City Walkabout

Morning dawned as I typed busily away on my computer. A lone bird outside my window made a melancholy sound somewhere between an owl and a mourning dove, the first sign of non-pigeon wildlife. Brushing my teeth with one of those goofy two-part travel toothbrushes that almost invariably pops apart at the first sign of inattention; I considered what to do for the day. First, I would extend my stay with the hostel and then get some breakfast. I hadn't eaten anything since the sandwich served on my Lufthansa flight the previous morning which, as far as I could tell, was ham and some sort of spinach dip. Lacing my shoes I peer into the bunk on the other side of the room to see that my roommate is still sleeping. Arno is from Holland, tall, and rail-thin. He has the underweight build of a distance runner though he claims to hate exercising. He also has the slightly rosy cheeks that one often sees depicted in Dutch paintings but doesn’t imagine to be real and a shock of dirty blonde hair which he styles by liberally applying spray products and then sweeping it back and slightly to the side. I made his acquaintance the previous night with hurried hellos and introductions in perfect English. Leaving him to his rest I head to the lobby and inform the hostel desk worker of my intent. "I'd like to extend my stay please."

"Ok, until tomorrow then?"

"Until the 31st."

"Oh we can't do that here."

"Do what, book my stay? Are there no beds free?"

"Well I can only extend your stay 1 night here at the desk, you need to book anything else online and then come talk to me and we'll see if there's a way to keep you in the same room."

"Okay....."

Flashing back to the stop I made at the bank before leaving the states to let them know I was going to be travelling internationally only to be told: "Oh, you have to call the 800 number and speak to someone there, we can't help you" and the numerous times I tried to resolve my account issues with the local branch of the cellphone company: "You need to call the 800 number and speak with a representative" (seriously, what are you?) I pondered the many irrational "conveniences" of our modern "globally connected" world. I added the change from my payment to my account so that I could use it in the cafeteria and then immediately regretted not keeping some of it back when I realized I only had a couple euro in cash. Down in the cafeteria I had a really odd all-u-can-eat breakfast that consisted of scrambled eggs, undercooked bacon and northern beans. All I could eat was not that much, but hunger is the best sauce, as the saying goes. Back in the room, I reserved a few more nights. Alarmingly, only 7-bed rooms were available but I booked what I could and hoped for the best. Arno was still sleeping so I decided to go do a bit of exploring.

I strolled outside and examined the several maps I had acquired since arriving in Firenze. Noting that there was a green patch slightly north of the hostel on the tiny map on the back of the business card the desk clerk had given me, I thought it seemed like a good place to start. Turning through the small park that I had dozed off in the day before, I made my way in what I guessed was the correct direction. The relentless Tuscan sun beat down on me like the pounding of a passionate Italian heart and the air certainly seemed as thick as blood. The sky is a sort of liquid, cloudless blue that is difficult to find in more northerly latitudes. Making my way across an absolute maze of crosswalks that intersect each other and their respective roads at jaunty angles I made it to a large park complete with a pond and a few blessed trees. Relaxing in a coveted patch of rare shade I sat briefly on a park bench photographing ducks and admiring the fountain, but primarily people-watching. Restlessly, I made a circuit of the pond with the intent of having a closer look at an idyllic gardener's hut on the other side. I managed to take a few decent pictures of it from a distance but was disappointed to note the spray paint tags on the door once I was closer. I can't help but feel that the young people of Florence don't appreciate the history and beauty of their city. Who but can imagine what these walls have seen, the artists and poets, the statesmen, the scientists, the sheer weight of history in this place is immense and palpable and yet I suppose that it is human nature to lose respect or at least appreciation for that which we are accustomed to.

I noted that there was a rather interesting wall running parallel to the path down a grassy grade from where I was standing and thought that I would follow the path for a while and try to determine what the wall was surrounding. Walking along the wall to the edge of the park proper, I rounded a corner and beheld an impressive stone edifice. The Fortezza da Basso is an imposing structure. Without realizing it, I had been following one wall of its enormous pentagonal perimeter. Built in just 3 years in the 16^th century during one of the many times of political unrest it was meant to provide a safe haven for the Medici family and a standing army in the not altogether unlikely event of revolt. The façade that faces the city includes a squat but somewhat menacing tower and the remnants of the channel of a moat are visible at the base of the walls on this side. What a strange love-hate relationship the Florentine people have with their patron families. Today the structure has had some modern additions and serves as a sort of combination fairground and civic center hosting official meetings as well as art galleries and the like. In fact, it was never used for its intended purpose, but in viewing its grim martial presence so near the city center it is not altogether difficult to imagine weathering the long sieges that the Medici must have envisioned.

Continuing along the same road would have taken me to the outskirts of town, and eventually the airport, a route devoid of enjoyable scenery as I noted on the taxi ride in so I considered it prudent to change tack. Avoiding arterial roads I attempted to lose myself in the city to better familiarize myself with how the major landmarks were laid out relative to one another. With map buried deep in a pocket to avoid temptation I chose my circuitous path based on whatever seemed appealing at each crossroads or fork. Eventually I found myself at the Piazza della Libera. This particular plaza is quite strange since it is made up of the leftover parts of monumental structures, each at one time incorporated into a larger whole. What remains are two gigantic archways situated on either side of the piazza aligned with a road that no longer connects beneath them, separated in the center by a magnificent fountain. The western arch is plainly built and clearly ancient; its figures of lions worn so as to be almost unrecognizable, their sunken and enlarged ocular orifices like those of tightly packed snowmen that whither and shrink in the sun. The eastern arch, by contrast, is of a much later period and richly adorned with fluted arches, ornately topped columns, and gleaming white statuary almost too complex to comprehend as a whole. It is both ostentatious and lovely. The fountain scene depicts a man and a woman fixed in fierce struggle. It’s the sort of earnestly active scene that any renaissance sculptor would covet. The exact subject matter is unknown to me though it likely depicts one of the many abductions prevalent in classic folklore. The moment captured seems to be the exact moment of the female figure’s escape. She hangs in open air before the male figure as though only a moment before he had been carrying her off in his now out-thrown arms. She twists as she falls, one arm outstretched the other with clawed hand buried in the eyes of her captor making the cause for her sudden change of position somewhat obvious. It has it all, dynamic movement, violence, lust, wanton nudity, yes a sculptor’s dream indeed and there are many like it in Florence. What is as equally striking about the plaza as the architectural marvels is the strangeness of it. It is representative of the strata of history that make the city seem as much like a sedimentary stone as anything, but in this case they are entirely stripped of context. There is no continuity of time which gives a museum-like quality of deadness as opposed to other areas in the city that bloom like formations of coral, building upon the dead shells of the past.

Leaving the bizarre collection of edifices of the Piazza della Libera, I turn my attention toward heading for the centro of the city. I pass through Piazza del Duomo again, but again do not stop to photograph Florence’s most famous landmark. Maybe it is my surplus of self-consciousness, maybe it is just an unwillingness to wade through the crowd, mostly, however, I think it is simply that I know I will not be able to adequately admire the structure with such large throngs of milling tourists in the way. I pass the imposing structure and head in the direction that I think will take me to the river. The Arno is slow and shallow. In Roman times it was navigable quite a distance inland which, in itself, contributes to the existence of the city. Nowadays it is pretty thoroughly silted and not navigable by more than rowing skiffs, and that only for a short distance bounded by man-made terraces. My destination is the Ponte Vecchio, literally “Old Bridge.” The current structure was built in 1345 to replace a wooden bridge that had spanned the Arno since Roman times. The bridge has survived repeated flooding, including complete submersion. Most importantly, however, it is the only bridge not to be mined by fleeing Nazis in 1944 so it is at least six centuries the elder of any of its neighboring bridges, thoroughly earning its title. The bridge is packed with multi-story shops on both sides for its entire length. At one time these shops were inhabited by butchers and fishmongers, but after the Medici had a secret passageway built above the shops they ejected the smelly meat salesman in favour of more refined commerce, namely jewelers. At I ar e;d be ab As a metalsmith myself I was hoping to stroll along the bridge seeing artisanal gold and silversmiths on either side, peddling their wares and working in plain view of the buying public. The reality is somewhat less romantic, for security reasons no doubt. The little shops now have essentially modern display cases, and very little of what lies behind is visible to anyone not intent on making a purchase. There are even occasionally armed guards that swagger around with Beretta-clad hips and slightly paunchy stomachs. The bridge is swarming with people and before long I am a bit overwhelmed by the crowd and decide to save the Oltrarno (the district south of the river, its name actually means “beyond the Arno”) for another day and instead to walk along the North bank. I use the word bank for lack of a better term and, in fact, a bank is what it once was, but the Arno has long been confined by the walls of men and there are precious few spots where one could actually walk down to the water.

Past a duet of additional bridges I followed the road west toward the sound of music and what I hoped might be some sort of festival. I spotted a contingent of Carabinieri standing around a jeep-like vehicle in the middle of a side road, which I thought seemed a bit strange. As I drew a bit closer it became apparent that it wasn’t just the few posted near the vehicle, there were several spaced out along the road and the closer I came the more their unsettling accusatory gazes were fixed on me. Finally, passing within 20 feet of one who stared at me as if he might draw his weapon and fire at any moment, the whole of the situation became apparent. It was the American embassy. There are several buildings in Florence around which there are low chains with red and white signs attached hanging between posts a few meters apart. These are meant to keep people off the sidewalks around those particular buildings. The same system is used to denote parking areas or guide foot traffic toward crosswalks and other such mundanity. Many people, including me, simply step over these chains when they are in the way and it was my custom to do so without a second thought until, rounding the corner of one such building I saw a guard with a submachine gun hanging around his neck like it was the most normal thing in the world. The moral of the story is that one must be aware that stepping over the chains to cross the road is fine, stepping over the chains to walk adjacent to a building with a security perimeter might get you summarily shot.

As it turns out, whatever had been happening in the park at the end of the road was over by the time I got there, so I made my way back (by a different, less scrutinized route) to the hostel. My plan was just to rest my feet, check in online, and regroup for a few minutes but I ended up taking a nap and sleeping through the worst heat of the day. I woke up to the sound of Arno shuffling through his things. He had met a Greek girl named Amelia at a kitschy serial killer museum of all places -if you grow up in Europe the sense of history must not weigh as heavily on your consciousness- and they were headed out for dinner. I was happy for him, but this altogether dashed my plan of asking my only acquaintance out for a beer, seems as though I would be on my own for the evening. Heading out after dark carrying only a camera I was amazed to see how vibrant and lively the city is after dark. It is a complete departure from home, but also a complete departure from Florence in the daytime. The parks are filled with children. The local adults are finishing the time-honoured tradition of passeggiata the “little walk” Italians take in the evening after work but before their late dinner wherein they stroll about dressed smartly and gossip while eating gelato or drinking a glass of wine. The tourists have by no means disappeared, but their attention has shifted away from the now closed museums and historical landmarks to the local eateries and bars. As such, the best time for outdoor sight-seeing is at night and for the first time since arrival I take photos of the duomo. I stand practically alone in the middle of the piazza while people mill around the periphery. Moonlight cascades like quicksilver onto the flagstones at my feet in competition with, and in stark contrast to, the electric lights on the square. A near-full moon hangs poised almost exactly between Brunelleschi’s cupola and the Campanile and I try to steady my hand for a difficult nighttime shot. The city is unspeakably romantic by the moonlight and I feel as though I am just beginning to really see it, and I like what I see.