It’s Monday in Milano, soon to turn 3:00 pm, the end of the day’s slow start. I’ve been hunkered in the house at the computer, in no rush to go anywhere because there’s been no where to go. Generally, on Monday, places are either closed or don’t open ’til 1:00 or 2:00 or 3:00, give or take an hour or two. Need something? What’s your hurry?!
Listening to music “on shuffle” – likened by one friend to eating whipped cream with mustard – I was hearing Led Zeppelin two minutes ago, and now Spanish classical guitar virtuoso, Felix Mañe Rodriguez is playing something wistful and pensive. A musical mix while paying bills, writing e-mails, eating a chicken & arugula salad and figuring out travel plans.
OK. It’s 3:04. I can go run some errands now. Ciao ciao.
(Annie Lennox and Chinese Traditional Erhu came next in the music list. I guess that really IS a lot like whipped cream with mustard! Love that analogy!)
Saturday morning, 11:30. The church bell just tolled. Birds in the courtyard. A lovely, fresh breeze through the open windows. Sunny and warm. And someone in the neighboring building has been playing scales on a synthesizer keyboard creating the kind of repetitious, monotonous sound that makes me “fuori di testa” – out of my head. But it can’t be changed, and that acceptance allows me to ignore it.
I just got word that they will start today to completely tear out and rebuild my little courtyard. They will leave 5 of the large plants and all else will be removed: the Day Lilies, the delicate, purple “Mouth of the Lion” that I had just photographed, the hidden yellow flower I found, the wild strawberries. Granted, the courtyard is jungle-like, but it’s given me little pleasures. It will also be torn up as my place to enjoy my coffee in the morning, and it will no longer have the privacy afforded by foliage. But I am transient here and will always find my joys. I hope they create a new treasure.
Moments before the gardener returned this afternoon to cut, I made one last bouquet (set with a bowl of fresh figs from this morning’s market).
At 10:15 last night, I stepped out the front gate from the public courtyard of my apartment complex and headed north along the canal for a couple-mile walk.
I crossed over the small foot bridge near my place, then glanced over and noticed a couple of older women sitting out on their second floor balcony, also enjoying the evening.
The place was hoppin’. Milano has turned warm and humid and the evenings are for socializing. It’s the “passeggiata”, the walk through town to see and be seen. It’s the social hour… the pre- or post-meal digestif… the expression of social position… the time to hypothesize, criticize or seal-the-deal… the time to procaim romantic status, whether available or not.
Thousands of people were out strolling with friends, seated at sidewalk tables, riding their bikes or standing at the canal balustrade with a glass of wine or beer, chatting. It’s the thing to do here. It’s part of the day’s fabric in Italy. (Balmy evenings certainly encourage the outdoor visitin’, but I saw this in the middle of winter, too, just without the number of outdoor tables.)
I live in the “Zona Navigli”, the Canal Zone, (approximately where the number 1 is on the map below). (Naviglio means one canal, roughly pronounced “nah-VEE-lio”. Navigli is plural.) Each time I’ve been living/staying in Milano it’s been in this neighborhood. Though the broad area around and including Milano has a series of inter-connected canals – which Leonardo da Vinci played a part in devising – the neighborhood IN the city is referred to as the “Navigli” and includes the triangular area between the Naviglio Grande and the Naviglio Pavese, and areas closely adjoining these two canals.
When I lived here for 14 months, I rode my bike several times a week south along the Naviglio Pavese, then west into the farmland. I’ve been on my bike as far south as Pavia, as far west as Abbiategrasso and as far east at Trezzo Sull’Adda. (Click on the map for a larger view.) Note the locations of Lago (Lake) Maggiore and Lago di Como up north. I’ve been told of bike routes from Milano up to the lakes, but have not been fortunate enough to ride them. “Fiume”, by the way, means river.
The Zona Navigli is a pretty “hip, young, creative” neighborhood, with schools in the area, and one of Milano’s design hub areas. At canalside, one finds art galleries and antique shops, used books stores, gelaterie, pizzarie and every other sort of place to get a bite to eat. It’s also one of Milano’s Happy Hour Aperitivo hot spots. Eight euros will get you a drink and food from the buffet table. (It can be a cheap dinner, but if you want one more glass of wine or beer, you pay the 8 euros again.)
This first video was shot at the junction of the north-south Naviglio Pavese, (along which is located my casa) and the east-west Naviglio Grande. Listen to the voices, the street noise, the general hub-bub. Note, also, that there are two local police officers there if needed.
People have asked me whether I feel safe out walking around so late. Tell me, does it LOOK like danger? I’m appropriately aware and vigilant, but I think the evening crowds are a lot like bees when they’re swarming: they’re not interested in stinging, they only care about following the queen. In this situation, people are just relaxed, talking and people-watching. There are likely some on the prowl for theft or mischief, but I never sense any red flags rising.
Here’s a second video taken just a few feet away from the first, looking at the display case of the pastry shop open late to satisfy a sweet tooth.
This second video shows a 180 degree view, which looks down the Naviglio Grande, then scans the large, stone-paved street. Note the wide flat barge-type tour boat in the middle of the canal.
At the point where I turn around in my walking loop, there’s a building with highly stylized graffiti lettering. It’s been there for a number of years, but still pleases my eye with its character. “No name, no fame. No?”
There are a couple of foot bridges the cross over the Naviglio Grande in this stretch closest to town. In this third video, I’m standing on the second bridge, giving a full look around. By this time it was almost 11:00 pm.
I was amused by the music being broadcast across the canal from the small trattoria on the other side.
As a designer, artist and photographer, I can’t go anywhere without seeing Design, Art and Photography. Nice, France, complies wonderfully by providing a fabulous draw to my eye. The sights are inspiring and stirring. The things that catch my eye are: the signs of former times, contrasts, lush details, old/new, the hand of the maker, classicism/modernism, typographic forms, light/pattern/color/shape.
I spent two brief days in Nice, alternating between wedding celebrations and city explorations. What’s clear is that it didn’t FEEL like Italy. It felt like a different country, though I was only just over the border. Yes, it looked different… but it felt like a different place, too. I’ll have to ponder this more and put it into words during my next visit.
They’re not kidding! When they call it The Coast of Blue – Cote d’Azur – it doesn’t begin to describe the jewel-toned, intensely saturated blue of the shoreline of Nice, France. Beyond-blue waters. Pebbly shores. Picturesque architecture and a richly-visual old-town. There’s much that’s nice in Nice. I could easily go back again.
My travel partner in Nice was Miriam. We were there a week ago for the wedding of our friends, Glenda and Massimo. Miriam was SO patient as I stopped repeatedly to shoot images of the town (on the mornings before and after the wedding). (Grazie, cara.)
In all my international travels – Central America, Asia, Europe – I have been absolutely enamored of the lush, visual patterning of the sidewalks! Why can’t we have beautiful paving in the U.S.!!!? It adds ART to everyday life!
Look at these slabs of stone for the strip between the sidewalk and the roadway! And cupped for water drainage. Beautiful chunks of rock!
In the heart of Nice, in the Messena square, squat 7 figures of nude men, created by Spanish artist, Jaume Plensa. “These seven characters represent seven continents and the communication between the different communities of today’s society.” They light up at night, in various colors. Again, I can’t imagine such a thing in Seattle or Burien.
A little coffee break from sightseeing.
This chocolate shop was enough to make anyone drop their jaw. I did NOT go in.
Imagine THIS piece of art in the middle of Burien’s Town Square! (It would be a stretch for Seattle, let alone Burien!) Titled “La-Tête-au-Carré-de-Sosno” by Sacha Sosno, the 30m-tall sculpture is actually a building.
Hungry for lunch on Sunday, we followed the example of the crowd and each consumed a bucket of 100 steamed mussels. (Click the link to find out HOW to do it!)
Nice was beautiful, lovely, and private on the side streets. As in Venice, stray from the well-worn-path and you’ll avoid the tourists and see the true soul of the place.
Imagine making a cheesy pouch out of fresh mozzarella, then filling it with cream and mozzarella strands. That’s “Burrata“.
“Burro” means “butter”, so it gives you an idea of the fatty, smooth deliciousness of this cheese! Burrata is a fist-sized, creamy cheese ball, and for those that don’t dare indulge themselves with a whole burrata, they can go for a burratina, a smaller, half-fist-sized ball of coat-your-mouth-with-decadence cheese.
I made a plate-sized salad by which to deliver the burrata to my mouth: a bed of arugula, fresh green figs from the street market yesterday morning, sicilian cherry tomatoes, burrata in the middle, a fresh grind of pepper, and everything drizzled with balsamic glaze and olive oil.
(Click on the the photo to see the full, plate-sized view.)
Burrata is a fresh Italian cheese, made from mozzarella and cream. The outer shell is solid mozzarella while the inside contains both mozzarella and cream, giving it an unusual, soft texture. It is also defined by some sources as an outer shell of mozzarella filled with butter or a mixture of butter and sugar. It is usually served fresh, at room temperature. The name “burrata” means “buttered” in Italian.
Happy Father’s Day to my own “Pop”, and to the other men that I know that get to say that they are “Dad”.
Sunday morning, 10:00 a.m. Father’s Day. The sun is bright in my courtyard and I’m out enjoying a CUP of coffee (not a two-sip Italian shot). Since construction workers have been rebuilding the adjoining courtyard 6 days a week, Sunday is the only time for privacy in my garden.
New flowers are blooming here in my secret green space. The hydrangeas have come on with vivid magenta. Daylily flower heads are ready to create their own profusion of bloom. And some delicate flower on 3-foot, leafy plants – that I almost pulled out! – is blooming in clusters around my stone shard patio. I have no idea what they are. (See below.)
The day is early, yet already warm. Outdoor activities should be done early or late today, with a nap in the middle. I hear couples talking, children playing, birds singing in the trees and shrubs, and the street-sweeper truck cleaning the Saturday night debris. Sunday morning with a warm sun; do things before the midday heat.
Fresh figs are in at the Saturday street market just a couple of blocks away, and they share the display with the magenta-splashed Borlotti bean pods! I bought some of both green figs and black, and enough borlottis to make a pot of something. (I also bought some picadilli tomatoes, slender green beans, pickled onions, dolce “sweet” green olives and cherries.)
As a kid, my only exposure to this fruit was in the form of highly-sugared “Fig Newtons”. Little did I know that the cookie’s core comes from a soft, sweet fruit, that needs no sugar (wonderful when wrapped with prosciutto). I wanted to do a side-by-side taste test of both green and black figs, so I strolled the market to find the best prices, best fruit and best fruit-handler! (Good fruit and pricing is easy to find. A gentle handler is not.) I ended up with enough figs, ultra-ripe and needing to be eaten promptly, that I’ll be eating several a day hoping to keep ahead of their ripeness.
Borlotti beans caught my eye when I was living here a couple of years ago. Now, during each time in Italy, I’ve got to buy at least enough of the pretty beans to sit myself in a chair for half an hour and shuck the soft shells for a meal. I’ll cook up a pot of the speckled beans, with some fresh sage, garlic, fresh tomatoes, red pepper, zucchini and maybe some pancetta.
Mary was sitting there at her desk when I stepped into the little back room adjoining the chapel at Milano’s Cimitero Monumentale – the Monumental Cemetery. Now 87, she’s given her time for close to 20 years, assisting Padre Francesco with the mass, altar flowers and little details.
We spent close to 2 hours chatting after I had surprised her by walking in. I never arrive empty handed; Mary took the fragrant lilies I brought and prepared them in a vase. Her gait is slowed to a shuffle now, yet she can still make it to the other side of the chapel, carrying the flowers to put in front of the Madonna.
A devout woman, with no inkling of doubt, she asked Padre Francesco to give me 3 separate benedictions, which he did at her request. She also pressed another photo of Don Guiseppe Gervasini into my hands and instructed me to carry it next to my identity card so that it would always keep me protected.
During my visit, a drunken, belligerent man came into the chapel. Padre Francesco was away at the time. The man was confrontative and insulting to Mary, much too close, swearing in her face. I was trying to usher him out, and was preparing myself to take a punch to keep him from harming Mary. Fortunately, another woman went off to get father, who deflected the man’s attentions and led him away.
I had first met Mary two years ago, and something as simple as her handwriting has spun me off into a study of Italian penmanship and typography.
After meeting her in 2010, it was touching to say goodbye to her before returning to the U.S. She had pleaded with me to stay.
A bunch of friends and I met up for a lecture at 9:15 pm at the Design Library. I walked almost a mile along the canals and side streets to meet them there.
Afterwards, we all went out for a bite to eat at 11:00, walking to the restaurant. We each ordered our own pizza (I ate half of mine) and some limoncello afterwards. Then we walked part of the way back together; we split up and I continued on home alone, arriving at 1:30 am.
Whether it’s naivete or genuine security, I walk home alone late at night and don’t feel concerned. Especially here by the canals, there are always a lot of people out walking, riding their bikes, talking, gathering in front of the local bars.
It should be no wonder that Italians are, for the most part pretty trim and not fighting the weight issues seen in America. It’s routine to walk 2 or 3 miles to and from dinner, in addition to everywhere else they go on foot and by bike!
Warmest congratulations to Glenda and Massimo! Congratulazioni! The two were wed on Saturday, June 9, 2012 on the hill of Cimiez, in the city of Nice, France, along the jewel-toned Côte d’Azur of the French Riviera.
It was a fairytale wedding with a nuptial mass at the Monastery at Cimiez, during which the bride laid a special bouquet at the feet of the Virgin Mary.
A small reception followed in the monastery garden. A few hours later, at the Villa Alvorada, there were appetizers, conversation, dancing and a full (and very ooo-lah-lah delicious) dinner on a high hill at Cap d’Ail, France, overlooking the bay of Monaco (which presented an unexpected fireworks display).
Not only was the bride beautiful and the groom handsome, but also so were their parents. The two bride’s maids wore spring green, matching the bride’s rose bouquet. Rice was thrown. Balloons soared, and champagne was poured in celebration.
Glenda looked every bit the enchanted, contented bride, and Massimo had a new-groom-adoration in his eyes for his dear wife.
I wish them countless years of deep love and tenderness, respect and mutual applause. They have begun their lives in the sight of family and friends, and we all wish them well.
Journal Entry: Sunday, June 10 – On the train returning home to Milano after a weekend in Nice, France, on the Côte d’Azur.
My brain hit “overload” sometime yesterday (Saturday) in the language department.
I rode for three and a half hours with Miriam, who I did not know, on Friday, and we spoke Italian all the way to Nice as she drove. We arrived in France at our Bed & Breakfast run by a Scottish woman speaking English. We went to our friend, Glenda’s, house on her prenuptial night where we gathered with friends speaking English, Italian and French.
Miriam and I went back to our room speaking Italian all the while until we turned the lights out. We awoke the next morning, speaking Italian to each other, but English with our lodging host. Miriam and I wandered town, commenting in Italian for a few hours, then returned to our room and prepped for the wedding.
We left, picked up two other wedding guests, one that speaks Italian and French, another that speaks English and French. I speak English and Italian. Miriam had the clear advantage; she speaks Italian, English and French. All three languages flew around the car.
At the church, the verbal mix continued until the nuptial mass of two hours, which was said in Italian. At the small garden reception afterwards, I wasn’t sure which language to use with the servers, though my French is limited to about four sentences, but enough to ask for a glass of champagne.
The four of us left the reception, again with languages mixed and flying. I was responding to the Italian-speaking French woman, Michou, in Italian as she spoke her native French to me. We spent an hour driving and sightseeing, switching languages depending on the speaker and the listener.
Arriving at the wedding dinner, served by French, attended by Italians, with a few other nationalities thrown in as guests, my mind was in a mixed soup of sound until the celebration ended and we returned to our room at 3:00 in the morning.
Somewhere along the line late yesterday, my comprehension and command of Italian started waning. I wasn’t understanding a word that Miriam was saying and asked her more often than not to repeat what she had said.
Today, it became almost funny. She and I switched to English and talked about what I was experiencing. I realized that in the nearly one month that I’ve been here, I’ve occasionally seen a few Italian-speaking friends for an hour or two and have had transactional conversations when shopping, but have been alone for the most part.
This weekend, I jumped into 48 hours of continuous foreign language, adding French to the mix! And switching back-and-forth between the three, hearing and speaking, really pushed my brain to overload.
I also realized that, if I’m tired and/or hungry, my language competence quickly diminishes! Low blood sugar and lack of sleep do not improve my language skills. (Miriam even commented on the increased number of errors in my speaking.) I had “hit the wall”.
Another curious thing I noted was my resistance to speaking English because of being in a foreign country. I didn’t come to Italy or France to practice my English, but I recognize that sometimes my resistance to resort to English hampered communication.
After about lunch time today, we switched to English almost entirely, tossing in Italian only now-and-then. Our long drive home was made even richer by conversation because of Miriam’s greater ease with English than mine with Italian.
Grazie, Miriam, per la tua pazienza con il mio Italiano!
Having spent the morning walking all over old-town Nice, on the jewel-toned Riviera coast of France, it was time to eat a bite… or maybe a hundred.
Miriam and I passed many little cafés with people sitting in front of grand, black buckets of just-steamed mussels. It was an enticing choice that we didn’t resist.
When we started eating, I wasn’t paying attention. I’d pick up a mussel in one hand, take my fork in the other, and laboriously work the mussel out of its shell and into my mouth. Who knows how many mussels into the meal I was before I finally saw what Miriam was doing. Duh! She used an empty mussel shell as a sort of mini-tongs to easily pluck the meat out of another shell and pop it into her mouth. It made absolute sense. Clever. Simple. Mussel consumption pared to the essence!
For 12,50 euro per person, we were each served a hundred mussels… or maybe more… plus fries or a salad, and some bread. I could easily have stopped at half that quantity. I felt full for a day afterwards. The mussels were simply prepared, steamed with onion, carrot, red pepper and celery. A light broth remained in the bottom of my black pot, and it was soaked up nicely with crusty bread.
Lesson learned. Thank you, Miriam!
Curious about the nutritional content of 100 mussels, I looked it up and found the FitDay web site and its results. Gee, do you think I got enough protein? Or how about the sodium and potassium?! Or vitamin B12?! Wow. The calories were plentiful, but “only” a quarter of them were fat, and of those only a sixth were saturated fats.
This is real Italian food. They’re not over here just eating pizza and spaghetti. And they’re NOT eating “Fettucine Alfredo”! (If you see it on a menu, it’s only there for the tourists.) The range of Italian food is so vast. It truly does change every hundred kilometers. And most of it is nothing like seen in “Italian Restaurants” in the U.S.
When here, I eat everything that’s regional and typical to an area. I eat what I can’t get in Seattle. As I travel and seek out a meal, I always ask what the local specialties are and then expand my view of “Italian Food”. Here’s a sampling of what I’ve eaten in the last three weeks.
Soprassata Fiorentina • “Head Cheese” from Florence. I had this when living here a couple of years ago. Found it at a street market with no refrigeration, no running water. This is made of all the extra “head parts” that are cooked and congealed together with seasoning. Mmm. Yummy on a slice of bread. Must be 99% fat.
Fragolini • Little, wild strawberries found growing in the weeds in my courtyard. Actually, they had very little flavor, but I have seen them being sold at the market.
Lardo di Colonnata and Gorgonzola Dolce • Aged, seasoned lard (below, with a streak of meat), and creamy, mild “Sweet” Gorgonzola cheese (above). Both fantastic on a good hunk of bread. (Who needs butter?!)
Torta di Mele, con Gelato di Vaniglia • Apple Tart with Vanilla Gelato. A rare, sweet splurge for me.
Insalata di songino, pomodori e burratina con olio e aceto • Salad of “lamb’s lettuce”, cherry tomatoes and “burratina” cheese, drizzled with olive oil and a thick balsamic “cream”. Burratina is a small version of “Burrata”, a fist-sized ball with an outer layer like fresh mozzarella about 1/8″ thick, containing soft, creamy/runny, semi-solid cheese within. Heaven on a bed of greens!
Panzerotto Luini • Deep-fried bread pocket (filled with spinach and ricotta) from Luini’s by the Duomo. Inexpensive, hand-food that the locals all know about. Carry it around and eat it while walking.
Ribollita • Tuscan bread and vegetable soup, eaten in Firenze (Florence). The name means, literally “reboiled”.
Spiedina di carne mista • It WAS a skewer of mixed meats, in this case sausage and pork, eaten in Firenze.
Porcini • Two porcini mushrooms for 12 Euro at the street market (about $15!) All the time that I had lived here I never bought fresh porcini! I had to splurge at least once.
Porcini e Pomodori • Porcini and tomatoes (and brooms), cooking in my 35″ wide kitchen/broom closet. I brought the porcini home and cooked them up; also sauteéd some fresh cherry tomatoes.
Porcini with vegetable ravioli, and sauteéd fresh cherry tomatoes with meat ravioli, fresh from the street market.
Pastries from Spezia Pasticceria. My favorites are the Babá in the upper right: sponge cakes absolutely drenched with sweetened rum, with sweet ricotta filling in the middle. One bite and the rum sauce runs down your arm.
My favorite meats (clockwise from the top): Prosciutto (Crudo, di Parma), Bresaola, Mortadella with pistachios. It’s an art ordering your prosciutto cut! The bresaola is 100% lean (also available in horse meat). Mortadella: think “baloney” from when you were a kid, then multiply by 100. This mortadella has pistachios and peppercorns in it, and yes those are chunks of (white) fat.
Here’s the receipt for the meats above: 50 grams of Bresaola for 1,50 euro; 100 grams (“un etto”) Mortadella for 1,29 euro; 50 grams of Prosciutto di Parma for 1,35 euro. I had also bought “Gorgonzola Dolce”, the gooey, creamy, mild gorgonzola for 1,88 euro, and “Vitello Tonnato”, thin-sliced, roasted veal with a pureed tuna mayonnaise sauce on top for 2,47 euro. This was several days’ food for a girlfriend and me for 8,49 euro, about $10.66. (Makes up for the cost of the porcini.)
Bresaola, my favorite. An air-dried, salted beef that has been aged 2-3 months. Almost completely lean, no fat. Sliced paper thin, and when it’s very good, it is moist and supple, not dry and leathery. Note how translucent it is! I can’t buy Italian Bresaola in the U.S. Too many fears of “mad cow disease”.
Insalata con mozzarella di bufala, pomodori e basilico. Vitello tonnato • A salad with fresh mozarella di bufala (yes, buffalo milk), tomatoes, basil, served with “vitello tonnato”, the thin-sliced veal with pureed tuna/mayonnaise sauce.
Salsiccia e fagioli • Sausage and beans, a very Tuscan meal eaten in Firenze.
Verdure al forno • Tuscan oven-roasted vegetables, in Firenze.
Standing in my skinny kitchen, washing the dishes, I heard a couple of women talking. I looked out my kitchen window and its security bars, across the long, common courtyard and saw two women chatting, five floors up, at the corner elbow of the building.
This must be the Italian city equivalent of “talking over the fence”, like I do with my neighbors back at home.
I ran to grab my camera, leaned over the sink of sudsy water, shot between the bars on the window and caught a couple of images of women that have likely been telling stories from balcony-to-balcony for years.
I pushed my camera to its max and caught what might have been a moment of shocking news.
Do you think they also get together for a coffee or snack, in the same room, now and then?
Living in an Italian apartment, a “casa”, I’m privy to moments of “real life” that I wouldn’t be if I were isolated and insulated in a traveler’s residence or long stay hotel. I just go about my day like “the rest of the Italians”.
“How blessed and full of grace are these days, scented by the jasmine vine along the courtyard rail and set to music by songbirds! The hours are, at last, warm embraces with a freshening breeze, and the time is my own to color. How, and why, I have been so gifted as to have this life I am not sure, but I’ve certainly chosen paths not often selected. So I find myself seated in my own secret garden, with my afternoon coffee resting on my little table made of two stacked stones. All is precisely right.”
What rain in the night! The raindrops must have been a half inch apart and hurled at the ground with such velocity! And I haven’t heard thunder, or seen lightning like that since living in the midwest 40 years ago. I had my “tapparelle” – shutters – down, but my windows open so the freshening air rushed through the slats briskly.
My courtyard plants got their thirst quenched, but this morning my neighbor’s hydrangeas seem a bit battered from the pummeling. That was quite a storm.
I was sitting in my room typing today and heard “snip, snip, snip.” I looked out my window into the little private courtyards to see a woman in her 60s, trimming in her garden which neighbors mine. I said “buongiorno”, and we started politely talking.
We exchanged names, and after chatting a little bit, I asked Enrica if I could take her photo. She was shy about being photographed, but agreed. She stood back in her garden demure and reserved.
When I showed her the pictures on the back screen of my camera, she lit up. “Oh, one of those modern cameras!”
Everything changed. She came over to my windowsill and we talked for half an hour about Milano, language, life, patterns, long time friendships, neighbors, gardens, etc. She became animated and lively (and didn’t realize that my camera, perched on the window sill with my finger on the button, was still going). She mentioned that she and another in the complex had mentioned “the blonde woman” that was living here.
She offered that if ever need anything I could come next door and borrow it from her. “But if you need an onion, don’t bother. I don’t cook.”
Enrica is so expressive!
I LOVE being able to speak the language and have spontaneous encounters like this. It thrills me so much! I’ll invite her over for coffee some time…
When going into a new town, seek out the highest point from which to get the most sweeping overview. This will quite often guide your further exploration. In this case, I was back in Florence – Firenze – and planned to head back up to the top of the Duomo for my second time.
Walking from my hotel, along the Via dei Servi, the Duomo loomed large, dominating the neighborhood street scene. I was heading to the cupola walkway at the top of the double-brick-walled dome!
It was worth paying for the guided tour of the church and its high terraces. There was no waiting in line, and the group had access to places the average visitor cannot see.
The Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore (English: Basilica of Saint Mary of the Flower) is the main church of Florence, Italy. The Duomo, as it is ordinarily called, was begun in 1296 in the Gothic style to the design of Arnolfo di Cambio and completed structurally in 1436 with the dome engineered by Filippo Brunelleschi. The exterior of the basilica is faced with polychrome marble panels in various shades of green and pink bordered by white and has an elaborate 19th century Gothic Revival façade by Emilio De Fabris.
The cathedral complex, located in Piazza del Duomo, includes the Baptistery and Giotto’s Campanile. The three buildings are part of the UNESCO World Heritage Site covering the historic centre of Florence and are a major attraction to tourists visiting the region of Tuscany. The basilica is one of Italy’s largest churches, and until development of new structural materials in the modern era, the dome was the largest in the world. It remains the largest brick dome ever constructed.
In this photo, you can see the dome in the background, behind the flat, front facade of the church. Giotto’s square campanile bell tower is adjacent to the south side (right) of the church.
The interior floor of the church is a dramatic eye-full of pattern. Keep in mind that this is all stone, cut and inlaid! Look at the optical illusion of the pattern on the floor in the bottom of the picture!
Above the main door is the colossal clock face with fresco portraits of four Prophets or Evangelists by Paolo Uccello (1443). This one-handed liturgical clock shows the 24 hours of the hora italica (Italian time), a period of time ending with sunset at 24 hours. This timetable was used until the 18th century. This is one of the few clocks from that time that still exist and are in working order. (Wikipedia)
The fresco on the interior of the dome was started by Vasari and Zuccari in 1568, depicting The Last Judgement.
Portrayals of hell, dark and bloody red at the bottom of the fresco, are gruesome and macabre. Inspiration to follow the church and obediently tithe?
From upper, exterior terraces and walkways, we had a different vantage point of the Campanile.
We were close enough to clearly see the stone detail of the Campanile exterior.
It seemed we were almost close enough to reach out and touch the Campanile as we looked down to the ground.
The Duomo’s octagonal top.
The marble of the Basilica is white from Carrara, green from Prato and rosy red from Siena.
We were about to re-enter the high interior and climb the added 300 steps to the cupola.
The dome is constructed of two walls of brick. There is a narrow, convoluted stairway/walkway that winds upwards between the two layers. Occasional, small windows allow light and peek-a-boo views.
It got complicated when those ascending and those descending crossed paths and had to make way. One frequently had to tuck into a tiny blind spot to let the other pass.
In some places there are narrow, steep staircases that go straight up between the dome walls.
Here you can see a couple of the tiny “blind spots” a person tucks into to let another pass by when going in the opposite direction. Imagine designing this staircase!
This is the rustic latch and pendulum on the trap door that opens up to the open air cupola walk way.
The cupola has doorways and columns forming viewpoint terraces. Can you believe that people would write graffiti all over this ancient marble?
Giotto’s Campanile dominates this panorama, looking southwest.
The south-facing panorama looking toward Piazzale Michelangelo high on the hill.
From the cupola we look right out onto the main piazza and the Baptistery.
Looking northwest, we see the Church of San Lorenzo. The green copper roof is the Mercato Centrale, a ponderous central market with every sort of food vendor. And note the white awnings of the street market alongside San Lorenzo Church.
Always climb to the highest point. It’s a good place from which to gaze and contemplate.
Pope Benedict XVI arrived in Milano yesterday for an evening greeting to the citizens that welcomed him at the Piazza del Duomo (Milano’s central cathedral). The event had slipped my mind, so I didn’t make it, but heard the huge piazza had been filled with thousands of people.
This morning though, I got up early, took the subway into the center of town, rose up into the piazza, and found enough space to squeeze into right against the front barricade. I waited, along with countless others, for the Pope’s arrival.
Why did I go? Some of it was morbid curiosity. Some was sociological observation. Italy is 92% Catholic and I am face-to-face with the Church’s presence, literally, at every turn here. Going to see the Pope was like going to see any other festival or holiday event particular to this country. I went because it would, perhaps, inform me about Italy and her people.
Also, I was raised Catholic, but haven’t followed Catholicism for decades. Still, it’s part of my history and I have family and friends for whom it remains vital.
Of the last 4 years, I have spent an accumulated near-2 years here in Italy. And in these 2 years, I have been to mass and in church more than in all the last 30 years combined. For one, it has seemed a part of the “Italian Experience”. Secondly, I’ve often stepped into a church to shoot photos, and have found myself at the beginning or in the middle of mass, so I stayed. And thirdly, there’s something satiating about the ritual, symbology, artistry and essence of spirituality that speaks to me.
But I can no longer abide by the Catholic Church’s teachings, leadership or system. I feel too much conflict with the Church to be a “good Catholic girl” ever again. There are too many things that amount to an affront to me and to those I love.
Granted, my Catholic upbringing is part of what formed who I am today, and of course that influence will always remain. But anymore, I think that I approach spirituality much like the way I cook: I don’t follow any recipes, and I throw a little of everything into the pot. So Catholicism is but one of the many spices in the soup of who I am.
– – –
I stood for a couple hours at the edge of a crowd of thousands waiting for the Pope to arrive. The church was full-to-the-brim with local “religious”: priests (of all titles and levels) and nuns. The public was not allowed in, but could view events inside the Duomo on two large video displays set up on the piazza. As the 10:00 a.m. arrival time neared, the crowd grew larger and more anxious. A helicopter circled overhead. Security personnel, in chic Italian suits, milled around, and volunteers bridged the space between the crowd and the Pope’s planned path.
When the Pope-mobile first came into view, the crowd erupted in cheers and exclamations of wild adoration, screaming all around me: “Viva il Papa!” “Ciao, Papa!” Pope Benedict rode behind bullet-proof glass in an elevated enclosure on a custom vehicle. Security was tight around him. He was driven to the main door of the Duomo, slipped out of his car and right into the church.
From that moment, we were left with only the large video display shot from inside Milano’s Duomo, showing us the Pope’s every move. The greatest disappointment to all – and it truly nearly caused a riot – was that there was no audio with the video! You should have heard the people outside yelling! Elderly, missing perhaps their only opportunity to hear the Pope, were outraged and flashed every classic Italian gesture you’ve ever heard about. The young, all-so-accustomed to the wonders of technology, were disbelieving that they were given visuals with no sound. These rumblings went on for close to half an hour as we all watched the Pope’s silent pantomimes.
As I gaped at this carefully-ushered man of 85 years, who took very few steps unaided, whose every motion was tended to, I thought, “THIS is the man leading 6.5 billion Catholics?!” Figuring that half the population is female, THIS man is, therefore, guiding decisions that tangibly affect the lives of 3.25 billion women! What does he know about families and parenting?! What does he know about decisions women face every day that dramatically affect their own health and well-being, and that of those around them?! I was incredulous and felt all the more distant from the Church.
So, the event WAS eye-opening for me. I was closely surrounded by people that felt a fervent ardor for Pope Benedict and the Catholic Church. And yet I left feeling all the more disconnected.
My late mother, a very devout Catholic herself, once told me that “all roads lead to Tacoma”. It was her way of saying that the eclectic, spiritual soup that I am is OK with her. Perhaps we would have had a rousing discussion today after watching Benedict ride away in his Pope-mobile. And perhaps her comments would have happily surprised me; she had become quite vocal and imperative about change at the parish level in the years before she died. We may have agreed on more things than I realize.
– – –
Just like in the “May Procession” as a little kid (always the shortest, so placed at the front of the line), and pressed against the barricade by thousands of people, all I could do was grab skewed shots of the large video displays off to the side. I haven’t bothered to straighten and fuss with them, but you’ll get the gist.
(Click on the individual photos to see a larger view of each one.)
Milano’s Duomo announced the arrival of Papa Benedetto XVI – Pope Benedict.
The crowd held people of all ages, anxious for the Pope’s arrival. The Galleria, “cathedral to consumerism”, was in the background, adjacent to the Duomo, Milano’s real cathedral.
On the video, we watched an image of ourselves filling the piazza.
Inside the Duomo, the Cathedral, priests and nuns awaited the Pope.
The entry procession began.
Like “regalia” of any culture, the Catholic Church has its “uniforms” that communicate rank and affiliation.
Celebrating the “Festa della Republica”, tricolore flags were plentiful. The security helicopter is just visible to the left of one flag.
The crowds erupted in cheers when the Pope-mobile first appeared.
Security was tight around Pope Benedict’s vehicle.
The Pope set foot into the Duomo and soon began greeting and blessing people.
The cathedral was packed with priests and nuns, and a few non-religious.
The advance-procession led ahead of the Pope.
Pope Benedict’s hand was always raised in blessing.
He did not walk down the central aisle of the church. He was pushed in a rolling cart.
Please tell me they didn’t really segregate nuns to one side of the church!
The procession of blessings continued.
The Pope’s every move was well tended to.
Milano’s Duomo is a grand, awe-inspiring enclosure.
The crowd watched as Benedict prayed… without sound.
This is the altar in the Duomo. The floor is all inlaid stone of black, red and white. Pope Benedict is seated up and to the left in the photo.
Dressed and singing.
Assisted even in his praying.
The Pope addressed the congregation in the church, silent to the thousands outside.
After a brief visit to the crypts, the Pope emerged and exited the church, thrilling the crowd.
This moment was certainly a highlight in the lives of many.
Here is a video clip of Pope Benedict XVI riding in his vehicle in front of the huge crowd.
In the “Vatican Player”, click on the TV tab, then “video news”, then “Sat, 6/2/12” to see videos of the day’s events. http://www.vatican.va/video/index.html
As it turned out just by chance, my dish of gelato was my nod to Italy.
Today is June 2, a holiday celebrating the formation of the Republic of Italy in 1946. The Italian flag is referred to as the “Tricolore”, three colors. Whereas, in the U.S. we say “red, white and blue”, in Italy, they do NOT say “red, white and green”! Their colors are always listed “green, white and red”.
So, here’s to the “pistacchio, limone e mirtilli di bosco”, the pistachio, lemon and blueberry!
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