TravelStream™ news feed for member amiksak on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/amiksak en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Wed, 18 Apr 2007 17:54:25 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1175441340/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1175441340/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1175441340/tpod.html Wed, 18 Apr 2007 17:54:25 -0400 Learning Life & Italian in Florence, Italy

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Florence, Italy

I March 30, 2007
Three short weeks in Florence...

(Please note that for the moment the photos with this entry are NOT of Siena or S. Gimignano, but show an event on Palm Sunday morning... I hadn't had a chance to describe it. Along with Fabbio and Allesandra and Martina (the bambina) we walked a few blocks to a newish bookstore near the Duomo. Turned out it was a public gathering of about 40 schoolchildren, all singing songs they had practiced with their music teacher. The photos show this very pleasant event. The text below, with no pictures yet, is about what I did and thought on Saturday and earlier.)

Too many people smoke. In most places in Florence you must smoke outside, thank the goddess. However, this creates packs of smokers who together foul most hallways and street corners. Across the street from Scuola Leonardo da Vinci is the venerable and still highly utilized Ospedale Santa Maria Nuova. The hospital's first-aid crews smoke. The ambulance drivers smoke. Girls well on the way to lung cancer smoke. This is not news, of course.

CAUTION: Brushing by smokers standing on tiny sidewalks may burn holes on the arms of your jacket.

CAUTION 2: If two people are talking on the street, they will arrange themselves like bowling pins: hard to hit squarely, impossible to miss.

All Japanese students carry miniature Casio language translators. These are necessary because of the gap between Japanese characters and the Roman alphabet. The three Japanese students in my class each have one, which they consult constantly. When one of these students is called on to speak there are long, long pauses, and typing, and longer pauses, and the lively class creaks to a silent halt. They are excellent exercise-doers and test-takers but consistently slowest to speak, slowest to understand what is spoken, most difficult to understand. It's as if they are faking it, and they are not. Dumb on the spot, smart on the test. I don't actually understand the phenomenon.

Last night at dinner the Feri welcomed back Harriet, and her mother Anna, from Milton Keynes in England. Harriet lived with the family and went to "my" school several years ago, and on vacation here with her mother had a mini reunion, bringing lovely flowers, too. Anna (no last names, never actually heard them) is an architectural historian, and the conversation turned to the ceiling above our heads at dinner.

Fabbio said he thinks this part of the house is about 500 years old ("and the rest, downstairs, is much older. It used to be convent," he said). Outside above the entry door is a coat of arms for the Roman pope, so the supposition is that this house was built by and for the church (after all, we are three short blocks from Santa Croce). I tried to joke (one of the most difficult things to do in Italian, I have discovered) that a church and its many people have a lot of requirements, not just housing nuns. Maybe this place held horses (some surprise, not much humor... ooops!) or (I went on, heedlessly) they stored grain for horses here (as the table got even more quiet I attempted to recoup) or flour for the nuns, or maybe they stored other things here. OK, probably it was a convent.

We are all friends, my food is not poisoned, no feelings were hurt. But, I think for a moment there I definitely stepped in it.

By the way, in class today we were discussing "superstitions" and I discovered that the Italian word for dog shit is the same as the French word for dog shit, and when you inevitably step in it, it brings you luck. Sure. Sounds to me like an early dog shit stepper made that up to save face. (French: merde Italian: merda. If that's not the same word I don't know what would be.)

I also heard that in Spain it is not done to wear yellow anywhere near a theater stage ("non si vesta giallo"). I wonder if that tradition holds in other places, like Mendocino? Be yellow, of course. Wear yellow, no. However, I also learned that Italians wear red underwear on New Year's Eve. The routine was teacher asked each student if these superstitions, I mean traditions, I mean customs, held in their home countries. I suggested red underwear is a tradition for February 14, not December 31.

It was interesting to find out which of these national traditions stayed within borders, and which were more universal. Consistently, the incommunicative Japanese students claimed most of these customs were unknown in their country. Will have to check on that.

We Journey in Autobus a Siena e San Gimignano

Ahhh, Siena. You may have lost the economic and military wars with Florence, but you win the prize for silence and beauty. You are large enough to be real (unlike San G.) but still truly a small town - 60,000 souls, compared to more than 400,000 in Florence. Siena's population 500 years ago: 60,000.

It was unanimous... everyone seeing Siena for the first time enjoyed it.

We had a free hour between guided walks (with Luca, a young and serious young Florentine who turned out to be a worthy substitute for "Monica" who is listed on all the school adventures, but has yet to appear... maybe she is a ghost?). We chose for lunch one of the many café restaurants lining the north and northeast edges of the famous square, Il Campo.

From the pictures you can see we not only ate well (pizza, roast vegetables, risotto finished with vodka, beer, bread and wine) but had a lovely view of the piazza in the intermittent rain. Plus, the welcome influence of two heat lamps, and waiters who, however busy, made me welcome by actually paying attention when asked for heat, or bathroom, or il conto (check). A wonderful moment.

Siena's Duomo is one of the few cathedrals as interesting inside as out, and one of my favorites in Europe - richly done, but not overdone. I am a BIG fan of striped marble. The dark green and white marble stripes seen everywhere inside and on the adjacent tower outside (see photos) is striking whenever viewed. We walked mostly on a plastic floor tacked down with packing tape (The covering moves sequentially. It is all exposed August - October. Make reservations now). The part we could see was quite striking - the floor is a vast canvas to tell stories from the bible. Bas reliefs maybe 20 or more feet square, tell stories illustrated with 15th century citizens going to war, or looking bemused, etc. (again, see photos). From the Michelin guide:

"The pavement is unique. It is composed of 56 marble panels depicting figures from mythology (Sibyls, Virtues and allegories) and scenes from the Old Testament, all of them outstanding for their intricacy and liveliness...(the panels) were produced between 1369 and 1547 by some 40 artists... the oldest panels were made using the 'graffita' technique; they consist of white outlines on a black background and the details and reliefs are engraved in the marble then blackened using asphalt."

Church-approved graffiti!

The plague devastated Siena for six months in 1348, just 21 years before this work started. The population had been reduced by more than a third that year.

Our visit to San Gimignano does not need to be recorded in detail. This is Euro Disney at its best: It is impossible to spot the rails beneath the moving exhibits, or the computers running the lights, but no doubt they are there. It's a living museum, and interesting because of that, but there is no contemporary life there except for bars and stores. Inside the former Duomo, now "Collegiata" the walls are lined with frescos, Old Testament on one side (no halos), New on the other (many golden haloes.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1175958420/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1175958420/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1175958420/tpod.html Wed, 18 Apr 2007 17:51:42 -0400 Learning Life & Italian in Florence, Italy

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Firenze, Italy

April 7, 2007


It's now The End, just about, of my four short weeks in Florence, Italy, learning Italian and coincidentally the ways of the Italians. These two things are not the same.

I feel exhilarated that the end is in sight, and a bit blue to have this episode coming to a close. I'm writing this first part of the blog on Thursday night, and life is full, but not full enough to avoid these thoughts. Tonight I'm meeting Linda Pack and David Weitzman for dinner at that excellent local restaurant David Brookes originally recommended, and where I had a birthday dinner with candied pear for dessert on my birthday (compleanno) March 23. Thought we'd try it again.

They serve steaks here that look like lovely catcher's mitts - big, thick and gorgeous, but not tough. And the steak stands alone. It comes to your table on a big wooden board, to be carved by the waiter, and that's it. You look down and there's a bloody catcher's mitt on your plate. No potato, no string beans, no balanced diet. Just a bloody piece of well cooked and well-aged beef. That is how they do food here: Just the way you do it at home, rarely with any variations, and if there are variations it's because the cook comes from another region, or the place is trying to be "Mediterranean" or something. Basically, it's the same food mother made, on the same plate, at the same time of night, in the same order, and at exactly the same temperature. That's authentic Italian food, and if it isn't like that, the locals won't pay for it.

Friday is another "big test" but it has been explained to us that (1) it's easy and (2) it's only 'for us' not for any other use. That is all true, but I've been conjugating both in my sleep and in my daydreams all week. It's easy to confuse the imperfect with the past perfect, and wonder when to use which, and then there's the future, with another set of conjugations to remember, then there's the relative pronouns (pronomi relativi) "che" and "cui" and remember cui always is preceded by preposition, but which one? and also there's the reflexive tense, in which the subject also is the object and you ALWAYS use "essere" (to be) as the helper verb in the passato prossimo and did I mention that all of this will be on the test, plus a sampling of things we were taught in the first two weeks? Really, it's (1) easy and (2) it's only 'for us' and (3) it helps if you are native speaker.

As far as actually learning to speak Italian, which bottom line is my overall goal, living here helps. The sound of Italian is in the streets at all hours, on the staircase by my door. It drifts in through the open window and is everywhere on the street, in stores, in the school hallways, on TV (pronounced 'tee-voo') at all hours, and so forth. The rhythms begin to permeate through the traveler's somewhat soiled clothing, and the words stick in the ears. At night I find myself reciting sentences that may be gibberish or totally mixed tenses and numbers, but the words are spinning in my head like a song that won't quite quiet down. This constant stream of Italian is what I will miss, and not having this in my head is why I am going to lose the facility I now have to sort of sing in Italian, if you know what I mean.m Not exactly sing, but talk in a way that carries me over a few of the holes in my vocabulary and the places where I have no idea exactly how to express something. It seems to mesmerize the Italians, so they kind of wait while you sputter, and eventually come up with something elementary that they aha! can understand, at least enough to smile and point in response. Oh yes, they talk in response, too, but who knows what they are saying?

Actually, I've discovered also that my hearing has improved, too. The rhythm works both ways. I don't get all the words, but if I listen carefully, words I do understand suddenly bring to light words I didn't understand when the sentence started. I love this when it happens.

So I am on the verge of a better understanding of Italian, and I am leaving now. Yet if I ponder what it might be like to stay here as a single student another four or even eight weeks, I know I want to be home, now! Italy has its claws in me, but I don't really live here. I have problems with this culture, and I want my own.

I want my bed that is soft, and my wife who is soft, too. I want my cats, and especially the clean air and bountiful forests of Caspar and Mendocino. I want the ocean again, and the smells. I want to take a deep breath almost anywhere and not inhale auto fumes and people's cigarettes. I miss my cello, and picking it up whenever I feel like it. I miss the "free" and always-on Internet. I miss the challenge of working with KZYX. I want to ride my bicycle, drive my car, see the sunsets and the moonrises. I want to watch the Giants start the seasons and the Warriors end theirs. Stuff like that.

Still, Italy will call me back as time goes on. I'll probably drag Joselyn into this world, and show her all the places I called home for a month. I hope she likes it. Maybe we'll visit my new friends in Sweden, and say hello to my old teachers here. Who knows?

But now it's a few more days here, some new towns to explore and meals to eat, then the long flight home. They say jet lag is less severe going West, and I will test that theory to the utmost. It's been a great trip, and I'm glad I did it.

Dinner at Buca Dell'Orafo at 8 pm on April 5, 2007, was very much like last time... loud, good, and fun. David, Linda and I shared Bistecca di Chiamina at kg 58 Euro... when it appeared it was a huge steak on the bone (I don't know the name of the cut) on a wooden platter, carved into three big bloody pieces by the watier. We started with several small dishes to share: Segato di carciofi morelli which is a very large artichoke cut into small, thin pieces and served with slices of parmesano; also Spinachini saltati aglio e olio, which is a big plate of warm spinach; and chitarrine ai piselli freschi, or spaghetti and fresh young peas; and pecorino e baccelli, or thinly sliced pecorino cheese with al dente fava beans... absolutely wonderful, all of it. Overall the cost was 66 Euro per person including cover and tip... not at all bad for such a good night and excellent food.

We talked constantly, louder and louder as the room filled with hungry people. We talked about the museums, about Broadway shows, Paris, Verona, Venice, school and tests, the bookstore, all of it. It was a lot of fun, and I recommend nights like this to anyone before you die... you must experience this kind of loud, almost drunken, food-driven evenings. We started with an excellent bottle of Prosecco, and followed with a very good chianti. Was it the the wine talking, or us? Ahhhh.

Saturday morning I got out early, in the wonderful coolness of a sunny morning. Walked to the Museo Archeologico, and had it pretty much to myself. Looking at objects several thousand years old put me in a contemplative mood. The museum is arranged as a series of long corridors connecting some large rooms. At times I felt like I was in NYC's Metropolitan Museum, in rooms filled with somewhat miscellaneous Egyptian artifacts picked up in exotic locations and transported to Florence by the Medici and later rich art lovers.

In the garden everything was in spring bloom. I could see the garden from the adjacent street as I approached, and from many windows inside the museum. Walking through it I glanced at the museum's English paper on it: "During the first half of the 18th century, the garden of the Medicean Palazzo della Crocetta took on the appearance that can still be partially seen today. ... by order of the prince regent of Craon, the Boboli gardener, Francesco Romoli, divided it into a series of rectangular flower beds enclosed by terracotta and sandstone elements... (From 1885 on) ancient statuary of various provenance were (added)... Entire archeological monuments were placed in and between the flower beds, recomposed after having been dismantled from their original locations.... An honest-to-goodness outdoor museum was hence created: an educational trail through Etruscan tombs that are immersed in the verdant garden."

The most interesting pieces inside were the Etruscan sculptures, some very small, with exquisite human detail... clearly an inspiration for the Renaissance artists. A few were quite elongated (I have a couple of pictures that I'm keeping, but they unfortunately are too blurred to publish). Giacometti, too, has antecedents. The Egyptian hippo was outstanding, and that picture will be published here.

Leaving the museum and it's gorgeous garden full of resurrected/transported/rebuilt tombs and a couple of well-fed cats, I caught the #7 to Fiesole and arrived in that interesting hill town. Lovely view through the haze of Florence. I could identify the Duomo, of course, but also the synagogue in my neighborhood, Santa Croce, and the big stadium where today at 3 pm there will be an important soccer game.

I treated myself to an expensive lunch in the garden of the four star Villa Aurora Hotel (Aurora Ristorante) and pretty much had it all to myself. A bottle of San Pelligrino, a tiny amouse bouche, then one prawn with one corn-filled tart with tiny bits of fresh melon in alfalfa sprouts... at this point I knew I was here for the view of the food, not the food itself, then a red wine risotto served this way: A puddle of pink rice in the center, delicate bits of corn chips on one side, a piece of fish that was either steamed and cooled, or pickled, or perhaps cooked in lemon juice, I couldn't actually tell; one piece of fried green leaf (was it sage?) topped by a chewy strip of fish scales. Altogether a work of art, but the only part really worth remembering was the excellent risotto itself. The International Herald Tribune and weekend USA Today and a caffe latte with sweet biscuits for dessert. Sound of birds, ancient pine tree over my head, bright yellow pansies in hanging baskets on the railing next to my table, cool wind blowing up from Florence, below, and three or four wait people with nothing to do but reheat my coffee or bring me a knife. Another ahhhh... moment.


Thanks to everyone for reading this far.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1174919460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1174919460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1174919460/tpod.html Mon, 26 Mar 2007 11:02:35 -0400 Learning Life & Italian in Florence, Italy

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Florence, Italy

March 23, 2007
Florence, Almost the Beginning of the Second Term of School

The View From 62

Today I turned (like the proverbial cheese) another year, to 62. The Italian word for this is "compleanno" meaning "complete year" or "another step closer to the cold, cold earth").

I've told everyone here to forget about it, and they pretty much have. I think at dinner tonight (it will be Annette, Ihren, Nancy and I - the two-week-old gang) at the Buca Dell'Orafo (recommended by David Brookes, thank you David) and located in a small smelly alley just to the south of the north end of Ponte Vecchio, we may raise a toast or two, but we shall see. I was in there yesterday to (1) find the damn place and (2) make reservations, both of which were accomplished. The few dishes of food I could spy looked very, very, good, and that was just the antipasti.

This weekend is filling up with interesting adventures. I must have interesting adventures, as the new teacher is certain to ask each of us what we did over the weekend (the fine settimane, if you are scoring). Teacher today was filling in some time (it was review-for-the-big-test day) and made the mistake of asking that question after a Thursday evening.

The answers ranged from "I went outside, then I went home, then I went to sleep" to "We went to Piazza della Signoria and had two glasses of wine, each" to "I went to my local café, played on the Internet, went home, studied, and went to bed" (that was my answer). Ask on Monday morning and the answers are bound to be more interesting.

It's difficult to avoid the conclusion that much of central Florence is nothing more than a somewhat interesting playing field for the American College Students of Today. The locals pass by on their way to somewhere; the Americans take up all the rest of the space. Behind the closed doors and in the lovely courtyards there may be angels, frescoes and silk trees. On the street there are all sorts of exotic accents: Brooklyn, Bryn Mawr, (sp?), California, Texas, and Utah, too. It's all "Did you look at the map, dear?" and "Are you coming to dinner with us before we go out to the disco?" and I go and you go and they went.

Another reminder of where I am: I live in a neighborhood in which people actually use the Wash & Dry, buy milk and pastries, get a coffee, or a dress, or replace a broken plate, and make things like picture frames or antique furniture (instant antiques: another ancient art of the artisans of Florence). Then I have occasion to walk over to the rich part of town. Turn only one corner and one instantly is back in America, with Americans, and their accents and their attitudes, Prada, and big department stores. There are leather shops everywhere, but these look like SHOPS, not holes in a wall. There are restaurants and bars everywhere in Florence, but the ones along Via Calzaiuoli are huge, and go back a LONG way from the street, and the waiters wear ties... you get the idea. Instead of ignoring you, they simply speak perfect English, which sometimes is just another way of doing that.

I should say also that I have been treated with courtesy and respect in many places, on many locations. In fact, the Italians usually are much more interested in whoever they are addressing, and more courteous, than people of another nearby (nameless) nation whose name starts with F. This is a gross generalization, of course, but generally, it's true.

I break off here for a moment for a bit of reality. I have a red shirt in the sink, and it needs to be kneaded for a few minutes, then rinsed, then hung up over the barely breathing heater. Life on the road; the same for everyone.

For Saturday I now have tix to take the train to Sinalunga (in southern Tuscany) traveling via Arezzo, to have lunch with Robert Etherington. We haven't yet met, but he sounds like my type of foreigner-in-Tuscany. He not only flies balloons over the wine country, but also is organizing a "play-in" for chamber music this July in his town of Montisi. I should have some good tales to tell. His wife Liz is a writer of children's books, with her next one appearing this summer.

Then, on Sunday, I plan to meet Annette at my apartment here and we (and maybe Nancy and her American friend) and we will all take the #7 bus into the hills nearby, to the well-known and famous and well-visited village of Fiesole, overlooking Florence. After we look around and eat, we plan to walk all the way (downhill, mostly) back into town. If I can do this, I can climb the Duomo, about 463 steps!

So... Saturday turned out to be a wonderful day, minus the boring hours on trains. Robert and Liz are wonderful, interesting people. When I think about all the things they are doing, pretty much at the same time, I'm speechless (not wordless, of course, just speechless). Robert is a builder who with Liz, who is highly experienced in working with locally produced authentic materials such as gesso and lime to make accurate restorations in the houses and churches in Tuscany, has an ongoing 20-year project to convert their farmhouse and land into finished living space, but also to restore some of its former functionality as a water-driven flour and corn mill. There are so many stories here!

Plus they are raising (and eating) pigs and chickens, have a dog and cat and will have, when the mill pond is restored, ducks. Robert is planning a summer of music with high level players coming to Montisi to rehearse and perform. No doubt he will bring it off (he and a friend started a similar musical festival in his native Cornwall, and it is still going on, and has become a major locus for music). So this will very likely happen. Meanwhile, when the weather is good, tourists search him out for balloon floats over the lovely, hilly countryside dotted with castles and other monuments to a warlike past.

As we drove in Robert's Deux Chevaux from Sinalunga to Montisi, Robert paused to point out the intersection of two painfully straight roads, both Roman. In Mendocino a hundred years is ancient history; in Italy that would be something akin to about a minute ago.

Pardon me if I belabor the obvious with these superficial reflections, but as these places and stories are revealed to me I enjoy the same awe and bemusement that many before me have felt and expressed. I have to talk about it too. Can't help myself.

Robert really should write down his stories (others have already done some of this for him - see his website: www.ballooningintuscany.com ). Among the tales he told this afternoon: How he met the original Montgolfier family in Paris and acquired a very famous engraving showing the original 1783 Paris balloon flight, and on the back of the frame was written the names of those who flew that day (Robert has this as a postcard; and on his site, too).

In Italian the word for hot-air ballooning is "il mongolfiera" after the original French adventurer.

Other stories: How acquiring a small studio in Montisi for Liz (currently writing children's books) became both an historical reclamation project and a study in how property is reformed in Italy. In order to reach the studio, they had to buy the adjacent staircase. Then another room to connect everything (formerly Communist Party Headquarters, complete with various membership stickers from 1974) and somehow a one hundred foot-long tunnel through the hillside also became part of the deal. In this tunnel, Robert found a sandy pit that had been used in centuries past to collect rain runoff. To keep it from fouling the wine making and storage operations in the tunnel the sandy pit was filled with a goodly amount of broken, museum-quality, painted pottery. When pottery broke it was added to this pit, as a barrier between the sand and the water, to keep the accumulating sand from floating into the tunnel. I am aware that I don't have the details all correct, and this is why we must urge Robert to tell his stories, on his website.

Until a century or two ago, their farmhouse was in fact a mill. In this valley there is a lot of flowing water, and a nearby stream was diverted to collect in a mill pond (since filled in to ground level and now partially excavated by Robert and Liz). The water from the pond was forced through two narrow openings (I saw these) and flowed under the house where it turned paddles that in turn powered the large milling stones on the floor above. The water exited through a small bricked arch at the other side of the house (now easily viewable from the kitchen where we enjoyed a delightful lunch), then down the hillside to rejoin the stream. In addition, rainwater from the nearby hills was captured and directed into the mill pond. The holes in the stone fence that allowed the runoff to join the mill pond now are favorite hiding places for the local cats.

The whole operation existed not merely to fill local needs, but also provided free flour and cornmeal to pilgrims passing through, or being served at the local hospital, one of the first if not the first in Europe, if I have Robert's story correctly.

That's only two stories. There were several more.

Another guest at lunch was Bruce Kennedy, distantly related to the Massachusetts Kennedys. Bruce is a world-famous maker of harpsichords, who has settled in Montisi, and now heads a major campaign to raise money to build a living museum in which authentic (when available) and reproduced (when necessary) harpsichords can be played and studied. Also in a nearby de-consecrated church there are plans for an additional performing space.

This kind of thing is an impossible dream available for free to many; but Bruce already has a board of directors, some highly placed Angels, and has raised a million dollars, with more millions in the works. You will be hearing more about this. In the meantime, there is information: www.PiccolaAccademia.org . The full name and address is Piccola Accademia di Montisi, Viale della Rimembranza, Castelmuzio (SI) 53020, Italy.

Did I mention Bruce's organization owns that castle, and the church? This is a BIG thing in a small town, and of course there are issues, both good and not so good, with locals, and with the committee of Belle Arte, which supervises and controls historical restorations. They can kibosh or stall a project, or help it along.

Back to Scuola

Monday it's back to school for the second two-week session. I plan to pay attention EVEN MORE as I think I now know the routine, and can study ahead a bit, too. But two weeks is not enough to become fluent, of course. Not even close.

The test last Friday the 23rd appeared to be easy, and it was, but I tripped over tenses, agreement, and prepositions. I only scored "Buono" which is less good than Molto Buono, and far less than perfect, AKA Ottimo. One woman scored 100 per cent, I noted. I was disappointed in my performance, but it motivates me to review, and pay even more attention.

It seems that I can read straightforward Italian comparatively well. I had no mistakes or problems reading text and answering questions. Like a lot of beginners, however, I stumble with the details unique to romance languages, that are pretty much unknown in English. Who knew (I knew, but I forgot) that the gender of the verb and the number of the verb must also agree with the subject, unless it's a direct object, in which case..... (taking a deep breath now).

My brain has divided itself into the part that can read Italian, the part that can understand Italian if you speak slowly, but not too slowly, and the other part that can hardly speak a complete Italian sentence, and the other, other part that looks at the first three parts and says, "You are stupid."

The Weekend

On Sunday I opened my window to discover the street below had been transformed into a market, a flea market. There were covered tables for several blocks around, and people strolling throughout, holding open umbrellas. I'm tempted to use Italian words for umbrellas, and flea markets, but why... it would only sound like I talk - three words of perfect Italian followed by a couple of English words, then some incorrect Italian words, and so forth. In this way I make myself understood:

"Good afternoon, I mean, oops I think I just spoke in French. Good morning, signorina no I mean signora no I mean signorina, well, anyway, I would like to eat. Here. Now. Something. Have you something to eat? Good, I will eat that hub cap in the window. Here. I would like to eat that. And that. And (pointing) maybe that, too. Finally, of course, I would like to eat all your hub caps and take a look at your backside. I mean, what is on the other side of that plate over there? Thank you forever and with so much gratitude for all this food. It was as good as a concerto. Arrivederci! Ciao!"

I think in fact when I do speak it is not nearly as understandable as the example above.

Sunday was spent doing things the Florentine way. I slept through breakfast, then discovered that my Swedish friend Annette was not going to show up at my doorstep to go to Fiesole with me. This is entirely understandable, as it's difficult for her to get over here from her house on the other side of the river. If she walks, it takes an hour. And neither of us have phones.

While waiting I read that Fiesole was founded in the 7th or 6th century BC by Etruscans, then Romanized. For many centuries it was the important town of the area - Roman veterans were settled here, and it commanded important roads to and from Rome. About 1000, Florence became an important rival, and eventually the Florentines climbed the hill and razed the place to the ground. After that Fiesole became a suburb of Florence, a locale for expensive villas by the Medici and others, and finally, the site of picturesque ruins frequently depicted by the Renaissance painters of Florence. And so it goes. Whoever has the power wrecks the other guy's city. Eventually.

So, after a half hour I left a note and walked around the corner to this little place - don't know what it would be called here, but in New York it would be a deli - and had a slice of frittata and a salad. It was quite elegant and simpatico. The woman behind the counter had a smile and was genuinely concerned to set me up well. I sat alone (for the moment) at a lovely marble table for four in the back of the place, in front of three very large metal barrels of local wine. I declined the wine (after all, it was about 11 am) and had orange juice instead. I was soon surrounded by a couple of what seemed to be local housewives out for a bite of lunch, and three working guys from around the corner, one with a NY Yankee's cap on his head.

I kept breaking my plastic fork, and both the lady and her friends would bring me a new one each time. Very funny, and very nice. Next came an English couple speaking excellent Italian, even to each other, and somehow we began to chat in English. I joined them, and discovered he is a retired Reuters correspondent from London, and they have a second house in the Marche, a formerly swampy (a lot of Tuscany, including Florence itself, was once swampy) area near the coast, about a three hour drive from here. We talked until we couldn't talk any more.

Here is how you know you are genuinely welcome. The deli lady pointed out a bowl of mandarin oranges, and invited me to have one. She asked if I wanted a café, and brought me a lovely espresso. The whole thing came to 8 Euro. This is CHEAP by most Florentine standards. I left feeling that I had rarely gotten more value than I did for these 8 Euro.

I then walked around the entire city, getting lost only a few times, and enjoyed a leisurely visit to Museo di San Marco, on a lovely square about a block from the Accademia (David). The Fra Angelico frescoes and paintings are numerous and well preserved. Once again I was grateful to Rick Steves for doing the leg work to figure out which of the many monk's cells were authentically by Angelico, and which were most interesting. I looked at everything, but Steves really does help one to focus on the best and most interesting works. At one moment I wanted to blurt to another couple that the figure kissing Jesus' foot in this particular cell is a portrait of Cosimo de' Medici, who built this (former) Dominican monastery. But I refrained. Thank you, Rick.

The Savonarola rooms really were evocative. His desk, his hair shirt, one of the sticks from the bonfire that consumed him in 1498, the view out his window of the cloisters below.

And I noticed that in the credits on the wall next to the Angelico paintings that Fra Angelico has been promoted to (spelling is wrong here, sorry) Beato or Beati or Beata Angelico, as he apparently was beatified between editions of Rick Steves' Florence & Tuscany 2007.

I've written quite a lot here, and still have left out so many of the little things that make all this so interesting to me. But it is late. Time to change the bedsheets, move the clock forward an hour, assemble all my school implements, and hit the bed. Letto. Whatever.

Goodnight, buona sera, buona notte, ciao a domani, ciao ciao, and so on.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1174408080/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1174408080/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1174408080/tpod.html Tue, 20 Mar 2007 12:38:59 -0400 Learning Life & Italian in Florence, Italy

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Florence, Italy

March 20, 2007
A rainy and COLD Tuesday in Firenze

I haven't had time to write captions, so I thought I'd take this moment to essentially explain this batch of pictures. Joselyn and I have been talking on the phone each afternoon (here; her early morning) using a sort of Internet phone booth on a side street near my scuola. It is very cheap - about 1 Euro for each 10 minutes, and the quality of sound is just fine.

Today in class I was really with it, UNTIL the teacher turned to me and started asking me questions. Brain freeze - too much gelato in the brain. It was about perfume, and smelling it, and is it strong or dolce, and do I like it... and I could get all the words, but I just could not figure out what she was asking me. She was very nice about it - how you would be talking to something colorful and tame in the zoo - but my all purpose smile, raised eyebrows and "Si" didn't somehow satisfy her this time. I never did figure out what it was all about, and my classmate Ihren at lunch today (and she IS a good student) also couldn't tell me what was being asked. So maybe it's not just me. But when the insegnante turned to others, suddenly my brain unfroze and I knew on their behalf just exactly what was being asked, and, too, what the answer might be. Is this what it is in like in class for everyone? I can't exactly remember my school days, but no doubt physics in 11th grade felt like this. I was busy throwing spitballs at the time, trying to stick them to the others on the lights on the ceiling, to really listen. This time I actually am trying, really I am.

So, the pictures: The party was a gathering held on Sunday in Fabbio and Allesandra's kitchen/dining room. You can see the children (Martina is the only girl present) and three couples, and Yuki, and an empty seat where I was sitting until I realized I'd better run downstairs and fetch the camera. By the way, running downstairs here is a bit like falling downstairs. The kitchen is at the top of four flights, each steeper than the next.

The other pictures display the shredded remains of my room, and the view out my window this afternoon. Joselyn has been asking for these pictures, ugly as they are, so I'm sharing for everyone to see. It's a small room, but it's a nice room. Out the window I showed the nearby intersection, the view of the street below, and a view left and a view right. So there you have it, toilet, park and all.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1174322220/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1174322220/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1174322220/tpod.html Mon, 19 Mar 2007 12:55:02 -0400 Learning Life & Italian in Florence, Italy

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Florence, Italy

March 14, 2007, Wednesday.

Everything they say about the Tuscans is true. They sing spontaneously on the street at noon and a midnight. They buzz around in their Vespas. The garbage is collected, noisily, every day, or at least it sounds like it. What else would make that kind of noise every morning at about 1 or 2 am? Certainly not church bells, but they ring, too.

The Florentines have copied us in California, right down to the red tiled roofs, pale yellow stucco, villas on hillsides, and wine everywhere. Fast food is ubiquitous, just like home, except here it is little round pizzas (pizzelle) ready for reheating during half hour breaks.

Food of the Gods and the Street of Malcontents

I have now made the circuit of my neighborhood here around la chiesa Santa Croce... what a wonderful place! No wonder so many people are wandering around at all hours, especially when the stores are open. There are several small park where locals take the sun or play with their children, and a small square with a perpetual semi-open-air market specializing in "mobile" or all kinds of furniture, from antique to glaringly modern. Over another block to the east the small streets open up again for another small piazza, facing an historical church that no tourists, except me, visit. It's Sant' Ambrogio. Not too far away is Via Malconenti. Yes, street of the malcontents. Who were they, I wonder?

This reminds me of an ancient New Yorker cartoon... a nice couple is wandering the back streets of a small city such as Firenze when they happen upon what appears to be a small and typically local ristorante. One of them exclaims: "Look dear, a small and typical local restaurant!" There is a sign above the restaurant that reads: "Small & Typical Local Restaurant."

Inside S. Ambrogio a docent arranges bibles, two people are praying, new age relaxation music plays softly in the background, and on the floor are the tombstones of Verocchio and others. There are many frescoes so far gone they are merely outlines in black chalk to mark the figures. Like many other places this church has been flooded more than once. One fresco has been restored and in particular stands out. A group of Fiorentinos are standing around sometime about 1500... very lovely (see picture). This fresco is attributed to Raffaellino Del Garbo (1455-1524), Gretta Garbo's great great great great great great great grandfather. It shows St. Anthony as an abbot, with Tobiah and the Angel. But mostly it's a bunch of lovely Fiorentionos in glorious color. How would you like to have that in YOUR neighborhood? Not just a fresco, but a fresco more than 500 years old?

Beyond and around that church are numerous shops and bars. I had an excellent 2 Euro double gelato (my first here) which carried me several blocks. I found a shop that specializes in alterations, and returned with the shirt off my back (please shorten the sleeves?) and a pair of pants missing one button. The signora was gentile, and enjoyed pointing out we had almost the same name: Antony or Antonio (I can be either one, or Tony). I'll be back on Friday to pick up the work (if I can remember).

la Scuola

School has divided itself into the intense but not all that useful morning group class, in which 12 persons all half my age (or less) converge to learn the passato prossimo and other obscure aspects of the language. I do my homework and speak my piece, but if this was all I was doing it would not be nearly enough.

After lunch, I have an excellent insegnante (see picture) all to myself for two solid hours, no break. It's talk talk talk, which suits me just fine, and much scribbling on the board to explain things I didn't understand. We speak of things "molto diverso" from my (former) bookstore and my opinions of the employees, and what is it like to live in Mendocino, and where are the young people, to music (Lucia brought the Tokyo String Quartet to my attention - they are appearing two times this weekend with a program of Mozart and Beethoven, each concert different from the other, in the Teatro della Pergola, which turns out to be not more than one crooked block from the Scuola. What a surprise, and what a great weekend this is going to be! From here in my room on Borgo Allegri 38 I can walk to the theater in easily under ten minutes.

I would go on, and will, but it's already 5:30 and time to think about doing some compiti, or homework. We do have homework. To be continued, as always.

March 15, 2007, Thursday
Coffee on Every Corner

OK. I have been in Florence for six days, and it's time to stop feeling sorry for myself. I have to admit that I've been terribly homesick from time to time from the moment I got here and unpacked (alone... awww) in my little hotel room with the bright red bathroom tiles. There is lots to take in, both sacred and profane, but still there are those midnight jet-lagged moments when I feel all alone, very small, and specifically not loved by anyone, except my wife at home, and my cats, who actually don't love anyone but themselves but it doesn't matter.

This morning I woke up at the usual 4 or 5 am and could feel the loneliness creeping up on me. Dammit I said to me, get over it you little shit. Time to enjoy the time and place here. I am doing better now, grazie. I continue to enjoy the one-on-one classes, and my casual classmate friends have started to become actual friends. It's very nice.

Nancy from New York plays viola, and is taking music lessons as well as Italian. Annette and Iren (Irene?) are very different from each other, but both from Sweden (did not know each other before arriving here). Together the four of us have gotten lost going to and from the Mercato Centrale for a quick lunch (see picture) and hung out in smoggy sunshiney mornings. Today after class we went in search of a café with the intention of doing our homework together. I suggested the Piazza Santa Croce (only a couple of blocks from my home, how nice) and we sat together in the gathering dusk facing the cathedral. We drank red wine and Italian beer, and went through the homework. It was actually quite intense. We never got around to chatting until we were gathering things to go.

We talked about how each of us was getting home to our apartments, and about the Fortessa Belvedere up behind the Pitti Palace as a good place to hang out for the view and relative solitude. I hugged each of them goodbye, explaining that we do this in America, even though it would be more Italian to kiss each other on our various cheeks. Once again I am reminded it is a hell of a lot better to go through life with people you like than the other way around.

Florence will never feel like home, but I have located:
1 A place to get buttons sewn and sleeves shortened
2 An excellent gelato shop
3 The local Wash and Dry (and two dry cleaners)
4 Endless interesting small ristoranti (see picture of a fish place steps from home)
5 The flower stand, the giornale stand for newspapers, etc.

... all within a few blocks. Florence, unlike US towns, is rich in all the good things you might want - coffee and pastries and pannini and cigarettes and food shops and meat shops and olive and cheese shops, and gawd-knows-what-all shops; places to purchase pens and pencils (the cartoleria) and a hospital and another hospital and museums and churches and furniture stores, oculists, bookstores, newstands, more churches, hotels - all these and more are pretty much everywhere in town, and not just because there are so many tourists and so many students. It's just how it is, and how it may have used to have been (say THAT in Italian) in the US... small shops and little bites. Coffee here is a public utility. Like fire hydrants at home, there is espresso on every corner.

Tonight I enjoyed the usual frenetic conflagration called "dinner" at home, and "la cena" here. It started with a big noise: Fabbio happily arriving loaded down with bags, some containing food, with daughter Martina running up and down the steep stairs shouting "Babbo! Babbo!" which is Tuscan for "Daddy!"

It was Yuki's turn to show us how the Japanese eat. She put together comfortable bowls of soba noodles for us, but only she had chopsticks, and I think she used them wisely. Just as soon as the noodles were slurped up, with much gratitude and noise, out came the fresh slices of mozzarella, slices of juicy red tomatoes, with basil bits on the top, oil and vinegar and some thick slices of Reggiano parmesano just to fill it all out. In a few moments we had traveled from Kyoto to Florence. For dessert: a huge bar of dark cioccalata from Turin, where the best nutty chocolate bars come from, Fabbio says.

Fabio showed us a clipping from the newspaper about the imminent cherry blossom festival in Japan. He recounted that a Tokyo weatherman had to make profuse public apologies when he estimated wrong by three days the best hour and minute to view the new crop of cherry blossoms.

There is a lovely big cherry tree just past peak blossom time, quietly blooming in a tiny open behind the main school building. I only see it in brief glimpses, as the door is kept closed, and students are shooed away.

At dinner Martina was very focused on reading the names and phone numbers of her classmates to mama. Allesandra dutifully recorded each one in a new tiny address book that was discovered inside Martina's very large chocolate Easter egg. Martina was allowed to break into it weeks before Pasquale because, I guess, she can't have real chocolate, so the artificial chocolate was allowed early. I continue to be impressed with how easily Martina eats only the correct foods (rice milk, etc.) and is not tempted by the illegal goodies on the table each morning and night. I don't know how she does it. Bad yet delicious food at home, such as chocolate bars and cookies, never last us very long. I have NO self control if I like the stuff.

March 16, 2007 My Local Cafe

Another nice stop at the café in piazza Santa Croce with Nancy and Annette. The café has a name: Finisterrae, Ristorante Mediterraneo. We talked a lot; got some ideas about where I might travel after school ends - Elba, Sardegna, or the coast below Portofino... now I must go out and try to find or borrow an English language Italian travel book to try to get a better handle on the logistics.

Nancy on the way home walked around my block with me, and was happily amazed at the riches here. She found some things I hadn't seen, such as a small gallery with miniature watercolors of Firenze... I saw a wine shop - not a place to drink, for once, but a place to buy wine, that looks as sophisticated as you'd ever want. By the time we had made the circuit and Nancy had looked at a map to help her walk home, she realized (a) I have it made and (b) she is going to spend more time in this neighborhood and (c) she lives not more than three blocks away and didn't realize all this was here. I didn't know it was all here until I'd been here a few days.

At school there have been some rearrangements. Two students in my class (both male) have decided it's too advanced, and dropped back to Level 1 (I am in Level 2). They no doubt made the right decision, but it leaves me as the only male in a room of eight women. You might think this delightful (I probably will start menstruating with them - a well-known phenomenon in prisons and classrooms) but in fact it puts me very much on the spot. This morning we talked about all the things one does to wake up. I was the model for shaving, of course. But worse, half the words we learn are "masculino" and how do you demonstrate this, but point at Antonio. I'm sick of it. Point at your own damn self. (Actually, teacher may point at me as much as she wishes. She is nice. I hope she reads this.)

Uh oh.... The latest news is that Yuki's friends have backed out of the adventure, so Yuki will not be taking the bus tonight to Napoli. Of course, everyone is relieved, except her. I think she's a bit sad about it. But hey - she will try again later in the month. Fabbio has pointed out that starting Saturday morning at 4 am Yuki can watch the time trials in Australia for the next Grand Prix race. However, Yuki seems to have trouble waking up in time for breakfast, so she may not be able to see this on TV. Too bad.

March 17, 2007, Sabato, gorgeous sunshine

First Saturday in Firenze. We started with a quick breakfast including some Brie, then off to the WashandDry (pronounced as one word, in English) around the corner. About 11 am, fully cleansed, took myself all of three blocks to Santa Croce, to finally look around inside. Unfortunately, I quickly discovered why there are so many - it seems like hundreds - of students always standing around in groups on the piazza. Apparently they all gather together and go into the church at the same time - my time. However, unlike at the Uffizzi, where one really wants to be alone to ponder the art, in this immense church (designed for preaching to crowds) I could avoid the clumps of people by walking ahead or behind them. There was a moment when I and a few others were trying to go one way through a doorway, and 75 kids were coming in the other direction. This is why the Italians say "mio dio!"

There are some beautiful things inside, from tombs on the floor to frescoes on the walls. I was not impressed by the "important" tombs for Michelangelo, Galileo, Machiavelli, Dante, Marconi (Marconi! Radio!) and Gioachino Rossini, as these were big slabs of stuff assembled against the walls (have to admit there was some art in Vasari's tomb for Michelangelo - as a tribute, he painted his figures in the out-there, muscular manner of the master) and finished it off with three female statues, Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture, all sad. Also the Brunelleschi chapel, some of the paintings in the adjacent museum, were lovely. (See pictures).

Let's see... Michelangelo died in Rome and Florentines had to steal his body back; Dante was banished by the Florentines and is buried in Ravenna, the church delayed letting Galilleo into any church for a very long time, and Machiavelli was arrested and tortured by the Medicis and banished from Florence. Rossini died in Paris and was later removed to Santa Croce by patriotic Italians.

At least Michelangelo actually prayed here. He lived one block east on Via dei Bentaccordi 15. He liked to walk over to the piazza, kick the old soccer ball around, and watch the tourists.

March 18, 2007, Sunday Been here a week!

This marks one week since I arrived at my new apartment in Borgo Allegri. I am happy here. Took some photos this morning of Fabbio and Martina.

The Tokyo String Quartet concert last night was fabuloso. I think my nerves have been rubbed a bit raw. I found myself not only hyper-alert to the music, all of which Joselyn and I have played many times, but also moved, almost to tears, and to big, happy smiles, esp. in the Mozart K589. I had a primo seat four rows from the front, three seats in, and could easily see the faces and movements of each musician. The first violin and cellist are American and English, in that order, and the second violin and violist are Japanese. I wonder where they all live? Together in one city? Do they suffer jet lag?

The concert: Mozart K. 589, Beethoven Op. 59 #2, then Beethoven Op. 59 #3 (our old friend, with the rapidissimo finale of the last movement). Many call backs, and an encore: The third movement of the Debussy string quartet. If there is more than one Debussy string quartet, then I don't know which they actually played. Introducing the encore, the first violinist put hand on heart and said in half-Italian, half-English... "now for something not quite so FAST!"

I am going back tonight for their second concert: Mozart K. 575, Mozart K. 590, and Beethoven Op. 59 #1 with the lovely cello opening. The players are Martin Beaver VI, Kikuei Ikeda VII, Kazuhide Isomura, viola; and Clive Greensmith, cello.

I took photos of the lovely hall, which looks more like an opera house than a venue for chamber music. At the fourth photo I was emphatically stopped by an usher, who told me no photos, flash or otherwise. I can't imagine why (when there is no one on stage, and I don't use flash) - why would they not like their beautiful Teatro della Pergola to be in someone's scrapbook?

After the concert, dinner with Annette and Nancy at Ristorante Natalino at Borgo Albizi 17r. 138 Euro for three persons; antipasti, two plates, and dessert, and a bottle of Chianti (Ducale Riserva; if it's good enough for the duke...). We were charged, as is customary, 2 E each for "pane & coperto". For the second course we all had the same thing: Florentine beefsteak sliced thin, covered with something green; maybe lettuce? and flavored with aceto balsamico. Yumm! I enjoyed a nice Panna Cotta until it was explained to me that it's all cooked cream, with vanilla and gelatin. Yumm! Calories!

Staying Alive

The churchbells at Santa Croce are ringing beautifully this Sunday. The streets are busy as usual, but not as hectic as weekday workdays. I am completely over jet lag (it has taken more than a week to have zero lingering side effects, such as waking up at 4 in the morning and staying awake). Now I have more time to stay alive.

A typical sidewalk here is two cobblestones wide. On this sidewalk may be mothers with babies in strollers, people lugging wheeled suitcases, business guys striding along with briefcases, women walking while talking into their mobiles, elderly ladies with food in bulging bags, and me with my backpack. We all must pass each other on these two-cobblestone paths without knocking each other off into traffic. Just to the left of my left ankle may be a large bus, or a car, or several speeding and noisy motobiciclette... One false step and you are in the ospedale, or worse.

To let others pass we step off the sidewalk if we can, but then cars come up behind and play tag with your buttocks. Leaving the concert Saturday evening a whole bunch of white-haired older concertgoers were cluttering up the two-cobblestone path. I stepped around a couple, and realized a large car was just behind me, waiting for me to clear off. I did not hear it, did not see it, and thank god for brakes.

In "Italians Dance & I'm a Wallflower" Linda Falcone points out "Uno dev'essere sveglio" "One must be awake." Her friend says, "People from the New World always walk like you do, with half their brains turned off, as if the world were a field of daisies... to live well in Italy, uno dev'essere sveglio. Italy is a dangerous place for those who sleep. You have to keep your eyes open and look out for yourself."
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1173702000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1173702000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1173702000/tpod.html Mon, 19 Mar 2007 08:46:20 -0400 Learning Life & Italian in Florence, Italy

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Florence, Italy

March 12, 2007

First day of school! What a shock, and what a pleasure, too. Already have made some friends to share things with in English. Had lunch with three ladies - two from Sweden (and they didn't previously know each other) and one from NYC. Nancy from New York plays viola (for the past three years, anyway) and is taking viola lessons in the afternoon. We had one hour, wandered out from school, pondered, walked, and entered this tiny little whatever - café, I guess. I had a good pasta with fresh vegetables... the ladies had various versions of salad. As I've noted on previous trips, it is almost impossible to find a bad meal in Italy. Easy to be mistreated; hard to find a bad meal.

I had feared I had an impossible schedule, but turns out the schedule is not impossible, just very tiring. We have group class each weekday morning at 9, for four hours (!) with one half-hour break... then an hour for lunch, then, for me (others are also doing this routine) two hours with another teacher one on one. The schedule goes like this:

Group class: 9 to 10:45, 30 minute break, 11:15 to 13:00.
lunch for an hour, private two hour class 14:00 to 15:45.

I had mistakenly thought I had yet ANOTHER class after that, but in fact I go home (trudge home, skip home, sneak home, roll home, etc.) at about 4 pm., just when Joselyn is stepping into the shower in Caspar, CA. A long day, but not crazy.

I like my afternoon teacher, named Lisa. We keep breaking into "personal" conversation topics, such as music, bookselling, idioms, and other stuff, and it feels like making a new friend. By the time I'm halfway through this class each day, however, I find myself pretty blitzed. A school day means taking in a huge amount of new information - words, phrases, vocabulary, learning to hear what is being said, learning grammar, such as where pronouns go in a sentence, and which gender they do or don't agree with, etc. Lisa helps by understanding the situation, going slowly (pian' piano) but not dumbing things down, either. We use phrases, tenses and words that may be ahead of where the group class is now... it is fun to get something right the first time, and hear her say "correto!" - it doesn't take much to make me feel good.

Morbid homesickness has given way to a more intense kind of learning activity. MH may creep up on me early in the morning when I can't sleep, or at a café in the cool winter afternoon sun, sipping vino rosso, and wishing Joselyn were here to share this.

Cramming

When I tell people what I crammed into my first three days here, they are amazed. From landing on Friday until end of Saturday I visited the Uffizi galleries, the Bargello (which is a great collection of sculpture, including a Donatello David and other works by Michelango), and the Accademia which houses the original David by Michelangelo, plus his "prisoners" series, plus, totally unplanned, an adjacent Museo of Instrumenti Antichi (neither Michelin or Rick Steves mentions this) which includes a cello by Nicolo Amati, and a violin and a viola by Antonio Stradivarius (absolutely thrilling, but the cases were too darkly lit to be able to see enough details in the wood). PLUS the best museum of all, by far, the Museo dell' Opera del Duomo, located directly behind the Duomo; best not so much for its excellent collection, but more for its modern, efficient, user-friendly, well-laid out and well-lighted space. The evocative pieta by Michelangelo (almost his last work, and includes what is thought to be a self portrait - very powerful; plus a wooden Mary Magdelena by Donatello, eight of the ORIGINAL Ghiberti door panels for the adjacent Baptistery, some more pieces by Donatello... I took lots of pictures there, which are allowed without flash. Rick Steves notes this place is "underrated" and that is an understatement. Other museums have more stuff and more important stuff, esp. the Uffizi, but they are badly flawed compared to this one.

What's Wrong with the Uffizi?

The Uffizi (and by extension, Italy) is showing its age, but not in a good way. I was there on a sunny morning (Saturday, 10 Marzo, 10 o'clock). The paintings on the east side of the building were obscured by intense eastern light coming in through windows and painfully bouncing off the apparently non non-glare glass placed in front of almost everything. There were numerous groups, mostly young students, that bunched up everywhere, listening to the boring or indecipherable guides. Amazingly, a number of the great paintings were not hanging straight up and down. (In our house Joselyn would make me get up on a ladder and fix these immediately.) Still, I was almost in tears standing in front of paintings such as the Botticelli Primavera (Venus on the Half Shell)... something I haven't seen and a place I haven't stood in for 40 years. Despite everything, it's an amazing collection; a tenth the size of the Louvre, but tasty. The view of the Ponte Vecchio out the west windows is also amazing. Yes, I took that picture, too.

By contrast, someone who actually is LIVING in the current century has made a compelling success out of the Duomo museum - such a modern attitude, such ancient materials. After having read "Brunelleschi's Dome" a while back (it's also for sale in the gift shop) it was a thrill to see his original models for the dome (I took pictures) and his death mask, and a display of the mason's tools and scaffolding used.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1173623160/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1173623160/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/firenze07/1173623160/tpod.html Sun, 18 Mar 2007 10:58:05 -0400 Learning Life & Italian in Florence, Italy

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Florence, Italy

Firenze March 11, 2007

Il mio "famiglia" is:
Fabio Feri, padre
Allesandra Feri, madre
Martina Feri, bambina, peperina
Miu (il cane) small and hungry
another student boarder: Yuki Taccata, loves fast cars and kimonos
Myself, an American of Czech and Russian descent, studying Italian in Florence with students from Germany, Switzerland, Sweden, Japan, the Czech Republic and, of course the USA.

This is the learn-Italian-and live-with-family deal in Florence that I volunteered for, and happily I have been well placed. The family is delightful! Fabio is a fix-it guy with a lot of energy, and patience in speaking my broken Italian, his broken English. He's about 45, lived in Argentina a for years and also speaks Portuguese, is slightly pot bellied, warm hearted, and seriously trying to be helpful. His lovely wife is just as friendly. Their young daughter is beautiful, intelligent, studying guitar and the times tables, is allergic to wheat and eggs and tree pollen, has many friends... I like her, but she's hardly noticed me yet. It must be difficult to have a series of boarders in the house; but her parents assure me she just takes time to warm up to someone new.

I have come across an excellent and relevant book written by an American expatriate with 15 years in Florence: "Italians Dance & I'm a Wallflower: Adventures in Italian Expression," by Linda Falcone. Each short chapter (about the length of an episode of Words on Books, but I haven't measured) focuses on one or another aspect of Italian psychology. From her I picked up the word "peperina" - Martina is what Italians call una peperina. "It means she has spunk and fills her words with red pepper."

There is the unusual young woman from Japan, named Yuki, staying in the room above mine. She wears a lovely kimono from time to time (see picture), is a motorcyclist and fan of fast classic cars. In fact, she is planning to go to Naples with two other Japonese friends this weekend, for a big car show. I think Fabio and Allesandra are a bit worried about this. All week they have been joking that they have called Yuki's parents in Kyoto and they said don't go. But she is definitely going. The bus leaves Friday night at 11 p.m.

At our first dinner Yuki showed me pictures of Kyoto, including her parents (my age - he is a commercial baker) and her friends. Then she took out a Japanese car magazine and showed me a feature in which she is pictured at a car show, looking nothing like the demure woman in a kimono. Also, she plays drums.

The small ex-shelter dog is named Miu, and he is almost as small as a large cat. We made immediate friends; he stands up and leans on my leg so I can pet him behind the ears. Soulful eyes; we now are soul mates, and I didn't even feed him any of my roast turkey and potatoes.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/nyc_2005/1134719640/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/nyc_2005/1134719640/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/nyc_2005/1134719640/tpod.html Fri, 16 Dec 2005 03:03:06 -0500 Manhattan, Winter 2005

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New York City, Philadelphia, Mendocino, California, United States

WORDS ON BOOKS by Tony Miksak for KZYX&Z-FM, 90.7 Philo CA
Airs Sun. December 18, 2005 at 10:55 am, repeated Monday, Dec 19 at 8:30 am
Title: A Crocheted Christmas, For Sure

(MUSIC UP) This is Tony Miksak with a few Words on Books.

I think The Holiday, or was it Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanzaa, Pagan Solstice, whatever... I think the whole thing peaked last Thursday morning at about 11 a.m.

It's downhill from here, so you may as well take that nap you've been missing. It's already too late to get packages to the East Coast. The elves at Macy's are tired of smiling, and anyway, you're out of cash money.

You'll recall THIS was going to be the year you didn't spend money you don't have on presents they won't appreciate. Instead, you planned to craft darling crocheted things to wear. You've collected a killer selection of fall leaves and arranged them artfully in a yard sale dish. This year you'll donate to Marine Mammal Center instead of Target.

Or not. It's ineffably difficult to resist the pull of Commercial Christmas Past, those nostalgia-fired memories of shopping with your parents, touring Ghiradelli Square in the rain in San Francisco, shoplifting at Radio Shack... well, each to her own memory.

We're not stupid, of course. We sniff the Zeitgeist like dogs sniff trees. We know the culture's changing, yet where we are now, living through December, 2005, it's impossible to prepare for what we sense is pending. In the meantime, Amy Goodman reports the news from her firehouse in Manhattan. We maintain our traditions, the country has its war, whatever. Fill in the blanks and check out the sale goods.

It appears we lost an entire city down Louisiana way, and few yet have noticed. We're creating another lost generation of maimed and damaged soldiers and no one's dealing with that, either.

Amid all this, Joselyn and I spent the past couple of weeks on the East Coast.

I took along Philip Roth's frightening novel "The Plot Against America" and at a museum shop picked up a copy of Frederic Morton's "A Nervous Splendor: Vienna 1888 - 1889."

Either book would chill the holiday right out of a reader. Roth's plausible portrait of American anti-semitism is coldly horrifying. Morton's description of old Imperial Vienna lays out a suicidal society about to step into the abyss with Freud, Mahler, Herzl, Klimt, Wolf and Bruckner struggling to survive the fall. And in Upper Austria Klara Hitler is pregnant with a male child.

With these horrifying portrayals in mind, we traveled to Philadelphia, The City of Brotherly Love. It now takes a security check and a "free ticket," whatever that may be, to view the Liberty Bell in its hermitically sealed, security-enhanced, mummified place of honor.

Why the frisk, the metal detector, the bomb sniffing dogs? It's a bell, for Washington's sake. It's a ton of old bronze, and it's cracked, by the way. I almost fainted from the irony (and the freezing wind) as I watched police and Wackenhut Security Services thugs prevent pedestrians from crossing the street to view the outside - the outside only, mind you, of Independence Hall where Congress met to write our Constitution.

We walked away. Liberty ain't what it used to be.

In Manhattan, however, the old magic still works. The throngs striding south along Fifth Avenue were matched by the throngs marching north. They met at each intersection and, like magic, passed through each other on their way to the Christmas windows at Lord & Taylor's or the sparkling nuggets at Tiffany. Long coats and icy puddles, red noses dripping in the cold wind, the Salvation Army ringing bells.

We stayed in a relatively reasonable hotel on the West Side near Central Park. Within feet of our front door was Niko's, the neighborhood Greek restaurant open to midnight; a hamburger joint named Nick, the finest grocery store I've ever encountered, a locksmith, a shop run by Asians selling custom cream puffs (injected with trans-fats before your eyes), a Body Shop, a Papyrus card shop, a couple of banks, a bunch of high rise apartment buildings, and so much more.

In one building, we estimated, live 1600 people on 47 floors. That's one and a half Mendocinos, six elevators, two doormen, a Starbucks, an Italian restaurant and a pocket piazza, all together in one amazing city that's full of places like this, plus the open spaces of Central Park and more world-class museums and galleries than you can visit in a year.

Returning to Mendocino I walked out for lunch and worried that the one other person I could see, striding toward me a block away on the opposite sidewalk, might collide with my hot coffee.

Life is different here, and we recycle better. But hey, it's exciting away, too.


(MUSIC UP) You can subscribe to the email version of Words on Books by writing to amiksak@mcn.org. You always can reach me directly at (707) 937-2215.

Notes:

"The Plot Against America: A Novel" by Philip Roth. Random House Knopf paperback $14.95. ISBN 1400079497.

"A Nervous Splendor: Vienna 1888 / 1889" by Frederic Morton. Penguin paperback $15.00. ISBN 014005667X.

As if WOB wasn't enough bother for you, I've got a blog going on our trip to NYC. You can catch it here, and if you visit, please leave me a note so I'll know you were there: http://www.travelpod.com/members/amiksak
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/nyc_2005/1134200700/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/nyc_2005/1134200700/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/nyc_2005/1134200700/tpod.html Fri, 16 Dec 2005 01:50:50 -0500 Manhattan, Winter 2005

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New York City, New York, United States

Dec 10 through December 13, 2005


Morning of Dec 10... Moved from the Milburn to Ann and Todd's. From there we walked ten blocks to Penn Station, caught two New Jersey Transit trains (transferred in Trenton, just like George Washington before us) and were met at the beautiful Philadelphia 30th Street Station by J's brother Joel (Margo "manning" the parking space out front.)


Joselyn writes:

They immediately took us to Joel's old stomping ground in West Philly: the house he once lived in with Ilsa, his Univ. of Penn and finally Koch's famous deli for incredible pastrami sandwiches and sodas. It took the expected 45 minutes to get the sandwiches, not because of long lines, but because our sandwich maker was a "sandwich artist" who took his time while telling everyone his travel stories. Samples of pickles, corned beef, pastrami (turkey - for me!), and roasted corned beef accompanied the jovial banter that entertained us while we waited.

Joel gave us quite the architectural tour as we drove to our Morning Star B & B, near their house. After a brief rest and hot tub for Tony, we headed over to J and M's house for dinner. Great homemade cioppino, salad, and pumpkin pie with ice cream (how could we eat after Koch's?) Their black toy poodle, Renoir is quite the cutie pie! I fell in love with him (and he liked me too).

Sunday: Joel took us through Valley Forge (past snow covered landscapes) and past recreations of historical soldiers' huts and monuments. Lots of (ultra-right) patriotic institutions around here. We took a tour of Philly to see Ben Franklin's neighborhood, Carpenter's Hall, and stood outside the building that housed the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. Tight security in the streets. If you want to see either of these, you must go 2 blocks down the street to get a FREE ticket (and then walk back). We declined.

Tony: It's painful to experience the hyper-security at the heart of such an historic area. And puzzling how they think that our possession of free tickets in any way makes our entry to various monuments any more secure. If anyone may have a ticket, and walk down the street for entry, what is being secured? It leaves one with a sick feeling that the hired Wackenhut goons are in control at the very place we should be feeling most free.

Joselyn: The highlight of the afternoon: Hearing and seeing the Leipzig String Quartet in a hall housed by an amazing glassed building (see photos). The first violin player's luggage was lost, so he had the event coordinator apologize for his not wearing his tuxedo and shiny shoes - also his music was lost, but they found a part for him. Fabulous performance of Janacek's 1st String Quartet ("Kreutzer"), Beethoven's Op. 18 #6, and Dvorak's Piano Quintet (we've performed the latter two in Mendocino). Wonderful use of dynamics (true pianissimo), and they made it all look easy. We felt the need to practice right away.

Tony: Was struck by their elegant phrasing... graceful pauses, for example, in unexpected places. Our vantage point in the second balcony was an asset in this excellent room  we could not only hear everything, but see everything, too, including the primo violino's incipient bald spot.

Joselyn: Dinner after the concert was at Sotto, an excellent Italian restaurant that featured an oceanic theme (giant squid sculpture above the bar, starfish lights, and squid arms for door handles). Wonderful capper to a fun weekend away "in the country."

These two days were a blur of architectural tours, B&B amenities, time with Margo and Joel at their small-roomed 3-story former steelworker's house, doggie kisses, and much more. See photo of mural in their back yard.

Dec 12... Train back to New York, and a quick late afternoon excursion to MOMA, stopping on the way in a couple of highly overpriced but design-heavy stores along the way. We also stopped and gleefully gaped at Grand Central station. There was a quasi-crafts fair going on in one of the immense side corridors, and J spotted some hand made cloth bookmarks in the form of bugs and ocean animals, that we'll present to staffers (The Boss went to Manhattan for Two Weeks And All I Got Was This Lousy Colorful Cloth Handmade Bookmark That Looks Like a Squid).

On MOMA: Here's where I cavil that while the art is the same, the space has only gotten marginally better. It is easy to navigate and the display rooms are large enough to allow both close and distant peering without too much shoulder-rubbing.

Big disappointment: The MOMA's huge Monet Waterlilies, which used to have a room to itself, curve gently around a wall so it became truly three dimensional, and could be viewed from an overhanging balcony as well on its floor level... all of that has gone. The triptych now takes the entire wall of a long, narrow room. Well lit, couches in front, and audio tour explanation. Still, not as magical as before, and disappointing when so much went into the new display areas.

The café was great fun, and very efficient. We ate our pannini overlooking part of the great sculpture garden (I was looking at a heavy Henry Moore nude while chewing) and the overlooking apartments across the street. What does it cost, I couldn't refrain from wondering, to live in an apartment with a view of the MOMA garden? Don't ask.

From MOMA we hoofed it to the Musicians Local on 322 48th Street, just in time to completely miss Todd's Big Latin Band rehearsal. He told us, as he packed up his big sax, that his solo had gone well. The fine musicians here are not getting paid for the rehearsal, and not much for the performance. It was ever so.

Met up with Ann at a fine Cajun-influenced restaurant in the neighborhood, Delta Grill. It was our chance to treat our generous hosts. J had blackened crayfish; I had shrimp gumbo, Ann had the salmon, Todd a big jambalaya in an iron bowl. Photo slide show into the night back at home, then an uneasy sleep preparing to fly home on Tuesday. Which we are accomplishing as I write this. The Rockies are white, the Midwest is white, Manhattan is gorgeous from the air, we're Going Back in Time, and it was a great trip.

We want to return. I think we'd do variations on the things we did this time. We'd be able to be a bit more selective (wonderful as it is, don't feel the need to walk through the library again, or visit 21 Bank Street).

Catch more music, plays, shops, foodie places; never did get to Katz' Deli, or take the Staten Island Ferry, or hear Todd knoodle in public.

We got to be quite expert at managing the subway system. Learned how to cross a street against the light while not getting ice water in our socks. Every time we stopped and pulled out our beaten-up folded map someone really fast would come up and ask if they could help us... All but one such encounter felt completely unforced and authentic. If NY really was a grumpy and over-strung as reputation would have it, those days are over.

Todd and Ann were quick to point out how much character and variety had disappeared in their neighborhood in recent years. Nearby Times Square got cleaned up, then the local prostitutes were uprooted, then many small stores (computer repair, Cuban/Chinese restaurant, art supply store, etc.) were forced out due to increased rents, loss of clients (both for art and for what whores are selling), then smaller buildings were transformed to high rises. Still, for someone not mourning what was lost, it's still fascinating to walk around, and the profusion of small shops and hideaway businesses is sufficient to kindle awe. I don't complain that muggings are down, Central Park feels safe at night, and even the more difficult, down at heels neighborhoods don't feel threatening to walk.

Criminy... even the cab drivers were nice.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/nyc_2005/1134172200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/nyc_2005/1134172200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/amiksak/nyc_2005/1134172200/tpod.html Fri, 09 Dec 2005 23:22:04 -0500 Manhattan, Winter 2005

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New York City, United States

Woke up this morning to fast falling snow... almost a white out, and very beautiful. By noon it had disappeared and all was sunny and icy. From Columbus Circle at the southwest corner of Central Park we wandered east to the Plaza Hotel (hello, Eloise!) and then down 5th Avenue in search of... what... glam? shopping?... elegant lunch?... all of this plus Rockefeller Center, tree and skating rink, SUCH a famous spot. Take a look at the associated pictures; there are a couple of quite arty ones.

December 9, 2005, evening...

Went down to Union Square to find the Play Back Theater... Our cousin-in-law Ann Belmont is improvising the music for this improvisory troupe. The idea is we gather in a tiny performance space in an old building up a flight of stairs protected by indecipherable door buzzers, and watch a group of fairly young actors warm up for their encounter with us. They solicit stories. Their leader (director) helps shape the tale by asking questions, and giving the actors clues (this will be a chorus; let's do this in pairs, and so on...) Then the story is played back to the audience by the actors.

Stories: Got fired; left my girlfriend's house and couldn't get a bus in the snow, so I walked across Central Park, and it was full of friendly dogs, friendly people, and it was beautiful.

Or tell a story about yourself: My name is Joselyn, and I'm a teacher. I've taught for 31 years, and I'm probably close to retirement, but I love the children; but I hate the incessant and increasing paperwork...

Joselyn nudged me a couple of times. "Tell them the 21 Bank Street Story" so I did, and immediately fell into a deep well of tears, and although it's interesting to be down there, it's difficult to speak from a well.

Easy to recall and relate now, very hard to tell it to the room full of actors and audience. All it was, was, that I made a pilgrimage to the street where my family lived in 1946... and I related a couple of vivid memories... but something the director said reminded me that I was there with my mother and father, and I suddenly missed both of them so much I could hardly speak. I hate emotional zombies, but I also hate people who weep in public, but I got over the self-hatred, and in the end it was cathartically mind-clearing.

I recalled going out for Halloween in my home-made orange and black clown suit in the snow along Bank Street; going to the movies around the corner with my father and being absolutely terrified by the green smoke that came out from under Dorothy's house when she landed in Oz, on top of the bad witch; and... the boy (maybe he was 8 years old to my four) who waited for me outside our front door and hit me in the stomach whenever he could. I stayed inside a lot when he was around.

Stuff like that. Then the actors acted it back (and I got to pick the actor who would play Tony), and yes, it was more than amazing, it was lovely, and heartaching... and funny. But when I noticed through my ongoing tears two actors coming downstage with ghost-like veil over their bodies, it was almost too much. I still need to say goodbye to my dear parents, and I still need to cry, but I don't really need to see their ghosts on stage at this moment. But ya know, I felt truly grateful for all of it, and it couldn't have happened in a more supportive environment.

Afterward I got to thank and hug a couple of the actors, speak with the director, and the Japanese woman sitting behind us said my story means a lot to her, because she's about to have a baby.

That's another message, I think: Be careful what you do and say with your children. They will remember.

I have a lot to think about and a lot to process, and who knew that would be the result of going out to a small theater improv evening to see Ann play her guitar. No one knew.

Joselyn had a bit lighter encounter, but reported one acted image stayed with her vividly: One actor in the group pretended to climb a huge vine, saying "Ahhh... I can't let go yet... I can't let go..." and J thought that went right to the heart of her questions right now, not to mention mine, a bit, too. Great night.

Tomororw we leave the Milburn for Todd and Ann's apt, take New Jersey transit to Philadelphia to visit J's brother Joel and wife Margo, take in the Leipzig String Quartet, then back to NYC early on Monday, December 12; fly home on the 13th.
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