When we left Cinque Terra it was to Firenze. Unfortunately, we didn't have reservations for some of the things we hoped to see. A lack of planning on our part, but that was hardly a disappointment because the whole city is a museum.
I'd grown up hearing fantastical stories of Florence from my dad, Red, who had military leave there after the 10th Mountain Division's battle at Riva Ridge and the breaking of the Nazi's hold on northern Italy. He was enthralled. By then Sargento Russo had a smidgen of Italian, so his few days were even more exciting to a guy who'd never been out of the Northwest before the war. He said he was feeling truly alive. I wanted to go there for him.
I also wanted to see the Pitti Palace and Boboli Gardens, which Linny knew about, and those were accessible. We'd gotten reservations at an old convent because it was close to the center, promised quiet rest, included breakfast, and was cheap. It's downside was an 11pm curfew and a virtual vow of silence upon entering. We'd have to yell somewhere else, if the need arose.
Our first afternoon and evening were spent wandering the statue-littered blocks near the major museums. Mostly of cruelty and violence. Then we went window shopping, eventually catching a late lunch on a busy square with a group of street performers and a large crowd of watchers.
Then we watched a scene that seemed choreographed but was clearly daily habit. Romani were singly and in groups either begging or selling things all around us. We'd been standing by a fountain watching them work when all of them suddenly folded their displays, put their begging cups in bags, and retreated together to a side street. A moment later, a large squad of cops came through. When they were gone, the Romani resumed their stations.
When we'd stowed our luggage at the convent, we'd noticed a restaurant about a block away that had outdoor seating and opened about 7pm. We like the looks of the menu and planned to head there at sunset. Walking across the Ponte Vecchio with the sky brightly colored was a treat. Dinner was excellent. The wine was good and less expensive than in Vernazza. We turned in before curfew. Quietly.
The next day we opened the Boboli Gardens and spent the entire day exploring the Pitti Palace museum and outdoor exhibits. One of the more interesting permanent exhibits was of Estruscan and Roman plumbing, including the water mechanics of masterful fountains.
There was a temporary display of large modern sculptures by a guy named Roberto Barni. They were absolutely delightful. We got a treat out of looking at them closely from many angles, and we were tickled to watch others come upon them. An unexpected pleasure.
Among the exhibits were two mockups of ancient courtyard gardens, Roman and Etruscan. The approach to them gave the impression that they were solid and real, but they were, in fact, detailed facades. We thought, "Hey, we could do that." And we went on our way to walk through a more residential neighborhood in search of an early dinner. We'd be leaving in the morning for Rome.
Meanwhile, the thought of building an Etruscan garden back in Garden Home kept tickling us. When were back in Portland, we checked around and discovered a fellow in Camas, Washington, who was making and selling molds for fluted columns and all their appointments.
We bought a set, bought a shitload of concrete ingredients, and began pouring and stacking our columns. It didn't take long for that to get tedious and then just silly. So we stopped adding height and tipped over the columns we'd built to create a Roman ruin. No more work needed
A moment of art in the square in front of the cafe where we had way too pricey wine. Formerly it was the haunt of penniless writers and artists and radicals. No more. Nada mas.
