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| Olive picking, Mugello |
I've been living in Florence for almost two years now, but my love affair with this city goes back to fall 2008, when I was a student here. Sometimes I feel like the city throws me into sensory overload, and I wish I had my camera or videocamera to capture my experiences, just so I could take them home, go over them and process. I thought it might be fun to put some of these impressions into words...
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Golden sunlight streams through olive leaves. Oxtoa clambers up the limbs like a cat, or better, his cat, Gaston (aka. Mini-Cat). Our harvest leaves a deep purple trail. White nets are like ghosts. Wine is dark, like our olives.
7am, summer in Via dei Cairoli, windows open and the smell of fresh bread, croissants - yeasty and thick - waft through the screens. Good morning!
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| Francesca, a Thursday morning wedding |
Near the Campo di Marte train station, there is a run-down villa, the color of dirty parchment. The walls are dripping, oozing purple wisteria from top to bottom.
The children in the elementary school behind our house sing and dance to Shakira. The headmistress, a stern old nun, interrupts them for a "
pensierino alla Madonna" - "a little prayer for the Madonna"...I guess she means the Virgin Mary, not the pop star.
A stylish gentleman, Saturday afternoon, exits from the Four Seasons wearing beautiful, bright red, leather shoes. He has horn-rimmed glasses.
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| Antique shop, Arezzo |
Tuesday: walking through the market at the Cascine, along the river. Sicilian cheesemongers shove samples in your face. The street smells like fried dough and salami. A baby in a stroller is wearing sunglasses and laughs as his mother tries on yellow high heels. The plant stand is being stormed by Florentine grandmothers; they complain about prices but praise the selection.
The color of black sesame gelato? Light grey. The taste? Sweet and peanut-y. Who knew!
Fields of sunflowers, on our way to the beach. They look to the sky, waiting.
Sara pulls out a giant cheese ziggurat. It's goat cheese. It's beautiful, creamy, white and tastes like heaven. Her friend tells us, "There's a farm in Tuscany where you can adopt a goat." We jump into the ocean.
My bicycle creaks, squeaks, creaks, squeaks down the street on my return from work. White, fuzzy flowers rain down from the trees on the
viale. Just in time to see the hot pink and orange sun set over the soccer stadium.
