Flowers from the Valdarnese
Not just any bunch but every detail – type of flower, colour, ribbon, arrangement – very expressive, very thoughtfully chosen. Quite fluster making, despite the cool air and the rain, though I did manage to spare a flustered thought for the three quite likely flustered florists who were not quite up to the detail…
Thanks to the fourth, they come into their own under my window, flaming under the waning eight o’clock light. An intense and unforgettable bunch.
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.
Amor on the Ponte Vecchio
Amor on the Ponte Vecchio
Rushing home one afternoon, I noticed an American couple getting quite excited over some watercolours on the Ponte Vecchio, quite taken, I think I heard, by the yellow tones in the work, and asking where the nearest bank was. Having always bypassed these watercolours of the Arno and the bridge and similar scenes for Pinocchio ones, this time I decided to postpone lunch for a little bit to see what the commotion was about. So, let me introduce you to Amor, yes, as in ‘love’, and yes, I thought at first he was being allegorical. He is one of many artists who work and sell their watercolours around the Ponte Vecchio and especially Piazza della Repubblica and similar high-traffic areas.
But there’s more to Amor than his watercolours: he is a writer and his stories have won prizes and can be found in literary journals and numerous anthologies, and with his novel, I lupi della notte, was finalist in 2008 for the prestigious Italo Calvino Prize. You can read his story, ‘Salvation’, online, in the anthology, Multicultural Literature in Contemporary Italy (2007). He was born in Sétif, Algeria, lives and works in Florence, has studied in both places, has lived and worked in Germany and elsewhere, and rightly calls himself a citizen of the world. “I am anywhere”, he said, which I thought quite expressive, and a sentiment I can well understand.
Sergio on the Ponte Vecchio
Ponte Vecchio from Ponte Santa Trinita
A day made for heading under the covers with a good book, and because I still have just one at the moment, the book of poetry I was given and which I’ve read from cover to cover and no doubt will again, I fossicked through my e-books folder and found EM Forster’s A Room with a View, which, because it’s partly set in Florence, will be the exception to my read-in-Italian-only rule, which is in place for the next six months, and which will hurt, and therefore poetry in English to help me through.
But before I go, here’s a classic view of the Ponte Vecchio, which I’ve shot from many angles, in different lights, including its buskers, stall owners, Pinocchio sellers. Difficult not to when you cross the bridge daily (I live to the right of the bridge, on the south side) to get to the centre. It’s also impossible not to meet its many colourful characters…
Sergio, with a twinkle in his eye, on the Ponte Vecchio
So let me introduce you to Sergio, who introduced himself to me one night on the bridge, grabbing my hand and discoursing on Australian history until I finally put a stop to it, paying me the most outrageous compliments and inviting me to his apartment, which he tells me is furnished with both antique and modern furniture, because they go together, much like he and I do… I have a soft spot for Sergio, and will be dropping off copies of the photographs I took of him, at his apartment – with an eye fixed on the door for a quick getaway – like he asked me to.
The many faces of Agostino Dessì
Reflections in the glass
Poor little Pinocchio, dangling daily on the Ponte Vecchio and from sundry market stalls, clicking his little wooden joints, getting the tip of his not-so-little nose caught up in the day’s rush, click and meander. A harrowing little story, I always thought when I was a little girl, about the perils of lying: “No, I did not free my little red balloon into the sky”; “No, I did not miss maths to read Dickens in that beautiful and silent old library”; “He bit me first!”; and my reflection wavering ambiguously in mirrors.
