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Friday, December 31, 2010

Firenze.

Firenze is a town I'd heard so much about without ever having visited. I’ve had friends who’ve travelled there, friends who’d lived there, and I’d only ever heard wonderful things about the place; about its beauty, its artwork, its buildings, even simply, the general vibe and feel of it. The feedback's always been consistently positive. As a result over the years I’d compiled these “kind thoughts” (thanks Russell Brand) and developed a pretty concise picture of what Firenze was actually like in my head. Then at times I would hear someone talk about their wonderful experience of the fanciful Florence and I would react in an almost knowingly ‘oh yes, isn’t it wonderful’ nod type of fashion as I played out my own imaginary scenes.

Of that magical Tuscan city set on the auburn plains of country Italia; with its wide boulevards of faded greys and whites; of flowing streams, and stunning cathedrals and shrines built of such extravagance with the sole purpose of housing the finest of artworks. The Florentines, all of whom I had down as artisans, poets and philosophers, sauntered around contemplating higher realities and confronted the problems of the divine that unwittingly affect us all; or something like that anyway – who knows where my mind is. Basically it meant that to be heading there after having heard so much brought on a sense of great anticipation. It was the case for the three of us, especially considering the disenchantment we’d felt in Verona and then Venice after the greatness that is Milan.

It was inevitable then when I stepped off the train from Venezia with Drew and Bob that I was ever so slightly disappointed with the greeting of a humble, square-ish and brown station of aged modernity and not the pre-1600 (+ or fantastical lord of the ring facades - there was no white gold anywhere. Actually I’m pretty sure that I had dreamt of a city plated in white gold come to think of it) architecture that I had anticipated.
The reality check continued as we made our way to our hotel; first negotiating the traffic-heavy roads encircling the station; then feeling our way up through the old cobbled streets lined of Louis Vuitton, Armani, Gucci, Ferrero Rocher, Ferrari, etc. stores. When we reached our desired street, it took another half hour to find, thanks to Drew’s keen eye, the size-8 font handwritten hotel sign hidden within a door buzzer. We ditched our stuff in nice enough digs then made for the Chinese across the road.

After lunch we relaxed, contented with further Asian cuisine (it was the same in Venezia), and began to open our eyes to the medieval streets of our surrounds. We wandered the afternoon away awhile then dove into a bar for the early evening espresso (for €0.70 cents - grazie Italia ♥), Bob with his Latte and Drew his hot chocolate and cake (that cost him something like €8.00 ha). The sun was setting as we emerged, and with my caffeine dependence becoming ever more apparent, we made for the spot on the edge of our tourist map marked as a lookout.

With Drew leading our trio we wound along the narrow paves for the X in our usual march formation: of Drew and I chaperoning Bob as he dawdled behind yet always, somehow, remaining in touching distance and able to tell us should he feel an aspect of the daily proceedings be objectionable. We crossed the river to meet the park on the edge of town and scrambled up the well worn tour-bus path to its summit. We reached the top to find a deserted car-park with just a handful of people milling about. The park appeared to continue on the other side of the concrete expanse before being enveloped by the wild hills of rough terrain that followed. There was cafe in the centre that was closed and a statue of some non-descript and I had the impression that this place would buzz in summer. I turned and headed for the lookout. And finally there it was: a small medieval town formed by the renaissance nestled in a low valley as if precisely placed by an artisan having carefully studied her subjects’ most complimenting features.

The town appeared as if it was a model of papier-mâché. Its surrounds stood as if delicately composed from fine brush work abstracting the subject. We found a spot to watch the sun fall. The tones of nature and man converged into a seamless composition. The aged autumn colours of early December, enriched by the late fading light, mixed with the redbrick, and yellow and brown wood and plaster, Florentine rooves. Il Duomo was undoubtedly the centre point of all focus standing above all else; its faded white, green and red facade flourished under the sun’s final gaze like a perfect sponge to its environment; the famous redbrick dome dominated the view as if an alternate source of the heightened colour of the scene. A few small groups of people had turned up for the display though the majority had come and gone after a quick glance and photo. Calmness and serenity were afforded and we stayed watching and musing and photo taking until the hills behind us eclipsed the light. It was chilled and snow peppered all around us. Satisfied and content, equipped with a knowing that this place was indeed exceptional after all, we made our way back to town to begin the chase for some proper Tuscan wine. 

To be continued.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

.il cafe corto.

il cafe corto. the espresso was short; bitter and strong. it served quickly, thrown onto the bar, clinking cup and saucer. the barista in peak of morning routine. a daily rapid fire of thick and dark shots craved by the workers. il tren, il cafe, il lavoro. all the days. all jostling at a bar uninviting pause. space sought by the few advanced in track for a post allowing a second’s serenity. though already he had it. and he'd already intended to slow and savour: today was different. he slowed and savoured. as coat, scarf, buon giorno, un cafe, un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat continued around. only he and the greyed barista, one he had never met yet an amico grande, good friend, ever-present. it was strange, somehow new, and he felt foreign and irresolute. unsure as to why he usually was but a minute cog in the queer contraption he was observing. he watched, with equal unsureness, the faux friend at the helm. at the helm yet not master. as caught up as all. he considered on the peripheral contented. today unrestricted, unconstrained; unafflicted by immediate burden but not without time and not without plan - and never a master. the million noises and random dialogues patterned and were entrancing. after a while thought and mind only he attended. he wandered as the systemic roar softened then blurred. to why he was there; was it he or circumstance that had allowed this all. this scene. and to the night before even; its wave had never left - even in sleep - and each moment closer riled and lapped at him. he had glanced more than once in anticipation at the hands above the old man - and the hands were cautious and slow in movement. il caffeine was coursing, this he knew. but this was more; it wasn’t daily. and self-induced? No. Sadly – no. this he knew also, and would have no other way.

Indebted, un euro, an infinite sum. priceless. Money can’t buy me. he had been here before. and it never lasted long (enough). he knew to savour; and he sipped. his espresso was cold. and the noises had found their sources and redifferentiated into chaos: perhaps he’d savoured too long. the hands were changed. it loomed. it was imminent now. yet distant. and further yet, still at a distance. he steered his gaze away from the creep and from the infatigable machinist around the narrow bar past racks of il vino and spirits presented on show, and the diminishing paninis, croissants, pastries - as hotcakes - toward the source of the invited commotion and of his own. coats and scarves streamed by and on occasion, in a burst of cold and greater noise, one entered to partake. periodically one would stir him momentarily; deserving a second glance. and failed inspection only to rise anticipation and consent one further glance to the wall behind to tell still it was to come. But then one more, another inspection, another coat of promise. then a familiar scarf; to come through the doors. then removed, then the face he knew: the bright eyes; the mirroring glance; the smile. he swallowed the last of the cold distaste and bitterness as she approached: un euro, grazie, ciao, scarf, coat.