I forgot to mention in the previous post that somewhere in there we started having student art shows. The exhibit for 2-D works is definitely a range of the good, bad, and ugly. I'll let you decide which is which. Under the link "artwork" you'll find pictures from this show as well as some images of one of my prints drying and my final project for weaving: a scarf in the hunting version of Buchanen clan tartan (my family's Scottish plaid). I actually just "finished" it last night. That is, I handwashed it in tepid water with a mild detergent, letting the fibers relax a bit.
In addition there are links for pictures I took at the Florence Noel (note the reindeer "Cupido"), in the Ammannati-designed courtyard of the Pitti Palace (and a grotto there), while in the tower of the Museo Leonardiano in Vinci, and on our last art history field trip, Bologna. I still have to write the blog entry for that one.
Artwork
Florence Noel, Pitti, and Santa Felicita
Vinci
Bologna
Yes, I know this isn't Florence
December 11, 2007
Florence Noel--Pitti Palace--Vinci
On Friday, November 30, my friend Meg and I went to the Florence Christmas Market, Florence Noel. Like all new things in Florence, this proved to be something of an adventure. Firstly, as it was held in an old train station, Stazione Leopolda, located in an area with which we were not familiar, we had decided to take a bus. We met at a stop a little past the Duomo and off the main street. According to the schedule, a bus was due every seven minutes. However, unbeknownst to us, there was a transportation strike that night affecting the buses. We waited for forty minutes until our line finally made an appearance. Next, at a later stop, quite a number of people got on and two extremely unattractive women sat next to Meg and me. One was talking on a cellphone and I decided she had a rather abrasive voice. But when she hung up and began talking to her friend, her voice took a drastic drop on the note scale. They were transvestites! How was it possible that the jean sizes they were wearing were smaller than both Meg’s and mine? In any case, after being certain that they were staring at us, we got off at what we assumed was our stop and walked in the direction of a quantity of Christmas lights I had spotted.
We had chosen correctly and were soon walking up to the ticket booth. There was a very humorous touch to the left of the entrance: a snow machine with children making the tiniest snow balls imaginable. I’m sure it seemed like a lot of snow to them, judging by their excitement. And no, I did not take any pictures of them as it considered illegal to take a photograph of a child without the parents’ prior permission.
With our tickets we also purchased two “assagi,” or “tastes” that would allow us to try two different little chocolate items in the back of the market. The station was hung with lights everywhere and there some little carnival-type rides for kids. To the right, in rather open rooms, was set up an area for children to write letters to “Babbo Natale” and then watch them be sent via a rather badly-functioning ribbon elevator into his study/bedroom. On this side there was also an entire stand devoted to polenta. In the middle and to the left were numerous crafts and baked goods. Towards the back was the Chocolate Village. After walking around and looking at everything, buying some cookies (pizzicotti al pistachio) and ornaments (a set of Nativity figures), we headed back to the Chocolate Village. For both of my assagi I chose to have a little cup of what was basically really good melted chocolate with a very tiny amount of milk. You were just expected to drink it. It was pretty fantastic.
When we decided to go home we found a bus stop a bit closer to the old stazione and checked the routes to see if any went near the Duomo. Line 22 did so we waited until it made an appearance. Just to be certain, I asked the driver if his bus went to the Duomo to which he replied that I needed to take 22A, not 22B. Slightly confused, we got off and looked at the schedule. There were no 22As for the rest of the night (strike or no). We should have stayed on 22B and waited for it to make its full circuit. We then headed to the stop we had gotten off at, looking for a line 6 bus. It came…and drove right past the stop. We realized then that though we had no idea where we really were (I know, we should have had a map), we were going to have to walk home. We started down the most likely-looking road (after dodging quite a lot of traffic) and I eventually spotted the tower of Palazzo Vecchio. We kept walking, keeping it in sight until I had a premonition that we ought to turn left. While we did not end up being where I had that we were, we did come out into the piazza of Santa Maria Novella, very near school, and were thus easily able to get back to our apartments.
A few quick notes:
I spent the weekend (Lesley, too) writing a long paper for my art history class over the Entombment by Pontormo we had gone to see in Santa Felicità. Though I had only planned eight pages, it rapidly grew into twelve.
On Tuesday, as I was in an uncreative mood, I went for a walk, locating the Palazzo Pitti where my art history class was to meet the following day. En route, I stopped at Santa Felicità, inserted a euro into a timed light and looked at the Capponni Chapel until the time was up. I then walked back over Ponte Vecchio and headed towards Piazza Signoria. Once there, I ducked into Rivoire, a very nice café, where I had been meaning for several weeks to try their famous hot chocolate with whipped cream. It was unbelievable, like drinking hot, rich pudding. You had to have the whipped cream to dilute it! And of course, I had to add sugar as hot chocolate in Italy comes unsweetened.
Wednesday morning found me with my class at the Palatine Gallery of Palazzo Pitti. Among other things, we saw big altarpieces by Andrea del Sarto and Rosso Fiorentino. I got to see a small, later work by Pontormo, which was quite interesting given the rather large amount of research I had just done on his life and work. More famous were early and mature works by Raphael such as the Doni portraits, Donna Velata, Madonna of the Chair, and clergy portraits. We also saw Titian’s Mary Magdalene.
On the way back to my apartment, I stopped again at Santa Felicità, this time accompanied by two other students who had written papers over the same topic. However, the light machine did not function this time. The custodian took pity on us and turned the non-timed light on so we were able to look a considerable amount of time. I was glad that we had come for a class, however, as we had had the opportunity at that point to actually enter the chapel. I doubt I will be able to do that again, as it is locked off and visible only through bars. By way of a thank-you, we purchased some postcards before leaving
On Thursday, I decided that I had been delaying my make-up trip to Vinci for far too long. After lithography and lunch I went to the train station and bought a ticket to Empoli. I had done some internet research on how to get to Vinci and the museums I was required to visit (I had to turn in all of my tickets with a 5-page typed paper discussing a theme from a book called Leonardo da Vinci’s Machines by Marco Cianchi, who appears to be a local) and knew that I needed to take a COPIT bus from Empoli to Vinci, the station for which was to the left of the Empoli stazione. However, when I arrived and walked out of the stazione, I didn’t see anything answering this description anywhere. I walked back inside and asked the cashier at the biglietti window about it and he gave me a vague wave to the right. I went back outside but still saw nothing. Returning, I decided to ask the vendors at the newsstand if they knew where I could purchase tickets. This was apparently what the cashier had been indicating because they were actually able to provide them.
Feeling immensely grateful for whatever command of the Italian language I had, I walked back outside to find the stop. I soon realized, however, that none of the lines ran to Vinci. Still more frustrated, I went back to the newsstand to ask about the line number and stop. The vendors, however, were without this information. So I looked at all the routes again. Eventually, I asked a girl who looked my age if she could help me and told her that I was looking for the bus to Vinci. She was unfamiliar with it, but pointed out a little, really ugly, unmarked pink building to the left of the train station. It was the stupid bus station. I thanked her and walked to it in disgust. However, the cashier there was able to tell me that my bus was right in front of the building and would be leaving in 14-17 minutes. I got on and read a chapter about Gianlorenzo Bernini.
We started up and I began looking for Vinci. I had looked at pictures and maps of it so that I would better know at which stop to get off and where to find the museums. I finally saw the towers of its lone castle and knew that as we were circling the walls that I should get off soon. I hit the button to let the driver know and was soon walking across the street to the Museo Ideale where I purchased a biglietto ridotto (being a studentessa, and all) and looked around.
It was mainly populated with little models of Leonardo’s more famous codex drawings (most of which I had seen at an exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago) and any sort of Leonardo memorabilia imaginable including paintings by members of his workshop, engravings after his paintings and drawings, and reproductions of his originals. There was even stuff there about people who had just known Leonardo at some point. It was a little silly and I was pretty annoyed that I had been required to visit it. However, they did sell an English version of the book I needed to read for my paper. But as they didn’t take credit cards I got to see a little more of the town on my quest to find an ATM. On my way back to the museum and up a steep hill, I saw on old woman staring at me. In her defense, as Vinci is incredibly tiny, everyone had been staring at me, but I felt is if she were being ruder still. I said “Buongiorno” to her and she answered, “BuonaSERA” in the most awful witch’s voice and with a look of arch superiority. Honestly, it was before 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Apparently only Italians could think of that as evening.
I bought the little book and talked with the cashier for a while. Before leaving, she had me pick out a postcard for a souvenir. I then headed up the hill to the castle where I knew the Museo Leonardiano was located. After trying to deal with ambivalent signs, I finally made it to the castle tower’s entrance only to be told that the ticket office was in the “new section” as was a chunk of the museum’s exhibits. I walked back down and across a really strange piazza with modern mosaics and inexplicable concrete nothing-shapes to this “new section.” Another biglietto ridotto later and I was learning about Leonardo’s innovations in the area of cloth-making, the major source of Florence’s income during his lifetime. This was quite interesting to me as I had been in a weaving class all semester, and I looked around in that area for quite some time.
I headed back over to the tower and was allowed entry there. There were more machine models and again, I had seen versions of many of them. To be honest, my favorite part of the museum was getting to go on the second level where I could go out onto a walkway and get some really very wonderful views of Vinci and the countryside. I also noticed a door and staircase to a third level and started going up them. It was the scariest set of stairs I had ever encountered. They were obviously not original as they wound up the inside of the tower with an immense amount of wasted space below in the form of a pitch-black abyss. However, they were also not modern as they seemed in very poor disrepair with the occasional small hole. I went up them anyway (they weren’t roped-off, afterall) and was disappointed that they led only to a media room, probably for larger school groups to receive some sort of informative video. I went back down and out of the tower. As the sun was beginning to set, I decided to go ahead and wait at the stop.
I got back to Empoli fairly easily but as we went on the section of the circuit I had not yet traversed, I found myself hoping that I had boarded the right bus. The driver made sure I got off at the train station (there was some other similar building I had mistaken for it earlier), where I went back to the biglietti window and got my ticket. I emerged from the sottopassaggio at my platform but couldn’t find anywhere to validate my ticket (you must stamp it before getting on or face a fine if they check tickets during the ride). A lady directed me to the station entrance and this, thankfully, concluded back-tracking. I arrived in Florence with plenty of time to get some reading done over Leonardo’s machines before I inadvertently fell asleep.
We had chosen correctly and were soon walking up to the ticket booth. There was a very humorous touch to the left of the entrance: a snow machine with children making the tiniest snow balls imaginable. I’m sure it seemed like a lot of snow to them, judging by their excitement. And no, I did not take any pictures of them as it considered illegal to take a photograph of a child without the parents’ prior permission.
With our tickets we also purchased two “assagi,” or “tastes” that would allow us to try two different little chocolate items in the back of the market. The station was hung with lights everywhere and there some little carnival-type rides for kids. To the right, in rather open rooms, was set up an area for children to write letters to “Babbo Natale” and then watch them be sent via a rather badly-functioning ribbon elevator into his study/bedroom. On this side there was also an entire stand devoted to polenta. In the middle and to the left were numerous crafts and baked goods. Towards the back was the Chocolate Village. After walking around and looking at everything, buying some cookies (pizzicotti al pistachio) and ornaments (a set of Nativity figures), we headed back to the Chocolate Village. For both of my assagi I chose to have a little cup of what was basically really good melted chocolate with a very tiny amount of milk. You were just expected to drink it. It was pretty fantastic.
When we decided to go home we found a bus stop a bit closer to the old stazione and checked the routes to see if any went near the Duomo. Line 22 did so we waited until it made an appearance. Just to be certain, I asked the driver if his bus went to the Duomo to which he replied that I needed to take 22A, not 22B. Slightly confused, we got off and looked at the schedule. There were no 22As for the rest of the night (strike or no). We should have stayed on 22B and waited for it to make its full circuit. We then headed to the stop we had gotten off at, looking for a line 6 bus. It came…and drove right past the stop. We realized then that though we had no idea where we really were (I know, we should have had a map), we were going to have to walk home. We started down the most likely-looking road (after dodging quite a lot of traffic) and I eventually spotted the tower of Palazzo Vecchio. We kept walking, keeping it in sight until I had a premonition that we ought to turn left. While we did not end up being where I had that we were, we did come out into the piazza of Santa Maria Novella, very near school, and were thus easily able to get back to our apartments.
A few quick notes:
I spent the weekend (Lesley, too) writing a long paper for my art history class over the Entombment by Pontormo we had gone to see in Santa Felicità. Though I had only planned eight pages, it rapidly grew into twelve.
On Tuesday, as I was in an uncreative mood, I went for a walk, locating the Palazzo Pitti where my art history class was to meet the following day. En route, I stopped at Santa Felicità, inserted a euro into a timed light and looked at the Capponni Chapel until the time was up. I then walked back over Ponte Vecchio and headed towards Piazza Signoria. Once there, I ducked into Rivoire, a very nice café, where I had been meaning for several weeks to try their famous hot chocolate with whipped cream. It was unbelievable, like drinking hot, rich pudding. You had to have the whipped cream to dilute it! And of course, I had to add sugar as hot chocolate in Italy comes unsweetened.
Wednesday morning found me with my class at the Palatine Gallery of Palazzo Pitti. Among other things, we saw big altarpieces by Andrea del Sarto and Rosso Fiorentino. I got to see a small, later work by Pontormo, which was quite interesting given the rather large amount of research I had just done on his life and work. More famous were early and mature works by Raphael such as the Doni portraits, Donna Velata, Madonna of the Chair, and clergy portraits. We also saw Titian’s Mary Magdalene.
On the way back to my apartment, I stopped again at Santa Felicità, this time accompanied by two other students who had written papers over the same topic. However, the light machine did not function this time. The custodian took pity on us and turned the non-timed light on so we were able to look a considerable amount of time. I was glad that we had come for a class, however, as we had had the opportunity at that point to actually enter the chapel. I doubt I will be able to do that again, as it is locked off and visible only through bars. By way of a thank-you, we purchased some postcards before leaving
On Thursday, I decided that I had been delaying my make-up trip to Vinci for far too long. After lithography and lunch I went to the train station and bought a ticket to Empoli. I had done some internet research on how to get to Vinci and the museums I was required to visit (I had to turn in all of my tickets with a 5-page typed paper discussing a theme from a book called Leonardo da Vinci’s Machines by Marco Cianchi, who appears to be a local) and knew that I needed to take a COPIT bus from Empoli to Vinci, the station for which was to the left of the Empoli stazione. However, when I arrived and walked out of the stazione, I didn’t see anything answering this description anywhere. I walked back inside and asked the cashier at the biglietti window about it and he gave me a vague wave to the right. I went back outside but still saw nothing. Returning, I decided to ask the vendors at the newsstand if they knew where I could purchase tickets. This was apparently what the cashier had been indicating because they were actually able to provide them.
Feeling immensely grateful for whatever command of the Italian language I had, I walked back outside to find the stop. I soon realized, however, that none of the lines ran to Vinci. Still more frustrated, I went back to the newsstand to ask about the line number and stop. The vendors, however, were without this information. So I looked at all the routes again. Eventually, I asked a girl who looked my age if she could help me and told her that I was looking for the bus to Vinci. She was unfamiliar with it, but pointed out a little, really ugly, unmarked pink building to the left of the train station. It was the stupid bus station. I thanked her and walked to it in disgust. However, the cashier there was able to tell me that my bus was right in front of the building and would be leaving in 14-17 minutes. I got on and read a chapter about Gianlorenzo Bernini.
We started up and I began looking for Vinci. I had looked at pictures and maps of it so that I would better know at which stop to get off and where to find the museums. I finally saw the towers of its lone castle and knew that as we were circling the walls that I should get off soon. I hit the button to let the driver know and was soon walking across the street to the Museo Ideale where I purchased a biglietto ridotto (being a studentessa, and all) and looked around.
It was mainly populated with little models of Leonardo’s more famous codex drawings (most of which I had seen at an exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago) and any sort of Leonardo memorabilia imaginable including paintings by members of his workshop, engravings after his paintings and drawings, and reproductions of his originals. There was even stuff there about people who had just known Leonardo at some point. It was a little silly and I was pretty annoyed that I had been required to visit it. However, they did sell an English version of the book I needed to read for my paper. But as they didn’t take credit cards I got to see a little more of the town on my quest to find an ATM. On my way back to the museum and up a steep hill, I saw on old woman staring at me. In her defense, as Vinci is incredibly tiny, everyone had been staring at me, but I felt is if she were being ruder still. I said “Buongiorno” to her and she answered, “BuonaSERA” in the most awful witch’s voice and with a look of arch superiority. Honestly, it was before 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Apparently only Italians could think of that as evening.
I bought the little book and talked with the cashier for a while. Before leaving, she had me pick out a postcard for a souvenir. I then headed up the hill to the castle where I knew the Museo Leonardiano was located. After trying to deal with ambivalent signs, I finally made it to the castle tower’s entrance only to be told that the ticket office was in the “new section” as was a chunk of the museum’s exhibits. I walked back down and across a really strange piazza with modern mosaics and inexplicable concrete nothing-shapes to this “new section.” Another biglietto ridotto later and I was learning about Leonardo’s innovations in the area of cloth-making, the major source of Florence’s income during his lifetime. This was quite interesting to me as I had been in a weaving class all semester, and I looked around in that area for quite some time.
I headed back over to the tower and was allowed entry there. There were more machine models and again, I had seen versions of many of them. To be honest, my favorite part of the museum was getting to go on the second level where I could go out onto a walkway and get some really very wonderful views of Vinci and the countryside. I also noticed a door and staircase to a third level and started going up them. It was the scariest set of stairs I had ever encountered. They were obviously not original as they wound up the inside of the tower with an immense amount of wasted space below in the form of a pitch-black abyss. However, they were also not modern as they seemed in very poor disrepair with the occasional small hole. I went up them anyway (they weren’t roped-off, afterall) and was disappointed that they led only to a media room, probably for larger school groups to receive some sort of informative video. I went back down and out of the tower. As the sun was beginning to set, I decided to go ahead and wait at the stop.
I got back to Empoli fairly easily but as we went on the section of the circuit I had not yet traversed, I found myself hoping that I had boarded the right bus. The driver made sure I got off at the train station (there was some other similar building I had mistaken for it earlier), where I went back to the biglietti window and got my ticket. I emerged from the sottopassaggio at my platform but couldn’t find anywhere to validate my ticket (you must stamp it before getting on or face a fine if they check tickets during the ride). A lady directed me to the station entrance and this, thankfully, concluded back-tracking. I arrived in Florence with plenty of time to get some reading done over Leonardo’s machines before I inadvertently fell asleep.
November 28, 2007
Paris Pictures
I had a really confusing comment up on this post that I couldn't figure out how to delete. In order for me to moderate anything, I had to put restrictions on commentors, as opposed to simply deleting the one I took issue with. My solution was to just delete the post and then put it back up. I will get that link to the pictures up again as soon as I get home tonight.
P.S. The comment was just some sort of advertisement in Spanish for a computer program, nothing really offensive. I simply didn't appreciate having my blog used in that manner.
P.P.S. I think I'll be going to the Florence Christmas Market this Thurdsay with my friend, Megan. Christmas decorations have been going up all over the city. I can't wait to see them actually lit!
Nov 29
Ok, here's that link to my pictures. Sorry about taking it off!
Paris
P.S. The comment was just some sort of advertisement in Spanish for a computer program, nothing really offensive. I simply didn't appreciate having my blog used in that manner.
P.P.S. I think I'll be going to the Florence Christmas Market this Thurdsay with my friend, Megan. Christmas decorations have been going up all over the city. I can't wait to see them actually lit!
Nov 29
Ok, here's that link to my pictures. Sorry about taking it off!
Paris
November 26, 2007
Paris, Day Three
Next morning we left at 8 to get on a metro to Notre Dame. The others were all planning on taking a train out to see Versailles, a building that with all of its insipid Rococo conception and decoration held no attraction for me, so as I knew that I would be spending the rest of the day by myself in the city I wanted at least to visit this great site with them before they left. It seemed very small, probably because I pass Santa Maria del Fiore everyday, but the inside was much bigger than I had expected it to be from viewing the exterior. A wonderful touch was the large, decorated Christmas tree outside. It suddenly made me feel warm even though the temperatures were causing me to shiver.
We left Kris outside (she rather inexplicably did not wish to enter), and admired one of the most famous Gothic churches in all of Europe. The stained glass was, of course, superb, and the reverberations from a small service filled the transept area. We walked around the side aisles and into the nave until it was time for the others to catch their train at which point we exited and said goodbye. The towers did not open until 10 so I walked around the building, examining as best I could the many gargoyles and elaborate buttressing. Finding a garden and fountain in the back, I sat down and cleared some space in my memory card for more pictures. As it was still quite early, I decided to walk around the island, seeing Pont Neuf in the process.
It was an absolutely perfect, quiet, late fall morning and I was surrounded with beautiful views of architecture and river. I walked around the island and onto Pont Neuf, leaning for a while over the river in one of the alcoves, then walking to the opposite section of it, across the tip of the island. I started making my way back to Notre Dame to get in line for the towers. It was about 10:15 and quite a line had already formed! It wasn’t moving, either. I decided that I didn’t want to spend my entire morning waiting in line so I started to make my way across the water to the Tuileries. I had a nice walk there and a nice walk around the garden, stopping for a while to sit on a bench before the smallest of the circular pools. I figured out my metro route to the Gare St. Lazare, which I wanted to see since Monet had painted it a few times, then people-watched until I walked to the Tuileries metro station. I got off underneath the Gare at around 12, looked around, and then went outside in search of something to eat.
I ended up in a café called L’Atlantique where I had onion soup again (I really like it), a cheese sampler, Orangina (I tried to order Gini but they were out), crème brûlée, and a cappuccino. I lingered there for quite a while, enjoying the warmth and the people-watching before venturing out in the direction of Boulevard Haussmann where I turned left.
Haussmann must have been the only place more ridiculously overcrowded than Esselunga. I was getting pretty claustrophobic-feeling, actually, though I was really outside! However, the decorations and sites were amazing. The overhangs covering the sidewalks were lined with netting that was studded with all sort of large Christmas ornaments and hung with twinkling lights. The big display windows alternated products displays and animatronic stuffed animal shows with cooking mice, dancing owls, and musical moose. Something of The Christmas Story was present in the way children were pressing their noses to the glass.
I ducked into Lafayette Maison only to remember that “maison” means “house.” I walked through the crowds to an exit and then went back across the street to Galleries Lafayette, which upon closer inspection, was no better. I stayed there, however, in the hopes of finding some clothing article without which I should no longer find living possible. But anyone who has ever been there knows that most everything displayed is well out of the price range of a college student who has just had to purchase a temporary passport. Despite this, I still had an enjoyable time looking around.
Around 4:30 I went to the nearest metro and after a series of stops, emerged near the Eiffel Tower and walked to the East Pier in order to meet the others for dinner. Allison was already waiting and I was surprised to find her alone. She had left Versailles much earlier than the others, oppressed by the explosion of Rococo, and been walking around Paris, too. Soon we were met by the rest of the group and made our way down to the river to buy tickets for a dinner and river tour. I was a bit unsure about this but as I was traveling with my friends I wanted to spend some time with them. As we climbed on the dinning ship, the Eiffel Tower, which was lit up as normal, began to sparkle in an explosion of lights (it apparently is set to do that every hour or some other regular interval). It was really very impressive.
Unlike the food. It was like a good cafeteria but cafeteria food was not what I had had in mind for my last night in France. I was further annoyed when I found out that the girl who had insisted this be our evening plan had actually done this before and knew what we were getting into. Oh well. I ate my cold salmon, lettuce, cheese, and plain yogurt and tried not to be immature about it. The river tour was somewhat better, if a bit more cheesy than I would have liked. I guess I still got to see the city in a manner different than any I yet had.
Allison, Katie, and I then walked home, enjoying our last little bit of time in Paris. At the dreaded hostel we started to pack and lay out things for the next day before going to bed. I tried to sleep very early but from a combination of my bunkmate moving around too much, a cold draft, and another roommate snoring outrageously, I was not very well rested in the morning when I awoke at 4:45.
We left at 5:30 and rode the metro back to our airport shuttle rendezvous. The shuttle service was very disorganized and I was certain I was going to be crushed to death when the buses arrived and people began to climb aboard. However, the rest of our trip back to Florence was uneventful. I had a wonderful time in Paris and a horrible time, too. I was grateful to be “home.”
We left Kris outside (she rather inexplicably did not wish to enter), and admired one of the most famous Gothic churches in all of Europe. The stained glass was, of course, superb, and the reverberations from a small service filled the transept area. We walked around the side aisles and into the nave until it was time for the others to catch their train at which point we exited and said goodbye. The towers did not open until 10 so I walked around the building, examining as best I could the many gargoyles and elaborate buttressing. Finding a garden and fountain in the back, I sat down and cleared some space in my memory card for more pictures. As it was still quite early, I decided to walk around the island, seeing Pont Neuf in the process.
It was an absolutely perfect, quiet, late fall morning and I was surrounded with beautiful views of architecture and river. I walked around the island and onto Pont Neuf, leaning for a while over the river in one of the alcoves, then walking to the opposite section of it, across the tip of the island. I started making my way back to Notre Dame to get in line for the towers. It was about 10:15 and quite a line had already formed! It wasn’t moving, either. I decided that I didn’t want to spend my entire morning waiting in line so I started to make my way across the water to the Tuileries. I had a nice walk there and a nice walk around the garden, stopping for a while to sit on a bench before the smallest of the circular pools. I figured out my metro route to the Gare St. Lazare, which I wanted to see since Monet had painted it a few times, then people-watched until I walked to the Tuileries metro station. I got off underneath the Gare at around 12, looked around, and then went outside in search of something to eat.
I ended up in a café called L’Atlantique where I had onion soup again (I really like it), a cheese sampler, Orangina (I tried to order Gini but they were out), crème brûlée, and a cappuccino. I lingered there for quite a while, enjoying the warmth and the people-watching before venturing out in the direction of Boulevard Haussmann where I turned left.
Haussmann must have been the only place more ridiculously overcrowded than Esselunga. I was getting pretty claustrophobic-feeling, actually, though I was really outside! However, the decorations and sites were amazing. The overhangs covering the sidewalks were lined with netting that was studded with all sort of large Christmas ornaments and hung with twinkling lights. The big display windows alternated products displays and animatronic stuffed animal shows with cooking mice, dancing owls, and musical moose. Something of The Christmas Story was present in the way children were pressing their noses to the glass.
I ducked into Lafayette Maison only to remember that “maison” means “house.” I walked through the crowds to an exit and then went back across the street to Galleries Lafayette, which upon closer inspection, was no better. I stayed there, however, in the hopes of finding some clothing article without which I should no longer find living possible. But anyone who has ever been there knows that most everything displayed is well out of the price range of a college student who has just had to purchase a temporary passport. Despite this, I still had an enjoyable time looking around.
Around 4:30 I went to the nearest metro and after a series of stops, emerged near the Eiffel Tower and walked to the East Pier in order to meet the others for dinner. Allison was already waiting and I was surprised to find her alone. She had left Versailles much earlier than the others, oppressed by the explosion of Rococo, and been walking around Paris, too. Soon we were met by the rest of the group and made our way down to the river to buy tickets for a dinner and river tour. I was a bit unsure about this but as I was traveling with my friends I wanted to spend some time with them. As we climbed on the dinning ship, the Eiffel Tower, which was lit up as normal, began to sparkle in an explosion of lights (it apparently is set to do that every hour or some other regular interval). It was really very impressive.
Unlike the food. It was like a good cafeteria but cafeteria food was not what I had had in mind for my last night in France. I was further annoyed when I found out that the girl who had insisted this be our evening plan had actually done this before and knew what we were getting into. Oh well. I ate my cold salmon, lettuce, cheese, and plain yogurt and tried not to be immature about it. The river tour was somewhat better, if a bit more cheesy than I would have liked. I guess I still got to see the city in a manner different than any I yet had.
Allison, Katie, and I then walked home, enjoying our last little bit of time in Paris. At the dreaded hostel we started to pack and lay out things for the next day before going to bed. I tried to sleep very early but from a combination of my bunkmate moving around too much, a cold draft, and another roommate snoring outrageously, I was not very well rested in the morning when I awoke at 4:45.
We left at 5:30 and rode the metro back to our airport shuttle rendezvous. The shuttle service was very disorganized and I was certain I was going to be crushed to death when the buses arrived and people began to climb aboard. However, the rest of our trip back to Florence was uneventful. I had a wonderful time in Paris and a horrible time, too. I was grateful to be “home.”
Paris, Day Two
We did not get murdered in our sleep and after getting ready as quickly as possible, we walked to the nearest metro stop while we ate baguettes from the hostel (yes, I was that hungry). We had located the American Embassy: oddly enough it was right where we had initially walked up from the metro the night before. We rode over and walked up to the personnel outside the Embassy’s wall. I had to present my driver’s license and collect the necessary forms while everyone else presented their passports and we all had our coats and purses searched. We were then allowed inside a sort of fenced hallway that led us into an outbuilding where our things were searched again and items such as cameras, phones, and mp3 players were taken and kept in plastic bags while we were given vouchers to retrieve them on our way back through. Finally we entered the Embassy, walked up the stairs, and took a number. I sat down to start my paperwork when my number was called. I walked to the corresponding window and explained that my paperwork had only just been started but that I needed to know where I could get my new photographs taken. The man was very kind (not at all like my encounter with a certain Italian consulate) and directed me to the downstairs area. I finished my forms and went downstairs.
The “photographer” was like one of those machines in malls where you and your boyfriend climb in and make funny faces, ending up with a strip of candid photos that always ends up either tacked to a mirror or stored in a shoebox. For four euros I got three tries and two emergency-passport photographs. I thought the picture was better than my last passport but that I still looked a bit miserable.
I took another number and was again helped very quickly, answering a few questions and presenting my driver’s license and travel itinerary. I was then asked to go to a different window to pay the full passport fee, $97.50 or about €78. The next time my number was called, a different lady asked me more questions and had me sign the form. As she was very interested in what I was doing in Iowa I wondered if it was some sort of citizenship test as no one had yet asked me to produce my birth certificate or witness. It turned out, however, that she was from Davenport and, when I asked about establishing my citizenship, she laughed and said she would vouch for me. In about another half hour I was issued my temporary passport along with some paperwork for eventually getting another full-fledged version upon my return to the States. When we left the Embassy after collecting our things it was still before noon.
We were all very hungry so we began to walk in the direction of the Tuileries in search of a café. We ended up at a nice but rather commercialized place (it was along Rue de Rivoli, after all) called Le Sanseveria where I had some very enjoyable French onion soup.
It was about one o’clock when we left the café and as we had plans to meet Lesley’s friend, Kris, at the East Pier of the Eiffel Tower, we started making our way there on the metro. Our stop was “out of order,” so we were obliged to get off at the next one and walk a bit further. It was so surreal to see the “Tour” looming up. It had been visible from the area around the Embassy but was so much bigger than I had thought. I had also been unaware that it was so close to the Seine or that the gypsies were so rude and militant. But like Florence, if you speak a little German to them you are generally left alone.
The East Pier was conveniently labeled so we had no trouble finding Kris. While we were waiting for two friends of hers to show up, Allison and I crossed the street and ordered crepes with chocolate and stiff, perfectly sweetened whipped cream from a vendor near a merry-go-round. The sun had finally come out and we went down to the river to enjoy our treats. They were so good! By that time I was in very high spirits and didn’t mind the powdered sugar that dotted my coat from the wind.
Rejoining the group, Allison and I again set off alone for a visit to the Musée d’Orsay (the others were going to the Musée de l’Armee to see some Napoleonic items). We did not wait very long in line (which was wonderful as it was bitterly cold and windy) and even got reduced tickets (five and half euros) for being under 25. We walked in and ohhhed and awwwed at how well the train station had been preserved and decided that it was an extraordinary place to house art from a period when train traffic had really flowered.
We wandered around, constantly bombarded with great masterpieces every time we looked over our shoulders. In one room we turned just as a crowd was parting, like a curtain, from around Manet’s Le Dejeuner sur l’Herbe. In the spring I had taken a rigorous class covering the period from Realism to Symbolism and felt like my entire syllabus was housed in that building (though some of it was also in the Chicago Art Institute). As it closed and we were ushered out, we did not get to see the entire displayed collection. For example, I missed Manet’s Olympia. However, I feel that this just guarantees that I will always have a very valid reason for having to return some day.
Allison and I then walked across the river to the Louvre which, for under 26s, is free after six on Friday nights. It was enormous. How inadequate that word seems! I had never imagined it that size. It was like 50 Uffizis or was at least so monumental that it seemed it. Pictures always illustrate the pyramid in front but what one does not realize is that there are two huge wings on either side and another giant square behind. We were to meet the other group of girls in front of this famous pyramid but as the line was getting longer and they were getting later, we went inside without them. Grabbing a map and some coffee, we staked out a plan for seeing what we absolutely could not leave Paris without experiencing.
We only skimmed the surface. We saw the Venus de Milo, a famous Etruscan sarcophagus, the Nike of Samothrace, Michelangelo’s Dying and Rebellious Slaves, The Death of Sardanopolis, The Raft of the Medusa, the Mona Lisa, The Wedding at Cana, the Madonna and Child with St. Anne, the Virgin of the Rocks, two Vermeers, and a huge room of Rubens. We missed Ingres, Velasquez, the Northern Renaissance, the Code of Hammarabi and so many more. Again, it is only return security.
We then returned to the area around the hostel and as we met the other girls while exploring our dining options, we were joined by Katie in entering a café called Le Commerce (near the Commerce metro station). Our waiter seemed to vacillate between amused interest and mockery but I confess that I had not expected much better. Allison and I shared escargot which was not half bad (palatable, I’m sure, due to the garlic sauce on top). We had special little utensils for holding the shells while we plucked out the contents. The French patrons around us seemed to find it gratifying that we enjoyed it. We all also ordered “preserved duck with fried potatoes” which was excellent and shared a bitter chocolate cake with vanilla custard. The entire meal was really wonderful. The waiter even seemed to open up at the end but Allison insisted that he had just had a few drinks behind the counter.
Unfortunately it was now time to return to the hostel. After venturing a shower, I again fell asleep with my wallet joined, now that I had one, by my passport.
The “photographer” was like one of those machines in malls where you and your boyfriend climb in and make funny faces, ending up with a strip of candid photos that always ends up either tacked to a mirror or stored in a shoebox. For four euros I got three tries and two emergency-passport photographs. I thought the picture was better than my last passport but that I still looked a bit miserable.
I took another number and was again helped very quickly, answering a few questions and presenting my driver’s license and travel itinerary. I was then asked to go to a different window to pay the full passport fee, $97.50 or about €78. The next time my number was called, a different lady asked me more questions and had me sign the form. As she was very interested in what I was doing in Iowa I wondered if it was some sort of citizenship test as no one had yet asked me to produce my birth certificate or witness. It turned out, however, that she was from Davenport and, when I asked about establishing my citizenship, she laughed and said she would vouch for me. In about another half hour I was issued my temporary passport along with some paperwork for eventually getting another full-fledged version upon my return to the States. When we left the Embassy after collecting our things it was still before noon.
We were all very hungry so we began to walk in the direction of the Tuileries in search of a café. We ended up at a nice but rather commercialized place (it was along Rue de Rivoli, after all) called Le Sanseveria where I had some very enjoyable French onion soup.
It was about one o’clock when we left the café and as we had plans to meet Lesley’s friend, Kris, at the East Pier of the Eiffel Tower, we started making our way there on the metro. Our stop was “out of order,” so we were obliged to get off at the next one and walk a bit further. It was so surreal to see the “Tour” looming up. It had been visible from the area around the Embassy but was so much bigger than I had thought. I had also been unaware that it was so close to the Seine or that the gypsies were so rude and militant. But like Florence, if you speak a little German to them you are generally left alone.
The East Pier was conveniently labeled so we had no trouble finding Kris. While we were waiting for two friends of hers to show up, Allison and I crossed the street and ordered crepes with chocolate and stiff, perfectly sweetened whipped cream from a vendor near a merry-go-round. The sun had finally come out and we went down to the river to enjoy our treats. They were so good! By that time I was in very high spirits and didn’t mind the powdered sugar that dotted my coat from the wind.
Rejoining the group, Allison and I again set off alone for a visit to the Musée d’Orsay (the others were going to the Musée de l’Armee to see some Napoleonic items). We did not wait very long in line (which was wonderful as it was bitterly cold and windy) and even got reduced tickets (five and half euros) for being under 25. We walked in and ohhhed and awwwed at how well the train station had been preserved and decided that it was an extraordinary place to house art from a period when train traffic had really flowered.
We wandered around, constantly bombarded with great masterpieces every time we looked over our shoulders. In one room we turned just as a crowd was parting, like a curtain, from around Manet’s Le Dejeuner sur l’Herbe. In the spring I had taken a rigorous class covering the period from Realism to Symbolism and felt like my entire syllabus was housed in that building (though some of it was also in the Chicago Art Institute). As it closed and we were ushered out, we did not get to see the entire displayed collection. For example, I missed Manet’s Olympia. However, I feel that this just guarantees that I will always have a very valid reason for having to return some day.
Allison and I then walked across the river to the Louvre which, for under 26s, is free after six on Friday nights. It was enormous. How inadequate that word seems! I had never imagined it that size. It was like 50 Uffizis or was at least so monumental that it seemed it. Pictures always illustrate the pyramid in front but what one does not realize is that there are two huge wings on either side and another giant square behind. We were to meet the other group of girls in front of this famous pyramid but as the line was getting longer and they were getting later, we went inside without them. Grabbing a map and some coffee, we staked out a plan for seeing what we absolutely could not leave Paris without experiencing.
We only skimmed the surface. We saw the Venus de Milo, a famous Etruscan sarcophagus, the Nike of Samothrace, Michelangelo’s Dying and Rebellious Slaves, The Death of Sardanopolis, The Raft of the Medusa, the Mona Lisa, The Wedding at Cana, the Madonna and Child with St. Anne, the Virgin of the Rocks, two Vermeers, and a huge room of Rubens. We missed Ingres, Velasquez, the Northern Renaissance, the Code of Hammarabi and so many more. Again, it is only return security.
We then returned to the area around the hostel and as we met the other girls while exploring our dining options, we were joined by Katie in entering a café called Le Commerce (near the Commerce metro station). Our waiter seemed to vacillate between amused interest and mockery but I confess that I had not expected much better. Allison and I shared escargot which was not half bad (palatable, I’m sure, due to the garlic sauce on top). We had special little utensils for holding the shells while we plucked out the contents. The French patrons around us seemed to find it gratifying that we enjoyed it. We all also ordered “preserved duck with fried potatoes” which was excellent and shared a bitter chocolate cake with vanilla custard. The entire meal was really wonderful. The waiter even seemed to open up at the end but Allison insisted that he had just had a few drinks behind the counter.
Unfortunately it was now time to return to the hostel. After venturing a shower, I again fell asleep with my wallet joined, now that I had one, by my passport.
November 25, 2007
Paris, Day One
Allison, Lesley, Katie, and I all piled onto the 1:20 train to Rome on Thursday—the first leg of our journey to Paris. Uneventful, we headed for the Terravision shuttle office after reaching the Rome Termini Station where we purchased tickets at 8 euros each. We only waited about 15 minutes until we loaded our things onto a chartered-type bus and made our way across Rome to the Ciampino Airport. Things were still uneventful as we boarded our plane for a 6:50 take-off. Things got sketchy when we disembarked at Beauvais and bought 13 euro tickets for the shuttle into Paris. I was about to load my carry-on when I thought it would be best if I removed my wallet and passport and kept them with me. I got my wallet and then reached for my passport. It wasn’t where I expected it to be so I kept digging around, slowly becoming a bit frantic. I searched my pockets, the rest of my bag, and then repeated with no results. My passport was gone, probably left on the plane. The others got off the bus and went back into the airport and over to the information desk with me in the lead. I asked the attendant if she spoke English and as she did, explained the situation. She called Lost and Found but nothing from the flight had turned up and, as it was a Ryanair flight, more passengers had already been seated and the plane was in transit. After a very horrified moment, I collected myself and asked her what I had to do. I had to call the American Embassy in Paris and get a new passport. After she took my name and several numbers and gave me the number and address of the Embassy, I thanked her and sat down. As my phone was not allowing outgoing calls, I used Katie’s to phone the embassy where I was directed to an informative recording regarding lost and stolen passports. I learned that I would be required to present my driver’s license, travel itinerary, and someone who could vouch for my citizenship and that the Embassy opened at 9.
There was little more to do than to get on the shuttle and head into Paris. By the time we reached our stop it was after 11. We headed for the metro (station Porte Maillot) and rode it to station Concorde. From there we were to take a connecting line to station Felix Fauvres but showed up only to be informed that, due to the transportation strikes, there were no more metros that night. We were stranded. We climbed out the sortie and looked around. We were right in front of Place de la Concorde where an Egyptian obelisk now marks the spot where the guillotine of the Reign of Terror once stood. We walked to a nearby taxi stand but after trying to engage one of these we realized the hotel in the front reserved all of them. We tried to hail taxis but with no luck—most whizzed by full of passengers and those that were empty were, I can only assume, reserved elsewhere. Tired and downtrodden I approached two Gendarmes and asked for advice. They suggested we go down the perpendicular street and try to hail a taxi since there was no hotel crowd to deal with. We did just that but, after many failed attempts, a taxi pulled up and a couple who had been sitting nearby pushed their way forward and got inside. Katie went and talked to a different pair of policemen. When another taxi pulled up to drop off its passengers, the policemen talked with the driver, who refused us passage. Empty car followed by empty car went by. Finally, we were passed by a small and extremely well dressed group of British. Lesley began talking with them and asked if, as English speakers in Paris, did they have any suggestions for hailing taxis. We ended up telling them our story and they insisted that we follow them back to their hotel where they would have the concierge call a taxi for us. It was the man’s 70th birthday.
So we spent about a half hour in front of the Hotel Bristol before our very own taxi really did show up. In the meantime, the British man (a Mr. Manzel, I think) had come to check on the concierge’s progress twice. While I was extremely grateful for his much-needed help, I felt like a bedraggled street urchin when he invited us in for coffee. This we all refused, having intruded on his birthday celebration quite enough, and in any case were soon whisked away to our hostel, The Three Ducks.
It was like a brightly painted prison. However, as it was 1:30 am, all I could see was that is was like a prison. You had to access the rooms by going through a bar which probably banned non-smokers. We had to pay extra for both sheets and towels. Leslie met a friend from school, Kris (who had actually booked this “fine” establishment), and roomed with her while Allison, Katie, and I were in a four-person room with a man. We half-joked and half-believed that he was going to murder us in our sleep. I confess that I slept with my wallet under my pillow and my suitcase on the foot of my bed. The bathrooms were unbelievable and freezing cold, the only showers where open to the outside air and low temperatures and you had to keep pressing a button to maintain water flow. It was the grossest, scariest place I have ever been. But despite it all, I was asleep by 2:00 am.
There was little more to do than to get on the shuttle and head into Paris. By the time we reached our stop it was after 11. We headed for the metro (station Porte Maillot) and rode it to station Concorde. From there we were to take a connecting line to station Felix Fauvres but showed up only to be informed that, due to the transportation strikes, there were no more metros that night. We were stranded. We climbed out the sortie and looked around. We were right in front of Place de la Concorde where an Egyptian obelisk now marks the spot where the guillotine of the Reign of Terror once stood. We walked to a nearby taxi stand but after trying to engage one of these we realized the hotel in the front reserved all of them. We tried to hail taxis but with no luck—most whizzed by full of passengers and those that were empty were, I can only assume, reserved elsewhere. Tired and downtrodden I approached two Gendarmes and asked for advice. They suggested we go down the perpendicular street and try to hail a taxi since there was no hotel crowd to deal with. We did just that but, after many failed attempts, a taxi pulled up and a couple who had been sitting nearby pushed their way forward and got inside. Katie went and talked to a different pair of policemen. When another taxi pulled up to drop off its passengers, the policemen talked with the driver, who refused us passage. Empty car followed by empty car went by. Finally, we were passed by a small and extremely well dressed group of British. Lesley began talking with them and asked if, as English speakers in Paris, did they have any suggestions for hailing taxis. We ended up telling them our story and they insisted that we follow them back to their hotel where they would have the concierge call a taxi for us. It was the man’s 70th birthday.
So we spent about a half hour in front of the Hotel Bristol before our very own taxi really did show up. In the meantime, the British man (a Mr. Manzel, I think) had come to check on the concierge’s progress twice. While I was extremely grateful for his much-needed help, I felt like a bedraggled street urchin when he invited us in for coffee. This we all refused, having intruded on his birthday celebration quite enough, and in any case were soon whisked away to our hostel, The Three Ducks.
It was like a brightly painted prison. However, as it was 1:30 am, all I could see was that is was like a prison. You had to access the rooms by going through a bar which probably banned non-smokers. We had to pay extra for both sheets and towels. Leslie met a friend from school, Kris (who had actually booked this “fine” establishment), and roomed with her while Allison, Katie, and I were in a four-person room with a man. We half-joked and half-believed that he was going to murder us in our sleep. I confess that I slept with my wallet under my pillow and my suitcase on the foot of my bed. The bathrooms were unbelievable and freezing cold, the only showers where open to the outside air and low temperatures and you had to keep pressing a button to maintain water flow. It was the grossest, scariest place I have ever been. But despite it all, I was asleep by 2:00 am.
Thanksgiving
Thursday, Nov. 22
Well, as you are all aware, today is Thanksgiving! However, since my roommates and I are headed to Paris after our classes today, we had to do our Thanksgiving meal last night. However, I think this story really begins on Monday…
We made a list of items we wanted to appear at our Thanksgiving meal. I had hoped to provide the apple pie and sweet potatoes. Since we had been to the downtown grocery stores several times and knew that they don’t carry many of the items we would need, we were sure we only had one hope: hop a bus and take it to Florence’s largest grocery store, Esselunga, located in the suburbs. Allison called the school for some instructions and was told to go the Duomo bus stop, take bus 6 going towards the train station, and get off at Piazza della Vittoria. We bought bus tickets at 2.40 euros per round trip at the Tabacchi near our apartment, went to the stop, and got on a very crowded bus 6.
We soon realized the flaw in our plan: we had no idea what Piazza della Vittoria looked like. After we had passed a really large roundabout which we had the sinking feeling had been our stop, I began to ask a nearby passenger (for whose child Allison had just retrieved a fallen stuffed panda), “Sa quando…,” when she cut me off and said she couldn’t help me. Her stunned child looked up at her and asked why not to which she replied that she knew no English. Of course this made no sense since I had addressed her in Italian so I tried again, saying first, “Ma io parlo un po d’italiano! Sa quando è la fermata della Piazza della Vittoria?” To this she replied, “È passata.” Oh no! It had already passed by, just as we had suspected. Fortunately, more helpful passengers had overheard the exchange and began to help us figure out how to get back in the timeliest fashion. A woman with very good English had us get off the bus at her stop and then debated with two men (who spoke only Italian), which stop we ought to go to. Finally, we went to the right bus stop and in about 10 minutes we were got on and I had managed to tell the driver where we needed to get off.
Soon we stopped, standing still until the driver got up and informed us that this was our stop. I felt awfully silly but I had had no idea what we had been looking for, as it was not the roundabout I had then been expecting. We began walking and the driver, as he pulled away, honked the horn and pointed us in the opposite direction. My embarrassment was topped only when I stopped to ask a newspaper vendor where Esselunga was and as soon as he answered, realized that it was directly before my eyes.
We crossed the street, inserted a coin into the closest grocery cart to unlock it, headed inside and took a deep breath. It was a madhouse. We pushed and winded our way around all of the narrow aisles, several times for some, trying to find everything on our lists. In the end I was forced to give up the idea of sweet potatoes (later I found out that I might have been able to special order them: Italian vendors import them from Israel) and had to settle for some dubious-looking self-rising flour in lieu of baking soda, which I found a few days later only at a gourmet grocery store. By then I had already manufactured the pie dough for which it was needed.
We packed our finds into backpacks and headed back to the stop, climbed aboard the bus that had just pulled up and got off at a stop much closer to home than the Duomo.
The next day I spent the night making my contribution to the dinner: homemade apple pie. I had another interesting adventure when I decided to try to find a pastry cutter for the pie crust. I stopped into a “casalinghe” near school and looked around at the vast array of items associated with home upkeep before the storekeeper said, “Dimmi,” which is what Italians always say to mean, “Tell me what it is you are looking for,” or, “Can I help you,” but just literally means, “Tell me.” I tried to describe a pastry blender but after he pointed to a crostata pan and then a measuring cup I realized I wasn’t quite getting the point across. He did, too and asked me if I spoke English. He got his friend, another customer, to try to translate. By then everyone in the little store was interested and clustered around to try to help as well. This really didn’t make much difference so the poor storekeeper ended up having me draw it. I could hear him tell his friend that he had never in his life seen such a thing. However, they very kindly directed me to another, much larger store after which everyone several times said goodbye and that they hoped I would find what I was looking for. It was sweet but it made me feel like I was on a quest as futile as that for the Holy Grail.
I found the store, a very easy search since I was already familiar with the street (leads to Ss Annunziata), and looked around for quite a while. Suddenly, in a place I had already passed a number of times, there hung the only pastry cutter in all of Italy. I quickly grabbed it and, along with a rolling pin, and went to pay. Two little old ladies looked at the pastry cutter and asked each other what on earth it was. I surprised them when I said, “È un ‘pastry blender’ per fare un ‘pie.’” They looked at me like I had just landed from the moon.
But all that mattered was that I was able to make and freeze the pie for the next day.
So as I said, last night we celebrated Thanksgiving. Lesley made mashed potatoes, green beans, and chicken in wine sauce while Allison made stuffing. We also had black olives (a special favorite of Lesley’s). Since I already had my pie done, I just helped in the office of assistant to the others in order to speed things along. It was a very enjoyable meal—we had so much fun making it together! When we had finished, we quickly cleared the table to get ready for our dessert plans. At 9:30, our neighbors, Katie and Sara, and their guest, Kelsey, came over with cookies and gelato while I set out my pie and Allison set out a small cake and a blackberry crostata from our Esselunga adventure. We all had a great time and ate way too much, as should be done on any respectable Thanksgiving Day.
Well, as you are all aware, today is Thanksgiving! However, since my roommates and I are headed to Paris after our classes today, we had to do our Thanksgiving meal last night. However, I think this story really begins on Monday…
We made a list of items we wanted to appear at our Thanksgiving meal. I had hoped to provide the apple pie and sweet potatoes. Since we had been to the downtown grocery stores several times and knew that they don’t carry many of the items we would need, we were sure we only had one hope: hop a bus and take it to Florence’s largest grocery store, Esselunga, located in the suburbs. Allison called the school for some instructions and was told to go the Duomo bus stop, take bus 6 going towards the train station, and get off at Piazza della Vittoria. We bought bus tickets at 2.40 euros per round trip at the Tabacchi near our apartment, went to the stop, and got on a very crowded bus 6.
We soon realized the flaw in our plan: we had no idea what Piazza della Vittoria looked like. After we had passed a really large roundabout which we had the sinking feeling had been our stop, I began to ask a nearby passenger (for whose child Allison had just retrieved a fallen stuffed panda), “Sa quando…,” when she cut me off and said she couldn’t help me. Her stunned child looked up at her and asked why not to which she replied that she knew no English. Of course this made no sense since I had addressed her in Italian so I tried again, saying first, “Ma io parlo un po d’italiano! Sa quando è la fermata della Piazza della Vittoria?” To this she replied, “È passata.” Oh no! It had already passed by, just as we had suspected. Fortunately, more helpful passengers had overheard the exchange and began to help us figure out how to get back in the timeliest fashion. A woman with very good English had us get off the bus at her stop and then debated with two men (who spoke only Italian), which stop we ought to go to. Finally, we went to the right bus stop and in about 10 minutes we were got on and I had managed to tell the driver where we needed to get off.
Soon we stopped, standing still until the driver got up and informed us that this was our stop. I felt awfully silly but I had had no idea what we had been looking for, as it was not the roundabout I had then been expecting. We began walking and the driver, as he pulled away, honked the horn and pointed us in the opposite direction. My embarrassment was topped only when I stopped to ask a newspaper vendor where Esselunga was and as soon as he answered, realized that it was directly before my eyes.
We crossed the street, inserted a coin into the closest grocery cart to unlock it, headed inside and took a deep breath. It was a madhouse. We pushed and winded our way around all of the narrow aisles, several times for some, trying to find everything on our lists. In the end I was forced to give up the idea of sweet potatoes (later I found out that I might have been able to special order them: Italian vendors import them from Israel) and had to settle for some dubious-looking self-rising flour in lieu of baking soda, which I found a few days later only at a gourmet grocery store. By then I had already manufactured the pie dough for which it was needed.
We packed our finds into backpacks and headed back to the stop, climbed aboard the bus that had just pulled up and got off at a stop much closer to home than the Duomo.
The next day I spent the night making my contribution to the dinner: homemade apple pie. I had another interesting adventure when I decided to try to find a pastry cutter for the pie crust. I stopped into a “casalinghe” near school and looked around at the vast array of items associated with home upkeep before the storekeeper said, “Dimmi,” which is what Italians always say to mean, “Tell me what it is you are looking for,” or, “Can I help you,” but just literally means, “Tell me.” I tried to describe a pastry blender but after he pointed to a crostata pan and then a measuring cup I realized I wasn’t quite getting the point across. He did, too and asked me if I spoke English. He got his friend, another customer, to try to translate. By then everyone in the little store was interested and clustered around to try to help as well. This really didn’t make much difference so the poor storekeeper ended up having me draw it. I could hear him tell his friend that he had never in his life seen such a thing. However, they very kindly directed me to another, much larger store after which everyone several times said goodbye and that they hoped I would find what I was looking for. It was sweet but it made me feel like I was on a quest as futile as that for the Holy Grail.
I found the store, a very easy search since I was already familiar with the street (leads to Ss Annunziata), and looked around for quite a while. Suddenly, in a place I had already passed a number of times, there hung the only pastry cutter in all of Italy. I quickly grabbed it and, along with a rolling pin, and went to pay. Two little old ladies looked at the pastry cutter and asked each other what on earth it was. I surprised them when I said, “È un ‘pastry blender’ per fare un ‘pie.’” They looked at me like I had just landed from the moon.
But all that mattered was that I was able to make and freeze the pie for the next day.
So as I said, last night we celebrated Thanksgiving. Lesley made mashed potatoes, green beans, and chicken in wine sauce while Allison made stuffing. We also had black olives (a special favorite of Lesley’s). Since I already had my pie done, I just helped in the office of assistant to the others in order to speed things along. It was a very enjoyable meal—we had so much fun making it together! When we had finished, we quickly cleared the table to get ready for our dessert plans. At 9:30, our neighbors, Katie and Sara, and their guest, Kelsey, came over with cookies and gelato while I set out my pie and Allison set out a small cake and a blackberry crostata from our Esselunga adventure. We all had a great time and ate way too much, as should be done on any respectable Thanksgiving Day.
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