Il Bisonte
My scribe is barely balanced in my loose hand, as I stare up at the ceiling. The building was once a stable, and the grinding of the press wheel still sounds like hooves demanding freedom. We sit in the hay loft. Feeding troughs are thoughtfully nuzzled in the high corners of stalls, on display with respect. They observe chalk spills throughout the day and like to watch rough hands smear the hot ink off the corners of copper plates and onto newsprint. Ink embedded in fingers and in the purposeful imperfections of the copper is never quite washed away despite copious amounts of kerosene and incessant scrubbing. Engraved in the walls is the aura of great beasts clacking their shoes on the cobblestone. They watch over me, with a wisdom behind their deep black eyes.
Accanto della Strada
We are seated on the grass, or climbing a gallant tree. I enjoy smoking pipa with the face of an old man, lip pouted, corners of my mouth tightly facing downward, eyebrows raised. Our picnics are taken very seriously. We’ve collected cheese and bread and prosciutto, nutella and strawberries, grapes, olives, tomatoes; no forks or knives or spoons. We have no knowledge of the correct wine to drink, so we pay very little and drink both red and white, then red again for good health. Without the introversion of utensils or glasses we share the moment wholly. Someone grasps the bottle, vermillion elixir dripping down their chin. Seated in a circle we beam at one another, already discerning the significance of an afternoon. It has been a long walk uphill to be seated at the side of this road.Cortile
In the studio courtyard someone crouches low under the bush with a sketchbook, drawing a pink flower. I watch as their eyelashes bounce up and down and up and down without attention to the journey from plant to paper. Leaves are tugged by the wind and wisps of hair curiously follow. Wisteria grip and devour the walls but for someone, this particular flower has stolen the day.
Pranzo
On breaks from turning the press we head around the corner. We call this place the Communist Café. The old masters like their cappuccinos and their cigarettes. The window displays salty tomatoes and prosciutto proudly erupting out of Panini and pizzas. Old men here argue with the bend in their elbows, women with a manipulated movement of their loose buns. Piazza Santa Spirito
A man like Popeye sells sangria. He reaches over the counter to hand a woman a bottle, arms bursting from the navy stripes of his shirt. “Prego.” I’ve been sketching a seagull from the steps of the church for several minutes, and Antonio’s vast nose beckons me to his table; so do the sharp smells of his cheeses. The mercato is a maze of blackberries and greens and honey and lovely people smiling not with their teeth but with their tongues and throats. The fountain in the center of the square houses flirtatious young girls and boys and a collection of pigeons squabbling over bread-ends and rolling berries. Tomorrow the mercato will be a forest, no longer of good smells but of colors and fabrics and boxes of mismatched jewelry pieces. Pipes made from wood and granite, smooth against fingers and distracting passersby from the cigarette vending machine behind them. Scarves in bright yellows and deep blues found in the attic and brought to breathe in the streets. By five o’clock the only sounds will erupt from the bursting of the fountain and the moaning of gypsies.
Bombolo, bombolo cioccolato, budino di riso, parigina, and my favorite risella for breakfast. The most rich café latte one only could dream of warms my throat. Before work, women and men bustle through, hollering their orders at a man and his son, of whom I have become quite fond. The espresso machine is jostled and cranked and steamed, clutching and releasing its parts as needed. I wrap my fingers around the tall glass carrier of my coffee, noticing the warmth is just as the taste and the smell. “Grazie,” begins to sound rather rushed even from my own mouth, until the man’s son intently looks upon my eyes and nods “Prego,” with his brow and a sincerity such a young and busy man does not ordinarily possess.
Ponte
On the bridge just beside the Ponte Vecchio, I used to stand and watch as brave friends climbed over the wall to perch beyond the edge for lunch. I’d take pictures, and admire their gumption. I do not regret holding back, nor do I wish to redeem the moment. They found peace there, hanging off the bridge, and I found peace in admiring them.
Balcone
Here we sip our tea and look out on the great red mass of il Duomo, asleep with assured power. My toes curl around the guard rail, my fingers around the little plastic mug. Warm April wind reminds us to stay here for as long as we are allowed. Little one-seated cars and vespas beep at each other below us, and men holler down the streets as they bring down the grate to close up their cafés and trattorias. The sky is pink and gentle, but still rooftops stretch upward in a forceful dance, knowing they belong there in place of the meager clouds. The air smells warm and sweet. Breathing is far more pleasant here on the balcony. Silently, I inhale the knowledge of a thousand woven hours, though I am in love with one simultaneous breath – captured and set free.
Cimitero San Miniato
High above the city in the hills, white tomb stones blare back at the sun. A couple cast in limestone fool their admirers: everything is alive in the cemetery. Sleeping lions guard tombs from the steps and the roof, angels nap against the stone, hooded women weep, and the Wailing Jesus drips metallic tortures on the grass. It is as if I were isolated and alone until I found this place. A friend lights up his pipa from a rooftop nearby, and I climb the wall to join him. We sit there, knowing a great kinship with the nameless who surround us. I accept this meditation and renounce my constant need for contact and conversation, and the illusion of the wisest path to appreciation. I sit, taste the sweet smoke, and desperately clutch the stone wall of a new home. Here I greet silence.
