San Miniato angel and Italian verbs
San Miniato Angel
There has been so far a rhythm and logic to the past few weeks that’s been seductive: I don’t think I’ve ever fronted up to a lesson on time, though I make a fair effort during my 30-minute, early morning sprints from one side of the city to the other, but with the streets and piazzas comparatively empty there are new perspectives and a few too many things that distract you along the way. Now that my landlady has agreed to install a washing machine I no longer have to leave this beautiful and unbelievably quiet street from where it’s all been happening: a couple of tiny, glass fronted studios on a parallel street, from where a photographer and a ceramicist work and sell their work, is as commercial as it gets. Not a single shop, not a single ad. It’s so quiet that it is entirely a world away from the crowds, noise and traffic around the Ponte Vecchio, which is no more than five minutes away. The old couple across from me spend a great part of their days painting their balcony and rearranging their flower pots; most people nod to each other or go so far as to say ‘buongiorno’. There are at least three old churches up the hill, one which dates back to the year 1000, and the Forte di Belvedere, the ancient city walls, and all topped by San Miniato al Monte, where I went again today, finally able to stay for the monks’ Gregorian chants at 5.30, in celebration of the Eucharist – beautiful and quite intense.
Ancient city walls and Florence along the Arno, from San Miniato
So, the point of all of it is I’m feeling more settled and less like a tourist. Having some grasp of Italian has led to certain changes: I am now so accustomed to the lectures that like the other students can barely suppress a yawn when our esteemed professor goes on an extended rant – very informative but a rant – about the role of the intellectual in Italian society. I now know my way around the Mercato Centrale: the best day to purchase fish, where the locals go for freshly made ravioli, am happily experimenting with different prosciuttos and Tuscan olive oils, have taken to Tuscan olives and Calabrian anchovies, have given myself another month to become acculturated to the unsalted Tuscan breads, and have enough Italian to hold my own when a stall owner decides he is going to be as fresh as his produce, which is pretty fresh, let me tell you. But enough Italian is not enough Italian. So I need to hit the books which means this is the last of my daily posts, and will from now on post about twice a week. So goodbye for now, and I’ll leave you with Florence at dusk, on my descent home from San Miniato to a long and gruelling night of Italian verbs.
Someone pinch me…
Florence from San Miniato al Monte
My first day completely recovered and the first thing on my list was to go high, less than 30 minutes walking and climbing from my place, to San Miniato al Monte, a basilica with a swag of superlatives attached to it – the finest Romanesque structure in Tuscany, one of the oldest, one of the most beautiful. St Minias, after a panther allegedly refused to devour him, was decapitated near the Piazza della Signoria during anti-Christian persecutions around 250 AD; legend has it that he picked up his head, crossed the Arno, and climbed to this spot where he had lived as a hermit. A chapel dedicated to him is known to have existed on the site in the 8th century, and construction on this building began in 1013.
San Miniato al Monte
I arrived during mass and heard possibly my first in Latin, and will be returning back, hopefully tomorrow, for the monks’ Gregorian chants at 5.30. The church bells were ringing 8 o’clock when I realised it was completely dark and I was completely alone, surrounded by a cemetery, which would ordinarily be rather spooky but not this one, somehow. Was it possible, I wondered, to make it down the hill, across the Arno, through the congested streets and squares, to the Basilica di San Lorenzo, where a classical concert was being held, in time for 9 o’clock? It was, with 20 minutes to spare – enough time for a fortifying glass of wine. An organist on a 16th century church organ, a pianist and a soprano on Bach, Handel and Mozart made for an inexpressibly beautiful experience. There’s a concert every night this week at 9.00 so you know where I will be the next few nights. Ciao!
