The Exploding Cart
On Easter Sunday, an ancient ritual takes place in front of the
Cathedral in Florence: Lo Scoppio
del
Carro -- the Explosion of the Cart. Ignited by a candle at the
high altar, the candle itself having been kindled from sparks struck
from true fragments of the Holy Sepulchure, a mechanical dove makes its
kamekaze flight right out through the open doors of the Cathedral to
set off a fabulous fireworks display, all launched from a vintage,
ornate cart. The cart is dragged into the piazza by huge white oxen
(although they are unhitched and taken to safety before the fireworks
start. The danger from frightened oxen in that small space doesn't bear
thinking about.)
Thursday: Since I'm a complete sucker for medieval pagentry, I'd arranged to
spend the Easter weekend in Florence, travelling out on the Thursday.
The previous Summer, I flew (cheaply) from Stansted to Bologna and
caught the train South. This time, I booked a direct flight from Dublin
to Bologna.
On this trip, I made the mistake of picking the
first train, which was an "Intercity". If I'd waited a short time, I
could have caught a luxurious "Eurostar", for only a few euros more.
But the bargain-basement Intercity was the train for Naples, via Rome,
and was packed to overflowing with Southerners going home for Easter. I
had to stand in the corridor. Still, it's only an hour or so, and it's
very, very cheap.
I'd
booked my hotel on the Internet -- Porta Faenza -- not cheap, but very
welcoming and well-equipped. I went for an early-evening walk for the
obligatory view from Piazzale Michelangelo. Last Summer I counted the
sight of a pretty redhead enjoying the view as a good omen. This year,
it looked as though I was going to be 4 times as lucky. I walked back
the "long" way round, down Via San Miniato and back across the Ponte
Alle Grazie. On our big family holiday in 1996, we had watched a wild
coypu under the bridge. My young nephew thought I was pointing out a
cow
poo. I'd seen the animal on a subsequent visit, but not last Summer, so
I feared that the Firenze Coypu had become extinct. Far from it: this
evening there were two cow poos swimming under the bridge.
After dinner, I dropped in to an English-style pub, which was quite
lively, but I don't know where they got the name "KiKuyu" from. I don't
know where they get their "Charles Wells" beers from either. Not
England, I'll bet. (My money's on Netherlands.)
Friday: first a quick
trip to the cloister at San Lorenzo. I'd always meant to visit the
famous Biblioteca, which Michelangelo had designed, but I found that
it's only open to tourists once a week. Still, you could go up the
stairs and have a peek at the vestibule. Also, in the crypt, there was
a "Leonardo's Machines" exhibition, on a visit from Vinci. I had seen
them before, but I thought it well worth another look. Especially the
infamous bicycle.
The weather was too good to spend in museums though, so I visited the
medieval herb garden, the Giardino dei Semplici. It's €3 to get in, and
closes at 13:00, but is very pretty and quite a peaceful oasis in the
city. After the garden closed, I hiked out to the English Cemetry, to
find it locked too, until 15:00, so I made a tour of Santa Croce and
its
piazza, had lunch (olive bread) and returned. It's not just dead
English in the cemetry, certainly not just Elizabeth BB. There are
Americans, French Protestants, even Russians with Cyrillic-inscribed
tombstones. It was hot and dry and there were lizards basking. I'd like
to think I was going to be buried where there are lizards. I signed the
visitors book as "Stephen George
Graham, Annaghvarn, Ireland" and went back to my hotel for a
siesta. That evening, I went to a Rough Guide-recommended restaurant,
and had a tuscan steak that was too rare to really enjoy. I called in
at KiKuyu for a glass or two.
Saturday: I know I've been
to Florence a number of times, and even stayed on the Oltrarno side,
but I'd never seen the Capella Brancacci in Santa Maria del Carmine.
The church itself is nothing special (for Florence anyway), but the
frescos painted by Masaccio in the 1420s in the little side chapel are
rightly famous. You probably recognise his Adam and Eve. I imagined
Michelangelo standing right where I was standing and his being
impressed. I suspect an arrogant bugger like Michelangelo was not
easily impressed.
I checked out my haunts from last Summer. The outdoor bar in Piazza
Santo Spirito was gone. I bought a sandwich and paid my way into the
Boboli gardens for lunch. There I witnessed the spectacle of a rich,
fat
businessman walking hand-in-hand with a teenage tart: heavy on the
make-up and jewellery; very light on the clothing. Wealth and power, I
thought. Edifying it was not. But then, later, I saw them again in the
fashionable Via de Calzaiuoli, this time talking to a rich, thin woman
in a fur coat, and I realised: this was the mother. The man and girl
were father and daughter, not man and mistress. I don't know though. If
I had a daughter, I wouldn't let her walk around dressed like that.
Dinner was at another Rough Guide recommendation: "Cento Poveri". They
would be poor, at these prices. But this was my best meal in Florence
so
far. They were very busy, so I was sent next door to the pub, called
confusingly "The Pub", to have a drink while waiting for a table to
becme free. I bought a pint of Guinness, but I'd only sipped a little
of
it when the head waitress came looking for me to say my table was
ready. "Bring your beer if you like, " she said, so I did. I found that
they had no carafes of wine, or half-bottles, so I had no alternative
but order a whole bottle. When my choice arrived, I saw that it was 14%
alcohol. You can imagine I had a merry evening. The head waitress spoke
very good English, being a first-generation Australian of Italian
descent. She complimented me on my Italian pronunciation. The kitchen
of
the resaturant is open to view, and I was entertained by watching the
frantic activities of the staff. I suspect the frenzy is more a way of
life than a real necessity of a busy restaurant. Though there were
three cooks and two washer-uppers in a kitchen smaller than mine at
home.
Sunday: The cart it
go
bang. Continuously for at least ten minutes. It was like machine guns.
A fire engine came along and partially blocked my view, but moving was
impossible because of the crush of the crowds. Most of them would have
seen very little. By the way, those oxen are big!
In the afternoon, it rained, so I went indoors to the historic
photograph exhibition in Palazzo Strozzi. I came home and had a hot
bath
before heading out for the evening. I'd seen adverts for the Mexican
cantina, but it was much too crowded and busy for a sit-down meal.
Great atmosphere for a drink at the bar though. I walked on at random
and saw a plausible place; plus long red hair at the desk. First,
though, I had an appointment with Piazza Santa Croce to take a night
photograph of the merry-go-round.
I returned to the LRH to find that it was fake, but she was trecento
georgeous anyway. (The estalishment is 'Caffe Coquinarius' in Via delle
Oche. Tricky to find.) The food was very good indeed, although I
learned
that carpaccio as a main course is too much too chewy. On the way home,
I tried the "Dublin Pub" for a G. It's a "Man's Pub": I won't go back
there then.
Monday: it rained in
the night and continued in the morning, so I planned three indoor
visits: Palazzo Medici-Riccardi, Museo Firenze com'Era, and the Museo
Opera del Duomo. (That's "opera" as in "works", not singing.) All well
worth seeing and I was kept dry all day. The sun came out late in the
afternoon.
I went to Piazza Santo Spirito for dinner. The trendy Borgo Antico was
packed (and Q'd) as usual, so I went across to Osteria SS. Yes, this
was
the place that poisoned me last year, but on the visit before that, they'd been excellent.
Seats outside only, which was a little bit chilly. The waitress
recommended that I didn't have a first course along with the arrosti
misto: good advice. I retired well stuffed, but not poisoned.
Tuesday:
2 suitable trains: a half-hour wait for the first, and one hour for the
second. (Yes, I'm paranoid about missing them.) I found a serious flaw
in the clever ticket machine software: you get right to the end, and
then if there is no matching bookable seat for the position you chose,
it drops right back to the initial welcome screen. I went right through
the process twice, unsuccessfully -- 4 more to try? -- and decided to
throw caution to the winds and go first class. A whole €6 more to pay,
but I did get a free coffee and biscuit.
Bus from station to airport. There was a nice girl with short red
(crimson) hair, who looked as though she wanted to be friendly, but
what
is the point of chatting someone up if you are going to be hundreds of
miles apart an hour later? As it happened, I saw her later at the
Dublin departure gate. Oh well!
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