope by lurking in the shadows, nightly cold water dousings, and quick shots of milksticky iced capuccinos - sweet, lodge-in-the-throat viscous and cold as Dante’s inferno.
Giambologna’s Rape of the Sabine Women
Giambologna. Rape of the Sabine Women. 1581-83.
‘Rape’ meaning ‘abduction’ in the context of Giambologna’s sculpture: according to Livy in The History of Rome, the Roman state is powerful but vulnerable because of a ‘paucity of women’, and Romulus’ solicitations for intermarriage for his men among his neighbours, the Sabines, have been rejected. He plans and stages a deception: at festival games to honour Neptunus Equistris, to which the Sabines are invited, the Romans carry off the women at his signal. He promises the indignant Sabine women lawful wedlock, possessions and civil privileges, and children:
He begged them only to assuage the fierceness of their anger, and cheerfully surrender their affections to those to whom fortune had consigned their persons.” [He added,] “That from injuries love and friendship often arise; and that they should find [the Romans] kinder husbands on this account, because each of them, besides the performance of his conjugal duty, would endeavour to the utmost of his power to make up for the want of their parents and native country.” To this the caresses of the husbands were added, excusing what they had done on the plea of passion and love, arguments that work most successfully on women’s hearts.
The minds of the ravished virgins were soon much soothed…
Not so their families, and war broke out and ended only when the Sabine women, ‘hair dishevelled and garments rent’ (of course) threw themselves into the middle of the battlefield and talked some much needed sense into their husbands and fathers.
The stony cry of stones
Giambologna. Rape of the Sabine Women.
And yet, what did Giambologna have in mind? It was only when the sculpture was to be displayed in the Loggia dei Lanzi at Piazza della Signoria that a story had to be found to go with it, and as such, various classical abductions were considered, Persephone’s and Andromeda’s among them, before settling on the Sabines.
Sculpted from a single block of marble, the tortuous contortions of the figures as the woman attempts to free herself, an expression of terror on her face, spiralling from the ground up into the haze of a muggy Florentine morning: a convulsive cry that goes unheeded, fading into a thin, white sky.
To the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore
Tuscan dusk from the first courtyard of Palazzo Vecchio
The Palazzo Vecchio courtyards are milling with people, yet it’s easy to get a touch of Tuscan melancholy looking up from the first courtyard at the last light of a Tuscan dusk.
Samson and Philistine by Piero da Vinci
Still in the first courtyard, Piero da Vinci’s Samson and Philistine. Samson in fact slays thousands, from memory, and such a bloody and violent story has this riddle for a catalyst:
“Out of the eater, something to eat;
out of the strong, something sweet.”
the answer being the honey from the swarm of bees that had infested the carcass of the lion that, on his way to asking a Philistine woman to be his wife, had attacked him and which he had torn apart “with his bare hands as he might have torn a young goat”. Here’s an idea: catch three hundred foxes, tie them tail to tail so you have 150 8-legged pairs, fasten a torch to every pair of tails and set them loose in wheatfields, olive groves and vineyards. Dastardly form of revenge should your father-in-law even think about giving your new wife to your friend… Er, where were we? Oh, yeah, we’re inside Palazzo Vecchio:
Palazzo Vecchio
And outside is Piazza della Signoria at 9.47 pm:
Piazza Signoria
Moving down Via Calzaiuoli, we spot a street performer and audience on Via Speziali, with Piazza della Repubblica in the background.
Street performer, Via degli Speziali with Piazza Repubblica, background
It’s 10.05, the last of the blue sky has gone and you’re a little tired, but there’s hardly anyone on the streets, and to end a magical day you’re alone for some magical moments with the Duomo.
Santa Maria del Fiore and Brunelleschi's dome
Buona notte…
And buon viaggio, Y. All the best.
A walk around Florence
Ponte Vecchio, with the Torre di Arnolfo top left
Sunday – reading, skyping, reading, have just finished a handful of oh-so-cold-and-sweet cherries, and find that I can’t do the lunchtime dishes because Gabriele’s in the sink, Gabriele being the spider with whom I shared corner-of-the-eye, nervously appraising glances a week ago, and though wary of each other, the cool dark area underneath the kitchen sink among the cleaning paraphernalia was agreed upon as the best place for him to be, that way we needn’t see each other for about a month. So into a cup he went, a little piece of paper on top, and away he scurries on his thin little legs. But there he is, and look how much he’s grown… almost twice the size… those legs so much longer, and so much hairier…
Boh. Let’s go for a walk, shall we? Maybe a circuit from the south side of the Arno to Palazzo Vecchio, whose tower, the Torre di Arnolfo, you can see to the left in the Ponte Vecchio photograph. It won’t be a very detailed walk – for now, just a quick orientation.
So here we are, next to Hotel Lungarno in Borgo San Jacopo, midway between Ponte Vecchio on our right, and Ponte Santa Trinita on our left:
Ponte Santa Trinita
It’s about 6.45, and still very very bright. Across the Arno from where we are is the Lungarno Acciaioli, on which we shall meander slowly along on our way to Palazzo Vecchio, after we stop first to enjoy a pistachio, chocolate and buontalenti gelato from this well-loved gelateria:
Gelateria Santa Trinita
Cross the zebra crossing and you’re on Ponte Sta Trinita, enjoying your gelato while looking down the Arno to the Ponte Vecchio. The bridge is not so crowded, a breeze has cooled the city down somewhat, the light is diffuse and beautiful, and on the pointy triangular thingy jutting out of the bridge is a couple, the girl attentive, the boy playing guitar, sheet music and a bottle of wine between them. Then we head to Santo Spirito for dinner at about 7.30, and we’re back on the bridge and on Lungarno Acciaioli at about 9.15, and if we look across to the very bottom left of the picture you’ll see the south end of the Ponte Vecchio, and at the very bottom right, you will see exactly where we were at the start of the walk.
Lungarno Acciaioli looking south to Borgo San Jacopo
Here’s a shot further left, there above the main arch of the Ponte Vecchio is a bunch of tourists and locals, the bust of Benvenuto Cellini, and a section of the Vasari Corridor.
Lungarno Accaioli to Ponte Vecchio
We’ve passed the Ponte Vecchio, which is now to our right, and are standing underneath the Vasari Corridor, looking at a line of restaurants and hotels across the Arno:
Under the Vasari Corridor, looking south across the Arno
Following that line left, we are now looking at Lungarno Torrigiani, and Piazzale Michelangelo, the place to go to for views of Florence, is the line of lights and cars mid-left, midway among the pines and greenery. The tower, church and monastery to the right of that, at the top of the hill, is San Miniato al Monte.
Lungarno Torrigiani with Piazzale Michelangelo, left
Here we are, a few metres down the road, the Arno to our right, looking up at the Uffizi:
Underneath the Uffizi
It’s about 9.25, light is failing, and to our left are the two wings of the Uffizi and the narrow courtyard running between, opening out onto Piazza Signoria where we have, at the end of this walk, the Palazzo Vecchio and the Torre di Arnolfo, along with crane and scaffolding, of course.
Uffizi and courtyard leading to Palazzo Vecchio
Next, Piazza Signoria to the Duomo. Hope you enjoyed it. Ciao!
Vivid vivid vivid
A fabulous day, despite being my good friend Y’s last weekend in Florence. We decided to do one last turn around the city for memory’s sake, and what had been quite a melancholic wandering around – a melancholic viewing of the Pontormo at Chiesa Santa Felicita (a painting she had never seen and which I wanted to share with her) and a melancholic gelato at Ponte Santa Trinita – simply turned vivid, and the flowers above were the first hint of that, when we got to Santo Spirito. First there was a really good glass of red, then some rather fine olives, then a loosening of the tongue, then the seafood antipasto platter, which we had ordered as, well, the antipasto, but how wrong we were…
Mains were quickly cancelled. Ristorante Borgo Antico in Piazza Santo Spirito was an easy choice as it’s right in front of Chiesa Santo Spirito, probably my favourite in Florence, and despite the Renaissance riches inside – frescoes by Ghirlandaio and Lippi among them, and a wooden crucifix sculpted by Michelangelo – I have never quite made it past those Brunelleschi designed curves.
Those steps are one of the places you might find me at night, having a glass of wine with friends, music blaring from the cafes and bars that line two sides of the piazza. Quite a contrast.
And just because I really do have a thing for vivid colour, and to give these flowers some context…
Light-and-shadow-struck
Having been in Florence all this time, and here to stay I think, for a little bit longer, one has acculturated (read “developed tried-and-tested lifesaving manoeuvres on the streets”) well enough to: look both ways crossing a one-way street; not react when a Fiat keeps pace with you across a zebra-crossing; go carefully around corners as you never know what Italian-make projectile is coming your way – a Vespa cutting a corner, missing your toes by centimetres; a bus’s enormous side mirrors, missing your head by centimetres; a Florentine in a rush, not missing you at all. Running through the quaint, ankle-breaking streets in heels is now not only possible, but very, very doable when holding on to someone in a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo sneakers.
But the point of the post was another street experience – moodier, more evocative: bicycles and silhouettes and the late afternoon sunlight gilding the narrow streets, turning them liquid.
A sunny four weeks…
…and these creamy-petalled, first-thing-in-the-morning-Sant’Ambrogio-bought, you’re-so-lucky-it’s-the-only-bunch-we-have sunflowers to celebrate a very special birthday last Sunday.
A 5 am, hyper-hyphenated, derangedly-adjectived post? As that immortal line from Faithless goes: ‘I gets no sleep. I can’t get no sleep…’ Cause? Liguria on the horizon, mid-afternoon. The sea, the sea…
As bright as a daisy
A semi-long lie in, lazy coffee and pastry with F, a wander around Sant’Ambrogio to feed my Tuscan vegetable obsession – almost enough to make me give up pasta, that’s how bad it is – a chance meeting with a beautifully dressed student on her bicycle for a ride around the city with her partner – there is no one more stylish on a bicycle than a Florentine – whether in a suit, or heels, or a skirt of any length, holding up an umbrella in the rain or balancing a bag of groceries in one arm: stylish and elegant. All the vivid colour of the market, all the movement and grace of Florence on a warm Saturday morning, a big bunch of bright flowers in my arms, and a random gerbera from a stranger who said some very nice things indeed then let me walk away without fuss. Messages from friends, inbox full of mail, an afternoon and evening coming up, alone, writing, meeting deadlines.
Warm skin, happy belly, easy breath.
Has it really been that long…
St John the Baptist. Giuliano Vangi.
Hmmm… where to start…
The De Chirico, Max Ernst, Magritte, Balthus: A look into the invisible exhibition at Palazzo Strozzi, at which I spent a great part of the afternoon might be the place, but that won’t explain why I’m posting at 2 in the morning. The truth is, there’s nothing quite like the boom of fireworks from Piazzale Michelangelo bouncing off the Arno and reverberating off centuries old stone, especially when you appreciate the tradition has a very special place in the city’s life, celebrating as it does St John the Baptist, the city’s patron saint, and the emaciated sculpture you see in the photograph. This particular St John the Baptist, by the Florentine sculptor Giuliano Vangi, is so far the depiction of the saint I like best. It stands across the river from the Uffizi, and bronze married to the Tuscan sunset had to be one of my stops on the long, meandering walk home at around 8.30, streets and cafes spilling over with people, some already in place along the Arno, which ought to have tipped me off.
At 9.55, having realised the impossibility of crossing the river to San Niccolo where friends were waiting, and resigned to watching the lightshow alone, I stumbled across other long missed friends at prime position on Ponte alle Grazie. But this city’s like that. It became clear to me as the fireworks began, the almost full moon suspended in cool and tranquil contrast in the sky, that Florence has a way of tussling with neatly laid plans and clear intentions and sending them haywire: long confident strides to elsewhere are slowed to a meandering thoughtfulness on its flags and cobblestones, deep in thought about things you never thought you wante. Despite a summer which has been spectacularly underwhelming – hail, temperatures below 20, rain, rain and rain – a strange, magical, compelling city.
But it’s bedtime, and more on more, including De Chirico, soon…
