Curves and Groceries

Curves

Curves in Florence soften appearances while increasing strength. Here are welcomed curves outside and inside my apartment, and the big curve seen from all over in Florence.





This curve in my apartment has been turned into an unwelcome rectangle to produce a most uncomfortable seating situation. Stacy said it was probably designed by a woman who doesn’t use the bathroom as a library.



Groceries

It is a rainy day in Florence. A good time to grocery shop at the Mercato Centrale (the central market) just two blocks from my apartment. The carts surrounding the market that sell mostly leather goods are covered in tarps.



Here’s what I purchased for about €15 ($22). A dozen oranges (I’ll use a few for a still life in my painting class), two large chicken breasts sliced into eight cutlets (four dinners worth), enough salami for several sandwiches, prunes (the most expensive item), two potatoes, a huge celery, a weird broccoli with spiral florets, and a loaf of bread.

The Man

There was a circle of people on Via Por S. Maria. In the middle, at the feet of a nattily dressed man, were three little black boxes and a small yellow ball. The man slid the boxes about, hiding the ball under one, then another. When he was done, someone would bet money that the ball was under a certain box. It was the classic shell game. People were winning about one out of every four games, but I was accurately seeing where the ball went every time. How clumsy of the man; even a visual artist should miss once in a while.

I’m not a gambler and don’t even bet on the lottery, but this was a sure thing. Even though the stakes were high at 50 Euro (about $75) a pop, I would only bet upon absolute certainty. I couldn’t lose.

Seeing exactly under which box the ball landed, I placed my bet by handing the man a €50 bill. I bent down, lifted the box, and presto,.. NO BALL! I stood dumbstruck. A woman leaned over and whispered that the “trick” is to put the toe of a shoe on the box when placing the bet, so the man can’t shift the ball while the better is handing him the money. Then she played the next hand, put her shoe on the box, and won €50.

A-ha! Now I got it! The jig was up! Again, I trained my eagle eye on the ball and watched the boxes. Knowing with precise and absolute certainty under which box the ball landed, I promptly placed the toe of my shoe on that box. I handed the man two €50 bills this time, because there was money to win back and then some. Bending down I lifted the box, and presto,… NO BALL!!!!!!

After losing €150 (about $220) in three minutes, I left in a stupor of profound idiocy and disbelief. Walking away, knowing that I would come clean on the Globalog, I turned and snapped a picture of the man and his game.

The man had one more trick up his sleeve. After loading the pictures into my computer, I went to find the photo of the man. Presto,… NO PHOTO! Yup, all the other pictures from before and after were there, all but the one of the man.


"The Conjurer," painted by Hieronymus Bosch.

White Rooms

Using my “Ginormous” compass, I walked to the Church of San Marcos a few blocks from my apartment. In 43 “cells,” or small rooms for Dominican monks, Fra Angelico painted a series of devotional frescoes (completed by 1450). These are not the elaborate paintings usually seen in renaissance churches, but small, serene, contemplative works.



I Walked down the long corridors and stepped into the white cells and lingered. Looking at each fresco as it was originally painted, mirroring the small arched window and ceiling, I felt a sense of quiet contemplation.

At the end of one of the corridors is cell number 12 from which Savonarola was forcefully dragged and burned to death on a cross in 1498.

How To Look In Florence

Ever careful about public appearance, I considered looking like a local when out on the street, perhaps walking to work or strolling to meet a friend for a cappuccino. I found that it is more fun to use quizzical expressions, page through a guide book, unfold a map, stare at buildings, and snap pictures, so I am happy looking like a tourist. People are more tolerant when you suddenly stop walking in front of them, too.



My best friend (so far) in Florence is an inexpensive hand-held compass. Maps are important, but if I didn't know in which direction to hold the map when looking at it, I would often walk the wrong way. I also look for street names very dependably carved into the sides of buildings.

Dinner Guests

Watching from outside the door to my terrace while I cooked my first supper in Italy was a chubby black and white kitty. It looked forlorn and confused. While the kitty looked on, I sipped wine, munched on olives, sauteed chicken with garlic and onions, cooked pasta with mushroom tomato sauce, and made a salad (all salted appropriately). The former tenant must have paid the cat some attention.



Also intent on joining me for dinner was a large mosquito who sat down beside me at the table. Not in the habit of murdering dinner guests, I hesitated. Mosquitoes must be slower in the winter. It was fun to be alone drinking wine and eating pasta at my own Italian table.

Salty Italian Word

Yes, I've been in Florence for a few days. Welcome to my new blog.



The butcher expertly sliced and wrapped four thin cutlets from a chicken breast for a customer. I indicated by pointing that I wanted a chicken breast, too. The butcher asked, by making a karate chop gesture, if I wanted it sliced as well. "Si," I replied. "Si" quickly became my favorite word to say in Italian. I said it several more times while purchasing vegetables, and again later while shopping in a small grocery store for spices and paper goods.

When I couldn't find the salt, I looked the word for it up in my pocket phrase book. "Sale" seemed easy now that I had gained confidence with "si." I said to the store clerk, "sale?". The clerk smiled and shook her head, "no." Now I put two words together and made a longer sentence, "No sale?". "No," she insisted, speaking in a shorter sentence than mine.

Later in a different grocery store, I tried the new word again. "Sale?", I said to the young man behind the cash register. "Si," he said, and took me to the salad dressing. Feeling that I had learned the word for salt incorrectly, I said, "No, uh, salt?". "Oh, sale, si!", he replied, and brought me to the elusive sale.