Florentine Scribblings

Incipit vita nova

Florentine Scribblings

Though I’m not set to depart Florence until May, I know there are three things that I’ll leave with—a kick-ass shoe collection, a taste for capuccini and a love of Dante Alighieri. My course on Dante, Petrarca and Boccaccio is amazing—it may be my favorite course (definitely my favorite lit course!). My professor is incredibly knowledgeable about Dante, not to mention sarcastic and quite funny.
It’s odd, but because of this course, things are starting to make sense. While I still don’t like politics, I can see their importance in the way the world works. How people can love their city/country so much that they risk everything for it (and often sacrifice everything). The connections between politics and the written word are falling into place. By understanding the world that Dante lived in, I can better understand his writing. If I care half as much as he did, my world would make more sense, and from there, I’ll have a better grasp of my own writing. There goes my internal romantic.
And his words! Oh, they are so perfect, so beautiful. I wish I could write such things. “Dante never made mistakes in his writing. In his life, yes, but in his writing, no,” my professor said this morning. Every word choice was deliberate. Every thought executed exactly. If only language had not changed so much over time, so we could better comprehend his meaning. Gentle, sweet, honest—all of these words meant something else in Dante’s day.
Dante begins La Vita Nuova:

“In quella parte del libro de la mia memoria dinanzi a la quale poco si potrebbe leggere, si trova una rubrica la quale dice: Incipit vita nova. (In that part of the book of my memory before which little could be read, a rubric is found that says: [Here begins the new life]).”

So, here begins my new life. However, not one changed by Love, but one changed by Thought.

Venetian Carnevale Beats Halloween in Salem, MA.

Florentine Scribblings

Yep. Carnevale is just so much fun–I wish I could return another year and participate fully, huge ball gown, wig and full face mask. My half mask (very simple and completely different from everyone else’s–mine looked as though a child painted it poorly and stuck some faux gems on, but that was part of the charm).

Venice is even more of a labyrinth than Florence. Since the city is on the water (in the water, in some cases, such as the flooded St Mark’s Square), places that are geographically close together. My friends and I ended up on the wrong island, and instead of  having a direct line to St Mark’s…well, we could have gone swimming.

We ran through the alleys, the narrow streets. Our hearts thumped. We were late. If we ran…maybe we could get there…no such luck. We raced, myself and two friends changing position as the leader. People crowded closely, guarding the four bridges we needed to cross. “Permesso! Permesso!” I bellowed. We grabbed each others’ shoulders, flying through the streets in a maddening game of crack the whip. It was stressful, insane, but above all…fun.

I may have missed the first boat to the mainland (but I did get there–thankfully there were two boats waiting). Would I have traded making that first boat with not having that little jaunt through the city? Nope. Whenever I think of Venice, I’ll remember that weaving, laughing, forty-five minutes.

With the extra long bus rides from Florence to Venice (the first being at six am…ouch), I managed to get some writing in. Alas, no good short stories, but the ‘impression’ writing I did turned out good–some of it may end up in future stories or perhaps in essays.

On getting lost (or, exploring)

Florentine Scribblings

Yesterday, two of my flatmates and I decided to go on a quest. Our Grail was the Coop, a large supermarket outside of the Florence Center. We took a wrongish turn and completely missed the supermarket.

What we found was something better.

In our wandering, we stumbled into the outskirts of Florence. Gone was the hustle and bustle of the tourist district. Instead, there was a magnificent calm. Sure, cars and scooters rushed by with the same sense of urgency, but the street vendors of San Lorenzo were no where to be seen. No catcalls, whistles or hawking of wares here.

It’s the Florence known to the locals. We found schools, not only universities but elementary schools. We listened to kids at recess, found another train station, and just were overwhelmed by the peace. We could see the mountains from there, the buildings, the smaller towns. The buildings are shorter, less crowded together.

I might just move here one day.

First Impressions of Florence

Florentine Scribblings

With a decaying elegance, the buildings sprout from mountainsides. The new exists beside the dead, mere ghosts of their former glory. The houses move and progress, pieces forgotten and discarded like exoskeletons.

There is a dusty, beat up loveliness to Florence’s walls. Exquisite grace exists as one with colorful, stringy graffiti. This is a place well loved and well lived in. From the earthly marring, the buildings rise tall, stately and solid.

There had been doubts. Concern that this wasn’t where I belonged, that I should have been going elsewhere. But as I made my way from Pisa to Florence, a calm fell upon me as a blanket. This is where I ought to be.

Caravaggio Come to Life

Florentine Scribblings

Early mornings come too quickly, no matter what time zone.

One morning, though, my sleepy eyes were greeted with a pleasant sight. I stepped into a painting by Caravaggio. The dark room was illuminated by only the space between the shudders. The light itself hit only the turned down bedclothes, which become a brighter white. I smiled, resisting the urge to go back to sleep.

I wish I had taken a picture, but I was afraid of ruining the lighting.

Mi piaccino gli apertivi.

Florentine Scribblings

So my Italian grammar may be incorrect. I’ll correct it once my Italian improves a bit–it has been over six months since I’ve spoken it with any frequency before arriving.

After a day of travel, I arrived in Florence, cold, exhausted and excited. I did the math and realized that I had been awake for over 24 hours–I think the final count was 28. All I could think was, “Now I know how Jack Bauer feels at the end of the day.”

Italy has a spectacular custom called “aperitivo” or “apertifs.” Now, what are apertivi? You know how when you go to a bar, get something to drink and decide that you’re hungry too? Now you have to buy food. Not so with apertivi. Food is provided with the cost of your drink–as much food as you want to eat. These aren’t your typical bar peanuts. These are full out meals. The bar I visited (a mostly Florentine establishment) had home-made Chinese style food. It was delicious, not your usual New Year’s Eve stuff. This has to be the greatest thing ever.

We asked our Italian hostess if we could eat the food. She looked at us, very confused.  Through a pidgin Italian-English-hand signals language, we managed to ask her if we needed to pay for the food. She said no, and we told her that in the States we need to pay for the food as well!

My classes start on Monday, but tonight I have a cooking class. I’m really looking forward to it, as I can’t cook well!

I’ll have something more writing related up soon, probably a word portrait of the city.