So it’s the 80s and I’m on the train heading to Washington from New York and I join the queue in the diner.
I suddenly realise there’s a couple of guys who after I guess a few alcoholic libations are pairing off people in the queue. Their attention falls on me and they loudly pair me off with a woman next to me in the queue with the phrase ‘The Australian guy …..’
The woman sees my puzzled expression and kindly tries to reassure me by saying ‘It’s because of Crocodile Dundee, they assume that if you don’t have an American accent you must be Australian even if you are English.’
This is a decisive moment as I’m aware of Americans desire to claim European heritage so in the same vein, I say: ‘Actually I’m Welsh!’ Her eyes light up with joy and she says ‘Me,too!’ Stunned I say ‘Oh!’ not sure what would be a more appropriate response. ‘Yes’ she continues, ‘My surname is Llewelyn- McTavish!’ A little confused, I respond ‘So half Welsh half Scottish?’ Nothing in the world would have prepared me for the reply, which was ‘It’s McTavish spelled the Welsh way!’
As you can probably imagine, I was, unusually, lost for words. Should I destroy this woman’s belief in her Celtic origins, or should I just smile? I took the latter route. Why ruin her dreams?
We’re up bright and early – well at least early – I’m not sure I’ve done bright for some years. Arriving at Chiusi, we get the tickets remembering to do the convalidation and we get on the train. Convalidation is an Italian mystery – I’ve bought and am holding the tickets, why do I need to have them stamped to say I’m using them ? Anyway we do it as required, and the train departs precisely on time.
We are heading for the SS Annunciata which we briefly visited a month ago. En route, as usual I’m people watching. It’s very easy to spot the wealthy Florentines, who seem to glide effortlessly through life with a beatific, but not too smug smile. Well-dressed, but not flash. Essentially elegant to a tee.
Continuing my constant observation of Italian life. There is a woman on the phone – no surprise there, but the left hand is upturned in a typical Italian pose, which seems to mean ‘why?’ I begin to wonder about Italian gestures. There is a classic which looks like taking a pinch of salt, but with palm upwards which again means ‘what?’ or more frequently, I think WTF! Then there is a hand flicking away under the chin which seems to mean ‘what do I care!’ it’s all fascinating stuff.
We get to the church and it is stunning though for me, it is more dour than other great churches. It’s also a little strange that the seating is divided with half facin gone way and half the other. However, it is monstrously impressive.
I need a drink so we stop at the bar where we had coffee a week or two ago. As often occurs in Italy, the barman seems severe until a little something triggers a smile – in this case a young family with two kids.
Next stop will be an aperitivo near Santo Spirito. The bar we discovered a few years ago appears to be no more so we revert to one we’ve been frequenting for maybe 12 years. We’ve planned lunch as usual at the Osteria di Santo Spirito. After a short wait, we get stuck into an antipasto of salami salsiccia and sun-dried tomatoes. Main course is tortelacci with walnuts, the same dish I’ve ordered for at least the last three visits. The next stage we plan to be a visit to a gelateria where they create a very special café affogato, but we realise we won’t make it there and back in time for the train. So we had for the Santa Maria Novella and stop at a bar. The price list says €8 for 0.5 L which turns out to be .33 L. We have some banter with the waiter regarding the same price for less beer. Alessandro is really sweet and he apologises saying ‘it’s Florentine prices – I know I live here!’ He brings us nibbles and says ‘these are free’ and when I pay the bill, he says ‘If I was the boss I’d give you a discount because you’re simpatico!’ roughly translates as friendly or chatty. That’s what being in Italy is for me.
We get the train home and head to the bar as Alessandro said he’d be around for an aperitivo. It gets cold and we go inside and Miriam appears. We chat and Marsha’s name cropped up – Masha Blankenburg was a former conductor and director of a German symphony orchestra. She developed tinnitus and came to live in Paciano where she was writing a book about female directors of orchestras. Her partner was a Polish surrealist painter. She was lovely, but nutty as a fruitcake. Lesley had never met her so for quite some time, Miriam and I tried to explain to Lesley how bonkers she really was. She had a maremmana, the legendary Italian guard dogs. This particular one was a runt she’d found left to drown in a rock pool in Sardinia. She rescued it and smuggled it onto a plane in a handbag, distracting the security guards by singing loudly!
Frankly, it was the perfect end of the evening – I love the food, the wine and the history, but most of all I love the people.
On our last day in Florence (for this trip at least) we returned to our local bar for breakfast. Wherever we go, one of our first plans is to find a local bar for breakfast, and evening aperitivi. At breakfast, we see the usual locals. There is the guy with a hairstyle reminiscent of Andy Saltzman or the surreal US comedian Steven Wright. There is Joe Cool with his shades and AirPods already in place and it’s only 8.45. A man walks in who is about 6‘7“ tall. A diminutive older lady looks him up and down several times, and having noticed that I’ve noticed her checking him out, she says ‘life is not fair!’ indicating her tiny stature. Behind the bar, there are dozens of scratchcards on display and there is a continuous stream of people buying them. Revealing their fortunes, good or bad, they seem to return for more, to hopefully make up for their losses or simply to spend their winnings. Whichever it is, the result is always the same. When the National Lottery began in the UK, the Daily Telegraph of all papers, admitted that it was the most efficient way of transferring funds from the poor to the wealthy.
Having sucked up a goodly chunk of early morning theatre, we begin the walk to the station. Due to the heavy rain the day before I was forced to buy an umbrella. I’m also carrying my clothes in an expensive leather holdall which I bought many years ago, when I was the proud owner of a bright red Mercedes which seemed to deserve some luxurious luggage. Having got ‘car pride’ out of my system, the bag has been set aside and replaced by an assortment of less opulent luggage. I decided that I would give it a fresh release of life on this visit to the notoriously elegant city of Florence. Of course, this seems to partner nicely with the umbrella and I feel that I may be cutting a dash as a reborn cross between Peter Ustinov and Stephen Fry. I fear the overall look may not be as convincing as I’d hoped, but I think it works to an acceptable level.
Arriving at Santa Maria Novella. We discover that the Luggage Deposit is in complete chaos as it appears that a massive school party of young teenagers were badly prepared for the fiscal formalities AND they are also in conflict with a group of Italian tourists, who are old enough to know, better but clearly don’t and are equally badly prepared. Stupidity has no age limits! We pass the time relatively easily, with a jointly cynical conversation with an Italian couple behind us and it all works okay in the end.
Lesley would have liked to visit the Duomo again but the queue was dauntingly long so we just wander. I see a shop selling artist materials and I succumb. In my more than acceptable Italian, I say I’d like a pad of Fabriano watercolour cartoline They say ‘Ah! Questi postcards!’ I point out the funny side and we all laugh.
We manage a quick look at the beautiful S.S.Anunciatta di Firenze before the 12 o’clock mass begins and vow that we should make a proper visit next time.
We retire to a bar where Lesley has spotted porchetta. Included in their list of Today’s Specials .’chat with psychological and moral support.’ Nice.
We wander slowly back towards the station and have another quick drink at a bar with a tile marking the height, to which the flood waters rose in 1966. The flood waters arrived at 60 kph and reached a height of 22ft in the San Croce area. Unbelievable.
Finally, we climb aboard the train and relax, at the same time trying to stay awake enough to not miss our stop. Another great day out in our favourite city.
We headed for Chiusi to get the train to Orvieto only to discover that there is a two hour wait for the next train. Then by the time the train arrived 25 minutes late, we were frozen and yes it was the 4th May! An inauspicious start to the day.
The journey is relatively quick, as we are both transfixed by a hyperactive young man. He is wearing shorts, a T-shirt and trekking shoes. Every exposed part of his body is tattooed. There is a superhero on the front of his left leg, and what might be a self portrait of his hirsute head and face on the back. The other leg displays a replica of a whiskey bottle label on it and so it goes on. In front of him on the opposite seat is a colossal rucksack with every available loop having something attached to it. There’s folding walking poles, a head torch, and a GPS locator.
The pockets are filled with protein bars and energy drinks, the drinks containers being fitted with tubes to enable in-flight refuelling. He spends the entire 20 minutes of the journey, removing items from the rucksack and reattaching them to a different locations, or checking his phone. He prepares to disembark quite some distance from Orvieto. This is a wise move as before he can get the rucksack on, he attaches a bumbag to his front – a bag which would probably adequately serve as a weekend case for most people. Finally fully loaded with sun shades balanced on his bandanna’d head, he strides for the space near the doors which he virtually fills. He might well have benefited from banner, saying EXCEPTIONAL LOAD in three languages. Completing the scene, he takes out his mobile and gives a brief account of the kilometres he has covered and the heights he has scaled. He concludes his presentation with the dramatic statement ‘Non sono più in gara!’. I’m no longer in the game.
The platform at Orvieto is very low and as he stepped down, I’m sure I was not the only person present wondering, nay even hoping, that he might slip and end up struggling on his back like a beached turtle. ‘Pride comes before a fall!’ they say, but clearly did not in this case, but maybe that’s for the best.
We take the funicular to the top of village and decide to walk rather than take the the bus. This helped to warm us up, but not sufficiently that we weren’t attracted by an ‘end of the line’ sale. I spy a nice zip-up sweater for €9 which the owner tries to convince me that will be too small, though it says it’s large and more importantly it clearly fits me. Lesley also finds a top, and for €18 that’s £15.45, we are ready to face the world.
We wander up the street, reminiscing about meals we’d eaten there, and also seeing the great Jim Hall in the theatre during ‘Orvieto Jazz Winter’.
The Duomo at Orvieto is a massive and beautiful building and though I’ve seen it dozens of times in the last 30 years, it still slaps me in the face and says ‘Look I’m still here and I’m beautiful!’ We soak it all in for a while and take some pics simply to prove to ourselves that we’ve been there, yet again.
Looking for somewhere for a lunchtime snack, we head off into the less busy hinterland which believe it or not still exists, even in a busy tourist infested town like Orvieto. We see a small bar and decide it looks worth a try. Essentially it’s a corridor going deep into the building but it feels ‘right’. The waitress arrives and we order salumi, cheese and some focaccia and, of course, wine. She returns with the glasses, and I’m stunned as to how sparkling they are and so a conversation ensues about how to clean glasses. The food is good ‘solid fare’ and includes their own licorice chutney so we have a conversation about our encounter with Fortunato Amarelli the appropriately named head of that noble family and their licorice empire and we enjoy another great lunch.
Checking the timetable realise we have one hour and a half to wait before the next train. We pause at a bar for an Ichnusa for me and a coffee for Lesley. The two youngish guys sitting beside me talk incessantly for 20 minutes not pausing for breath, politeness, or even alcohol. We move on and walk down to the castle where a group of ladies, of a certain age, are creating watercolours. Sketching outdoor is nice but please don’t call it ‘plein air’.
We take the funicular down to the train station surrounded by a group of the loud middle-class English youths! I’ve come to the conclusion that I am bigoted – I can deal with loud Italians but loud Brits and Americans are my breaking point. This was confirmed when we spent that evening at the L’Oca Bruciata, the Pizzeria in the village which was packed with Italians. The buzz was lovely but later on when three Americans enter the bottom bar as we enjoyed a ‘post-cena’ ice cream my hackles were truly risen!
Then nobody‘s perfect and I do try my best. I comfort myself with that and we go to bed.
It seems that in the main, the tendency to be unhappy with one’s own body is usually associated with the female of the species, though let me assure you, dear reader, that us males also have our own fair share of disappointments. For example, as a young teenager, whereas many of my school, friends suffered from dandruff, I seem to have this effect on vast tracts of my body – not nice.
At a very early age, my mother had told me that I had inherited a skin condition from her. Now in another life, this would’ve been the signal to instigate a regimen of creaming and moisturising, which might have at the very least minimised the effects. Unfortunately, my mother, never one to miss the opportunity to underline factors that already undermined by self confidence, simply told me it was ‘fish skin’ – a term I’ve never come across anywhere else.
I’m still troubled with his condition. My knuckles frequently bleed, which is both painful and unsightly giving me the appearance of an unusually slight pugilist! One of my attempts to reduce the occurrence of this is to apply a huge quantity of emollient to my hands before donning cotton gloves and going to bed. This is a bit of a palaver, but then looking on the bright side, the other evening catching sight of myself in the mirror, wearing white cotton gloves and hooped pyjamas inspired a swift Marcel Marceau impersonation before bedtime. Yes, you’ve got to laugh!
I wrote this originally as a response to Stephen Fry’s recent post.
Town vs. country? Hm I’m reading this column sitting in the bar in a tiny village in Umbria where I lived for ten years. After the constraints of Covid it was joyful to return to the village I’d fallen in love with, though the reunion was somewhat sullied by the fact that on arrival, we were no longer allowed to use the EU passport entrance but had become ignominious ‘others’.
Today the bar was full of joyful hysteria concerning a slightly smutty ‘Rebus’ puzzle which one of them sent last night. Three women who are present every morning, were ‘theatrically horrified’ that I’d seen it, but dissolved into hysterics again when I pointed out that I was the one who had to explain it to the Italian woman who owns the bar.
When we arrive back in Italy we are full of good intentions – we should go there; we should visit such and such etc. etc. After 24 hours here, our enthusiasm has been mellowed to a happy acceptance of a quiet life. It’s what I miss when we’re in Manchester. Here, I miss performing with my band but I don’t miss the feeling of having to be busy – that last remnant of my Welsh chapel upbringing, riven with Protestant work ethic (though tempered by student life in the 70’s)
So time for another coffee, a stroll around the village then probably an aperitivo at the other bar.
Later
The walk around the village turns into a drive to lavanderia as our washing machine has ceased to function after a mere 23 years of loyal service.
I head into a tabaccaio to buy some stamps. The woman tells me they’ve run out, with a sense of loss and trauma not seen in Italy since the Florentine floods of ‘66. She expresses deep regret as if she had failed to furnish me with a few victuals for my starving family, her face contorted in a way that only Munch could capture. I reassure her that it is neither the end of the world nor her responsibility for this imagined apocalypse.
After some shopping, we head for home pausing for an aperitivo at a bar we haven’t visited for some time. We meet four people from the village who are clearly enjoying the ‘ponte’. When there is a national holiday on a Tuesday or a Thursday, Italians frequently take an extra day as a holiday – a ‘bridge’ to make a longer weekend.
Well why not? And that’s why I think that rural wins, for now anyway.
Thursday morning, headed for our local bar – coffee, cappuccino two croissants €5 – a bargain!
Then we walk to Santa Croce. We walked across the Ponte Vecchio and I managed to shoot one of the arches with no punters – a rare achievement. The Vasari Corridor will soon be open to connect the Pitti Palace with the Uffizzi Gallery, which enabled the ‘magnificents’ to reach the Uffizzi without having to mix with the hoi -polloi.
The Vasari corridor
We also walked across the Piazza della Signoria. I love the way they cover any restoration work requiring scaffolding with photographic reproduction of how the building will look. Brilliant.
We then went to the Basilica di Santa Croce, which contains the graves or commemorations of Galileo, Dante, Mikel, Angelo, Ugo, Foscoli, Rossini, Marconi, and believe it or not, Florence Nightingale. Coincidentally, Rossini was featured in my early morning earworm as quando corpus morietur rang out its cheerful message in my head yet again. –‘when the body rots!’ for those of you not familiar with this catchy little tune!
Dante thinking…..
The paintings are amazing though one appeared to contain a dodgy looking guy about to fondle a young lady in a totally inappropriate setting.
Where’s his hand?
I also managed to do some of my vertical axis photography – how else can you photograph ceilings except by holding the camera flat in your hands?!?’
Another Brunelleschi dome!
I’m writing this sitting ar a favourite location – the Cafeteria Oblate which is part of the University library with a lovely view of the Duomo. So sitting here, surrounded by excited young students watching lightning illuminate the Duomo in the rain.
Today was a dose of culture with tickets to visit the Medici chapel. It’s mind blowing – the scale of it, physically and the amount of resources that were committed to it. Then with somebody called Cosimo the Magnificent involved, you know it’s likely to be a pretty substantial ego trip.
Nicknames play a strange role in Italian culture. I know of dozens of Italian blues musicians who have created or more precisely stolen appropriate nicknames such as Leadbelly. However, I’ve always believed that nicknames, even if they are negative are normally created by a third-party not by the holder. Yet Italian history shows my logic to be flawed. After all, it seems highly unlikely that the nickname Cosimo the Magnificent would be created by anyone other than a massive egotist. And why? If it’s that obvious then it shouldn’t need saying. Was it possibly because of his power and his collection of dwarfs? Puzzled? Yes, as I was, when I discovered in the Boboli gardens a sculpture, showing ‘Cosimo’s favourite dwarf riding on a tortoise.’ One of his five apparently.
Anyway enough of this historical culture – it’s lunchtime now. Nerbone is a legendary ‘tripperia’ selling tripe since 1872 and still going strong. The menu contains a variety of meat which many, myself included, find unpalatable – tripe and lampredotto (veal stomach) being high on that list. However, the porchetta was delicious and two Panini stuffed full of roast pork plus two large glasses of red wine for less than £12 – delicious!
That could be the end of a perfect Italian day. It wasn’t though as it continued with more eating and drinking, and some lovely time spent chatting with a couple from Boston and Zambia, as ever, over a meal.
rowlandwithaw 