full cup

It all seems a bit unreal. Take the weather, for instance. It's too good. Every time there is even a threat of rain, it quickly disappears. I've not had one dreary day since I came here now ten days ago.

And the luck that pumps each day to be so gloriously full! I come back to the olive farm in the evening and I fret -- I have too much for Ocean! I will never write the post well enough. Or work on the photos in the way that they deserve. I want to tell a good story, but I sometimes wish I hadn't so many threads to pull on. A full day is harder to write about than a simple day. And I'm my worst critic at these travel times. How could I be so dull here, when the day was so full of magnificence?!

They are indeed days of magnificence. I read the newspaper, I listen to stories of horror and then I face the day before me and what pours forth is a steady stream of gentility and goodness -- the type that makes you think that humankind is, for the most part, doing quite well. And I'm filled with joy knowing that.

I'm grateful to have these days here. I am. And here's another thing I'm grateful for: fortuitous coincidence. And serendipity. Let me explain:

When I finished writing my Ocean post last night, it was, as usual, close to midnight. I take the time after to unwind a little. Check a blog or two,  the paper one more time. Say, what's this? As I refresh the NYTimes page, a new story comes up (it's their next Sunday's travel story, which posts a few days in advance): 36 Hours in Florence.

Now that's exciting! These snapshots of cities are useful, in that they always try direct you to something new. Something only a person living there would know about. And sure enough, as I read through the article, I know right then and there that I have to go back to Florence one more time.


The weather at sunrise helps push me forward with this. It isn't promising out there. I had originally thought I'd take it easy and stay local on this last day in Tuscany, but a heavy fog has set in and it seems difficult to imagine that I can fill a day well by drifting around the river valley in its thicket.






Still, this is the day of the Rignano sull'Arno market. Surely I shouldn't neglect it. And so I set out very early, giving myself plenty of time to hike to town, walk through the market and still be able to catch the 10:10 to Florence.






I wouldn't have minded the fog, but it turns out to be one of those fogs that feels awfully like rain. As I hike up the olive grove hill, I ask myself why I am so trusting of the weather gods as to leave my umbrella at home!

In Rignano sull'Arno, the market is already in full swing. I'm always amused that in France, there are two shifts for the farmers markets: the early risers come to do quick, serious shopping for produce. Then at around 11 a.m. comes the second shift: those who want to shop and chat to friends and neighbors. I'm in Rignano at around 9:30 and the women especially seem to be managing both the shopping and the conversation just fine!


















Alright. Now I'm on my 10:10 train, listening to Italian music, reading a magazine and feeling so comfortable in this routine, loving it because it is a routine.


In Florence, even though it is now 11, I hold off on breakfast. I want to check out the Mercato Centrale -- the Central Market, that is actually quite close to the station. The news story talked of additional layers, food stalls newly opened, levels and levels of tempting this and that -- I wanted to see it.

And this is how important Breakfast (yes, big "B") is for me: the Market is not good enough for my morning meal (small as that meal is in Italy). Yes, there's a lively coffee counter with youthful and energetic baristas.


 


Yes, there is also a pastry section where you can pick up your croissant. And tables in the middle where you can sit down with it all.

But it's too sterile. The atmosphere is not right.

I go back to Paszkowski's.


Snippets from my walk there:



(fruits at the market: I buy and munch on the strawberries)





(how can you not love walking in Florence!)






(Ocean author takes photos)






(What does this  say about raising boys and girls in Italy?)


Okay, at Paszkowski's, today's clientele:


















My breakfast:







So, what now? Without question, two items in the newspaper article were a huge draw for me: the reopening of the Fortezza and also the deli-restaurant (Zeb) on the south bank, where mom and son cook wonderful, casual foods together.

I make my way across the river.

I check in at the Zeb to make sure I'll be able to eat there.  I had already sent the owner an email before I left the olive farm. Alberto, the son-chef-copropietor now tells me -- yes, I wrote back to your email, sure, no problem, come at 2. I tell him -- but you're famous now! Neither he, nor his mom had known about the appearance of the article. Their eatery is very small -- maybe a total of 15 spots spread between two counters. I imagined a NYTimes listing would immediately flood them. But only one other person -- a guy who admitted to being an insomniac and therefore, too, catching the article as it popped last night -- was there because of the listing.

And now I start the climb up to the Fortress. This is a new thing for me. In the past, I have done what many others do to get that five star view of the city -- go up to Piazza Michelangelo. I've done it enough and had no interest in fighting the crowds there on this trip. My true favorite place to enjoy the city view is from the Boboli Gardens, but as I noted, they're closed this week. But the Times author writes that the Fortress is now reopened, refreshed and it provides lovely views. I'm interested.

And I am not disappointed! Again, part of it is the quiet. Fewer than a dozen people, spread over a vast expanse. (Am I the only one who reads the paper on line??) And truly, that most glorious view! I mean, just magnificent! I can't believe it's this good today!






The most beautiful city view in the world.
(The "trees with stones" are a temporary art exhibit in the Fortress)

 Florence is my selfie playtime. Here are two, on a self timer:











There is a cafe up here and although it's just about 1 p.m. and so getting awfully close to lunch, I can't quite imagine leaving here without sitting down. It may not be the right hour for an Aperol Sprtiz, but it is the right moment. The most perfect moment, in fact.







Alright, time is furiously running away from me. Let me start walking down to Zeb. Oh, but what's this? (Here's the serendipity!) On the quiet, beautiful little street leading away from the fortress, I pass what appears to be a museum. I'm toward the tail end of my third day here and only now do I feel the stirring of an interest to enter a museum. It's not one I've ever heard of and perhaps that is its charm: it's the Villa Bardini and it, too, is newly renovated and just recently opened. I can do it! The exhibits can't be large! And not a single tourist in the whole building! I can swing through it!

The permanent collection is interesting. But it's the special exhibit that draws me fully in:  canvases from the twentieth century painter Giovanni Colacicchi. This is where I got positively teary eyed with the joy of this unexpected discovery.



(he liked to paint every day life)






(this is indeed what the walk up to the Fortress looks like even now)






(titled the Resurrection of the Body)


I wish I could spend more words reflecting on his paintings, but it's not the time for it and I'm not the best person to do it. But the impact on me is significant. In moments like these, it helps to simply pull out a quote from the exhibition itself. This, describing his very last large canvas (the nudes above):

The theme of the nude becomes a metaphor for the spirit. .. The artist expresses here the essence of myth, a dancing myth, yearning for a lost serenity and a necessity to rediscover beauty.


Oh, I have to also tell you that the view from the Museum windows is breathtakingly beautiful.






Ah, but now I really do have to hurry. It's past 1:30. Still, I pause at the counter to tell the clerk there how much I loved the exhibit. And she smiles and tells me: and now you must see the gardens in the back.

I get choked up just recalling that moment of stepping out into the quiet, green spaces behind the villa. How did I not know about this place?! Apparently neither does the rest of humanity: the gardens are virtually empty.






Except for the cool people. The people in the know. This handful, sitting at a cafe inside the gardens, looking over at the city on the other side of the Arno.













Time wise, things are getting tight. I walk down to the lovely San Niccolo neighborhood just below the Museum...





...and I do get to the Zeb at 2, but I'm thinking -- where was my internal calculator? I have a train at 3:22 -- an earlier one today, because I need to get home and get ready for my departure tomorrow. How is it possible to fit in a meal?

Alberto and his mamma are hard at work.


 








I need to be decisive. As I sit down, I glance at various foods that people are eating and within five seconds, before she has placed a napkin by my placemat, I tell her -- I would like the spaghetti with white truffle slices, a mixed plate of vegetables, a glass of white wine and a mineral water. And the check please!

Oh, what a meal! And it's perfectly simple, informal... (Note the young couple across the way from me. Very plugged in.)






(And the older couple next to them wondering -- why is everyone always looking at their phones or tablets?)






The spaghetti is a pasta made with eggs, adding a rich base for the truffle slices.






The plate of veggies -- a godsend after a rather spartan veggie offering the past few days.






And mostly, it's just such a perfect place to eat alone. Because you're not really alone. You listen in to this person and the next one, you watch the mom and son team behind the counter and you really feel like this is what every lunch should be like.

But it is 2:50 when I finally leave. The question remains: If Zeb is in the south east corner of Florence and the railway station is in the north west corner, can a 61 year old person make it in time for the 3:22 to Rignano sull'Arno?



 (crossing to the north bank)


Yes. Thank goodness the answer is yes. On this beautiful blue skied day, I fly through Florence like a woman possessed. By happiness.

As I slink into a seat on the train, the sun pours in. The sign says -- don't open the windows, it's air conditioned, but no one believes the sign and all windows are down. As the train picks up speed, the curtains fly every which way, the chatter is lively, the breeze dances in one window, out the next.

This, this is what travel should feel like!

At the olive farm, there isn't even a question: the water of the pool, though cool, picks up the blue of the sky, inviting, oh so very inviting...





I plunge in for my final most beautiful swim at the olive farm in Tuscany.

return

I felt I hadn't finished with Florence. Just one day wasn't enough. Rain or shine, I would go again.

But it didn't rain. Instead, I woke up to this sunrise out my window:






I know the clouds are going to roll in, but it looks like once again, I'll be spared the wet weather.

But it is a cooler day. Maybe in the 60s. So I'm going to get a more autumnal immersion in the city.

And immersion it is: I hike over to Rignano sull'Arno -- oh, and did I tell you? I found a partial short cut through the olive groves, so now the hike is down to 50 minutes!






...and apart from the fact that I don't like having to step off the road every time a big vehicle comes barreling down the hill, it's a hike with quite lovely scenery. Let me pause on this a little:












Okay, let me return to the narrative. About immersion. Oh, one more digression -- I wanted to note that I have concluded that Italian men have more fun than their American counterparts. I have seen too many animated conversations, like this one to think otherwise:






Now, about the immersion, which simply refers to the fact that on my reliable (I'm a regular!) 10:10 to Florence, I take my seat on the upper deck, plug in my iTunes and listen to Fiorella as we speed toward Florence.

Once I'm in the city, first thing's first: breakfast. I'm at the Piazza della Repubblica again, only at Cafe Galli -- the competition to yesterday's Paszkowski. My verdict, based on the entirely reliable sample of one: yesterday's vibe and waiters were better, but oh, that ricotta pastry today!











A glance at the coffee drinkers standing next to me:






Okay, let me now take you again on a walk, though this time, I'm less focused on the splendid stuff that really does distract you from the Florentine everyday. I'm trying to keep away from the monuments. Or at least to mix them up a bit. Like this one - because somehow it never struck me that Florence should have a movie theater just a block from the Piazza della Signoria.






Predictably, I cross the river pretty quickly. Here is a view looking away from the center, toward the hills (in the distance) in which my olive farm is nestled.






Florence itself is hilly here. And empty.






But I actually don't quite want empty. I want a mix. So I head toward a neighborhood that offers it: the Santo Spirito blocks on this south side of the river, named after this church:






There's a small market here today. Nothing extraordinary. Just simple stuff you'd pick up if you were cooking at home.






People pass through the square in front of the church, pausing for a rest on one of the benches...






The buildings in the Santo Spirito neighborhood are somewhat more colorful than in central Florence.  Here, someone inadvertently matched the laundry to the colors of the building:






I pass what must be a school on recess for lunch. I can't really be certain that it's high school. It could be the first year of university. They all look about 18, which makes it hard for me to fit them into an academic slot and I saw no sign on nearby structures indicating what scuola we're dealing with. I quickly snapped three photos of the three groups mingling on this block. Did you notice that here (as in France), all young women seem to choose to keep their hair long?
















Further down the block, I came across this woman, somewhat agitated at her husband. Possibly because he is not helping her with the bags...






I do a lot of this: walking, looking, often times not photographing at all. And very soon it becomes lunch time. My one real meal of the day!

I go to Osteria De' Benci. It's a place that swirls in my mind with memories! Of eating with daughters. Of eating alone, while Ed slept in the hotel room. And especially of the most wonderful dish that completely breaks my habit of not eating red meat: it's the Florentine steak. I love this so much and I cannot get it across the ocean: it's maybe a quarter inch thick, smothered in garlic and olive oil, generously sprinkled with oregano and salt and pepper.  So this is the place to come for that. But  luck is so with me because today, they also have on the menu an arugula salad with raw artichokes and slivers of parmesan. Again, a real favorite of mine and I do not understand why I cannot replicate it back home. We have the arugula. We have the artichokes. We have the cheese. Why can't I do it? It's something about the artichokes... So, my two beloved dishes:










...and now a comment on my surroundings. The outside tables are stuck somewhere between the sidewalk and zooming traffic (we're outside the pedestrian zone). So you have to learn to shut out the city. Easy: focus on what's taking place at the tables around you. I am very surprised that until the bitter end, all the tables are occupied by Italians. In the days gone by, this restaurant was a real mecca for Lonely Planet or Frommer guide book readers. But guide books fizzle and fade. Probably Rick Steves has introduced different players on the culinary scene (he has THE top selling book -- I see it again and again here). In any case, I'm enjoying this suddenly Italian moment. Here's a photo of a  lovely couple. What's especially warming is that he is so affectionate with her, even though they already have a child -- a three or four year old that is darting about on the sidewalk as they concentrate on their intimate moment.






Toward the end of my meal (and everyone's meal actually), a small group comes in. Three couples. Americans. You can see them gather in this pic, while the waiters are sort of smiling between themselves.





The issue is that the Americans aren't satisfied with the arrangement of the tables. They want them to be perpendicular rather than parallel to the curb. I didn't quite catch the reason for it.

The waiters are willing. The group sits down. The review of the menu begins.

And here is an editorial comment from me. A rather long-ish one. And I feel that I have credibility in making it because it cannot be said that I do not pay attention to those around me when I travel. Since I am most often alone, that's all I do: watch and listen.

Based on all that I've seen in the past years, I'm giving Americans abroad (in Europe) a real thumbs up. (Caveat: I have little experience with the back packers out there and I have no experience with the high enders. I'm talking about the middle.) I like watching them, listening to their observations. There'll be the exception, but most often, I find Americans to be genuine, curious, open, ready to experience something new. Sure, they sometimes misinterpret. That happens when you switch cultures. [From this group: Look Ray, it says service is added at 10%. That means they don't want you to leave anything..]. Sometimes they're not comfortable with what they find. [From this group: Anyone needing instructions on the bathroom? I found it! It's downstairs! Is it okay? It's strange. Dirty? Not that. It's shared.]

Gone, really gone is the "ugly American" (or maybe they're staying home?). Truly, I think our people are heroic in their efforts to be friendly and outgoing. [From this group:
Look, Meg, right next to us! A Harley! He point to a motorbike just at the side of the eating space. The owner comes up to ride it away.  
Excuse me, but do you speak English? -- our American diner asks.  
No, mi dispiace...
Undeterred -- where do you buy a Harley here? Our American shoves a map at the guy on the bike.
The Italian relaxes a bit. His mind is no longer on getting away. He points to a street on the map.
Could you write it down? Here's a pen! Obligingly, the Italian scribbles the name of the street on the map.
The American thrusts a camera at his wife: here, take a picture of us! He leans in toward the Italian and says, by way of explanation -- my son, he has a Harley!

I just have one big grin watching this exchange. You rarely see such genuine appreciation for the similarities coming from other nationalities.

I have only one tiny little issue with Americans: I wish they wouldn't feel so compelled to always comment -- usually in negative ways -- about the service. I see it mostly in restaurants. We are a nation of eaters who like service. Wait staff that checks in on us. That scribbles their name on the paper table cloth. That asks if you want another refill just as you slug down the last sip of the one you had. Americans like that attentiveness. And they don't like it when the wait staff has a different approach elsewhere. But that's minor stuff. Americans in Europe are an obliging, friendly lot. And to prove my point, I ask the waiter this same question -- do you like American guests? Sure!  - he says. Not all, but mostly, yes, very much. Very friendly people.  So, another scientific survey with a sample of one!


One more walk toward the more crowded epicenter of the city...






...with a stop at the same ice cream store, this time sampling their pistachio...





...and I'm done.

At the train station now... So long Florence...





Hello train ride, with Italian music in my ear.

We approach Rignano sull'Arno and I see from the window that there is a bridge over the Arno here, too. That's tomorrow's task: to look at life here again, on both sides of the river.






It's cool tonight. Mid sixties at most. Still, I don't want to break my routine. I drop my backpack in my little studio and plunge into the (very unheated) pool.