It is a cold, but not bitter February morning. 3 inches of wet, slushy snow fell overnight. This morning the winds were blowing clumps of it off of roofs, awnings and the ornate building fronts of my neighborhood pelting those of us going about our business below. Wheeling a gray trolley suitcase with a small duffle slung over it's handle, I head to the airport. After I transfer the train leaves downtown and heads south. It passes the loft apartments carved out of old warehouses and then the neighborhoods of bungalows which surround Midway airport. It is a part of the city I do not get to often. The snow has ebbed and now falls in uneven intervals. As I unzip my down jacket, I look forward to 4 full days in Phoenix, wearing shorts, sandals and tanks.
Let people say what they will about Chicago's transit system, the only thing that went smoothly this day was the ride to the airport. Once I arrived and checked my bag chaos reigned supreme.
Pre boarding security was some of the most poorly organized I have ever experienced. What began as lines morphed into a mob by the time the security desk was reached. People were checked and passed through to the metal detector in what appeared to be a completely arbitrary order. X ray screening was no more organized than the ticket and I.D. check. Being put through the new, extremely expensive full body scanner, I was subsequently spot checked. The machine indicated something on my left ankle. I did indeed have something on my left ankle, my sock.
The plane was delayed a half hour upon my arrival and closer to one and a half hours late we were finally in the air. On the up side, my layover in Denver would be cut considerably. On the downside, I had planned to call a convalescing friend during that layover. I hope I still have time to do so. I know he looks forward to and enjoys our phone conversations. Flurries were still in the air as we took off which makes the promise of the warmth of Arizona's sun all the sweeter.
The purpose of my trip, other than to escape the cold of a Chicago winter, is to visit a longtime friend of mine and his partner. He and I have traveled, laughed, gone to the theatre and the opera and treasured and enjoyed a friendship spanning almost 2 decades. This is my 4th visit, if memory holds. It does not hold the way that it used to.
Our head flight attendant on this leg of the trip is gay. I do not need to guess at this, it is a sure bet. A travel buddy of mine refers to gay male flight attendants as "air mattresses". This reputation is not entirely undeserved if the tales I have heard from those in the industry are true.
I land in Denver at one end of a terminal. My connecting flight departs from the other end of the terminal. I manage to find enough time to make the phone call and catch up with my friend on the mend. He recently underwent a liver transplant and has told me that our phone conversations are some of his best and most effective medicine.
Our gate agent is, again, unmistakeably gay and extremely slight with a shaggy haircut that makes him resemble Ellen De Generes. You would think that an airline with a name like "Frontier" would hire male employees who possessed the butch quotient that is insinuated by that word.
By all appearances we should arrive in Phoenix on time and I will begin to enjoy warm weather and a happy reunion with my old friends.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
The New Gay Aesthetic
Reed Thin
Having been an out gay man since the 1970's, I've seen styles and trends among gay men come and go. There was the close cropped hair and moustaches of the late 70's. This was often accompanied by the standard uniform of tight Levis 501 jeans and Izod brand polo shirts. This is when we started to use the word clone as gay men paraded down the streets and through the bars, each looking identical to the next. Having dinner with a date in a gay restaurant one evening we both realized we had no idea which waiter among the jean/polo shirt clad group was ours when we got ready to motion for the check. Faced with this somewhat faceless society one occasionally played for time trying to remember where/how/under what circumstances you had met the man who obviously remembered you, and what you had done with him.
In the 80's this look was eshewed by the younger crowd in favor of bright, eclectic new wave attire, although there were still standard looks in this genre. One friend of mine said there where three guys who hung out together. They looked so similar that he had slept with one of them but could not remember which one. Another friend of mine suggested that the solution to this problem was to sleep with all of them. That being said, there did seem that there was more room for creativity during this period. Drag was not uncommon. Neither was a fashion statement sometimes referred to as Genderfuck i.e. a bearded man wearing a dress and full makeup or a skintight lame jumpsuit.
The clone look did persist, however the clone of this era was better built than his 1970's predecessor. In San Francisco there hordes of rippling, extraordinarily well muscled men striding shirtless through the gay ghettos of the time. Some of the club kids of the day protested that they found this look and the time and energy devoted to it distasteful. I was not among those who felt that way. I also found it hypocritical to deride another persons narcissism and vanity after spending 2 hours picking out your outfit and arranging your hair just so before venturing out for the evening.
The 90's brought a host of new fabrics, vinyl, latex, lycra and spandex in a dizzying array of patterns, textures and colors inspired new looks. The business at gyms remained steady judging from the sculpted bodies on display at clubs and at the gay pride parades and street fairs.
Alas, times change and we now have the latest look for the gay man. Rail thin bodies clad in vintage tees. Some wear stretch jeans to accentuate their birdlike legs. At last years Pride Parade float after float carrying these undernourished specimens wearing skimpy attire passed by. Even some of the Colt calenders, long the domain of rough looking well muscled models, are this year featuring men that look as if they subsist on a diet of broccoli and a smidgen of rice.
Perhaps the pendulum will swing back someday. Till then I will have to satisfy myself with memories and discretely observing the straight guys in the weight room at the gym.
Gay Bears - The Flip Side
On the flip side of today's reed thin, underfed gay men are the members of the community that refer to themselves as "bears". In nature, bears are large powerful animals. Their ability to catch fish as the unfortunate creatures leap from the water speak to their quickness and agility, despite their size.
In gay terms "bears" are often large, slovenly, obese creatures. Sometimes hirsute, sometimes not, they use the term bears as a license to eat and drink to excess, not take care of themselves and develop diabetes, heart trouble and other weight related maladies, like many heteros in the U.S. these days. With the apparent complete disregard for one's health, the term "bear Pride" could be seen by some as an oxymoron.
In Conclusion
I am not suggesting that the gay community return to the "body fascism" rampant in some quarters in the past. I only suggest that we all care for ourselves so that we are better able to care for one another.
Having been an out gay man since the 1970's, I've seen styles and trends among gay men come and go. There was the close cropped hair and moustaches of the late 70's. This was often accompanied by the standard uniform of tight Levis 501 jeans and Izod brand polo shirts. This is when we started to use the word clone as gay men paraded down the streets and through the bars, each looking identical to the next. Having dinner with a date in a gay restaurant one evening we both realized we had no idea which waiter among the jean/polo shirt clad group was ours when we got ready to motion for the check. Faced with this somewhat faceless society one occasionally played for time trying to remember where/how/under what circumstances you had met the man who obviously remembered you, and what you had done with him.
In the 80's this look was eshewed by the younger crowd in favor of bright, eclectic new wave attire, although there were still standard looks in this genre. One friend of mine said there where three guys who hung out together. They looked so similar that he had slept with one of them but could not remember which one. Another friend of mine suggested that the solution to this problem was to sleep with all of them. That being said, there did seem that there was more room for creativity during this period. Drag was not uncommon. Neither was a fashion statement sometimes referred to as Genderfuck i.e. a bearded man wearing a dress and full makeup or a skintight lame jumpsuit.
The clone look did persist, however the clone of this era was better built than his 1970's predecessor. In San Francisco there hordes of rippling, extraordinarily well muscled men striding shirtless through the gay ghettos of the time. Some of the club kids of the day protested that they found this look and the time and energy devoted to it distasteful. I was not among those who felt that way. I also found it hypocritical to deride another persons narcissism and vanity after spending 2 hours picking out your outfit and arranging your hair just so before venturing out for the evening.
The 90's brought a host of new fabrics, vinyl, latex, lycra and spandex in a dizzying array of patterns, textures and colors inspired new looks. The business at gyms remained steady judging from the sculpted bodies on display at clubs and at the gay pride parades and street fairs.
Alas, times change and we now have the latest look for the gay man. Rail thin bodies clad in vintage tees. Some wear stretch jeans to accentuate their birdlike legs. At last years Pride Parade float after float carrying these undernourished specimens wearing skimpy attire passed by. Even some of the Colt calenders, long the domain of rough looking well muscled models, are this year featuring men that look as if they subsist on a diet of broccoli and a smidgen of rice.
Perhaps the pendulum will swing back someday. Till then I will have to satisfy myself with memories and discretely observing the straight guys in the weight room at the gym.
Gay Bears - The Flip Side
On the flip side of today's reed thin, underfed gay men are the members of the community that refer to themselves as "bears". In nature, bears are large powerful animals. Their ability to catch fish as the unfortunate creatures leap from the water speak to their quickness and agility, despite their size.
In gay terms "bears" are often large, slovenly, obese creatures. Sometimes hirsute, sometimes not, they use the term bears as a license to eat and drink to excess, not take care of themselves and develop diabetes, heart trouble and other weight related maladies, like many heteros in the U.S. these days. With the apparent complete disregard for one's health, the term "bear Pride" could be seen by some as an oxymoron.
In Conclusion
I am not suggesting that the gay community return to the "body fascism" rampant in some quarters in the past. I only suggest that we all care for ourselves so that we are better able to care for one another.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
A Character Study - Margritte Roma
I am all about maintaining the anonymity of the people that I refer to in these posts, but as Ms. Roma would be well over 100 years old today, I feel it is alright to use her name. If everything that I heard is true, she has one of the most interesting back stories of anyone I have ever met.
When I lived in San Francisco, I worked, briefly, with a semi-professional theatre group. We were paid a pittance, not even enough to cover bus fare to and from rehearsals and performances. This was understandable, the group was a new start up so funds were going to the "production". Also,the company was large, 14 to 15 people and there was not a very large "gate" coming in. During my time with the group, however, I learned more about the craft of theatre in a shorter amount of time then I ever had previously. This was due, in large part to Margritte Roma, the artistic and stage director of the group.
Roma, she went only by her last name, was a bipolar crone who could make one crazy but who you still had to respect. I worked with her form the summer of 1984 until early 1985. At that time she was 80. Her story goes....
She was born a German Jew. In her youth she was renown as one of the most promising actresses in Europe. Prior to World War II she was working in Berlin under the direction of Bertold Brecht. She was married, at that time, to a Pole. It as rumored that he was gay. It was not uncommon during that period for straight women in artistic circles to marry gay men. Lotte Lenya's second husband, after the death of Kurt Weill, was gay. All we ever heard of her first husbands fate was that he was "lost to war".
Being Jewish, Germany was not a safe place for her during this time. With help from a group of Jesuits, so the story goes, she was able to get across the border to France. For the next 7 years she worked with the Comedie Francois collaborating with the theatre legend Max Rhinehardt.
When it became apparent France was going to surrender to the Nazis, she was forced to flee once again. This time to the U.S. settling in Santa Monica, where Brecht had gone to wait out the war. Working at Paramount she met her second husband, a set carpenter.
Eventually they moved north to San Francisco and founded a traveling Shakespearean acting company. I had the pleasure of working with one of the original members of that company during my short tenure with them. He would tell me tale of the early days of the company. They performed, often outdoors in parks, but also in hospitals and prisons. He would often discuss the different ways hardened criminals related to Shakespeare. That company eventually pushed Roma and her husband out feeling that they had become to old. I worked with them during the founding stages or the new company they were trying to develop after that.
Although 80 years old she was as vital as a woman half her age. She was intense; she and I had more that one shouting match. Her politics and world view were so far left that they verged on impractical. Her husband once remarked to me "You know Roma lives in her own world." She spoke 5 languages, although her English was sometimes almost unintelligible. At one point she directed a young Vic Tayback in a production of "Death of a Salesman". She said it was the only production Lee J. Cobb, who originated the role of Willie Loman, ever saw. Another veteran member of the company, who was also working with them at the time I was, while helping them organize their archives, found a photo of her standing between Mr. Cobb and Mr. Tayback.
Attempting to Google her I have found very little. I managed to come up with one picture she was in. She had a nonspeaking role as a "hostage". I once found a link titled "The Films of Margritte Roma" but the page was no longer active.
Although, for a number of reasons, my theatrical ambitions never bore fruit, I am still grateful for and respect the insights and knowledge I gained from coming to know and work with her.
When I lived in San Francisco, I worked, briefly, with a semi-professional theatre group. We were paid a pittance, not even enough to cover bus fare to and from rehearsals and performances. This was understandable, the group was a new start up so funds were going to the "production". Also,the company was large, 14 to 15 people and there was not a very large "gate" coming in. During my time with the group, however, I learned more about the craft of theatre in a shorter amount of time then I ever had previously. This was due, in large part to Margritte Roma, the artistic and stage director of the group.
Roma, she went only by her last name, was a bipolar crone who could make one crazy but who you still had to respect. I worked with her form the summer of 1984 until early 1985. At that time she was 80. Her story goes....
She was born a German Jew. In her youth she was renown as one of the most promising actresses in Europe. Prior to World War II she was working in Berlin under the direction of Bertold Brecht. She was married, at that time, to a Pole. It as rumored that he was gay. It was not uncommon during that period for straight women in artistic circles to marry gay men. Lotte Lenya's second husband, after the death of Kurt Weill, was gay. All we ever heard of her first husbands fate was that he was "lost to war".
Being Jewish, Germany was not a safe place for her during this time. With help from a group of Jesuits, so the story goes, she was able to get across the border to France. For the next 7 years she worked with the Comedie Francois collaborating with the theatre legend Max Rhinehardt.
When it became apparent France was going to surrender to the Nazis, she was forced to flee once again. This time to the U.S. settling in Santa Monica, where Brecht had gone to wait out the war. Working at Paramount she met her second husband, a set carpenter.
Eventually they moved north to San Francisco and founded a traveling Shakespearean acting company. I had the pleasure of working with one of the original members of that company during my short tenure with them. He would tell me tale of the early days of the company. They performed, often outdoors in parks, but also in hospitals and prisons. He would often discuss the different ways hardened criminals related to Shakespeare. That company eventually pushed Roma and her husband out feeling that they had become to old. I worked with them during the founding stages or the new company they were trying to develop after that.
Although 80 years old she was as vital as a woman half her age. She was intense; she and I had more that one shouting match. Her politics and world view were so far left that they verged on impractical. Her husband once remarked to me "You know Roma lives in her own world." She spoke 5 languages, although her English was sometimes almost unintelligible. At one point she directed a young Vic Tayback in a production of "Death of a Salesman". She said it was the only production Lee J. Cobb, who originated the role of Willie Loman, ever saw. Another veteran member of the company, who was also working with them at the time I was, while helping them organize their archives, found a photo of her standing between Mr. Cobb and Mr. Tayback.
Attempting to Google her I have found very little. I managed to come up with one picture she was in. She had a nonspeaking role as a "hostage". I once found a link titled "The Films of Margritte Roma" but the page was no longer active.
Although, for a number of reasons, my theatrical ambitions never bore fruit, I am still grateful for and respect the insights and knowledge I gained from coming to know and work with her.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Our Return From Rome or Treated Rudely in Toronto
As we head to the airport in our hired van we pass more ruins and an amusement park, part of the juxtaposition and eclectic mix that is Rome. After checking our luggage and shopping our way through the International Terminal we get to our gate. We meet a woman from Toronto in line. My partner, during our conversation, mentions that his niece is on the homecoming court at her high school. Ms. Toronto informs us "In Canada, we don't raise our daughters to be princesses." After further discussion reveals that we have a cat we enjoy spoiling and doting on she informs us "You two are such a cliche." We decide that in Canada they also don't raise their daughters to be polite. We stop talking to her.
When traveling outside the U.S during the Bush years one occasionally happened upon those the chose not to hide their disdain for U.S. citizens and all things associated with them. They seemed to think each of us was solely responsible for who was president and the policies he enacted. This was apparent during our layover and customs in Toronto. In an innocent error, I got in the customs line for airline employees. Peering down at me from her lofty perch behind the customs window, the official informed me, in a manner that inferred "How could you be so dumb you stupid American", that I was in the wrong line. But, as there were no airline employees waiting in line at that time she would process me through. Asking me if I was traveling with anyone, I replied I was, gesturing to my partner going through the next line over. "In the future", she informed me "You can both fill out the same customs form. We are not the U.S." Unmarried partners in the U.S. have to fill our separate customs forms. I wanted to reply to her "In the U.S. we don't intentionally insult guests to our country." But I thought better of it and held my tongue.
Hiding our U.S passports and attempting to sound like Canadians, aye, we continued to our gate. Waiting there our names were called over the loudspeaker requesting us to come to the gate desk. "We better go there" my partner said, "I don't feel like being scolded by another Canadian." A problem had occurred with our customs processing but was quickly resolved. Thankfully as we couldn't board the plane for home fast enough.
Several years later I visited Montreal, which I have written about previously. I found the people there to be delightful, courteous and friendly. Of course, Bush was out of office then.
When traveling outside the U.S during the Bush years one occasionally happened upon those the chose not to hide their disdain for U.S. citizens and all things associated with them. They seemed to think each of us was solely responsible for who was president and the policies he enacted. This was apparent during our layover and customs in Toronto. In an innocent error, I got in the customs line for airline employees. Peering down at me from her lofty perch behind the customs window, the official informed me, in a manner that inferred "How could you be so dumb you stupid American", that I was in the wrong line. But, as there were no airline employees waiting in line at that time she would process me through. Asking me if I was traveling with anyone, I replied I was, gesturing to my partner going through the next line over. "In the future", she informed me "You can both fill out the same customs form. We are not the U.S." Unmarried partners in the U.S. have to fill our separate customs forms. I wanted to reply to her "In the U.S. we don't intentionally insult guests to our country." But I thought better of it and held my tongue.
Hiding our U.S passports and attempting to sound like Canadians, aye, we continued to our gate. Waiting there our names were called over the loudspeaker requesting us to come to the gate desk. "We better go there" my partner said, "I don't feel like being scolded by another Canadian." A problem had occurred with our customs processing but was quickly resolved. Thankfully as we couldn't board the plane for home fast enough.
Several years later I visited Montreal, which I have written about previously. I found the people there to be delightful, courteous and friendly. Of course, Bush was out of office then.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
How to See Rome in One Day
Arriving at the train station in Rome fairly early in the morning we walked the short distance to the same hotel we had stayed in our first night, stashed our bags in the luggage room and boarded the Metro heading to the Vatican. The line to enter the Holy City was long but moved surprisingly quickly. We compared it to a three block stroll. It is fortunate that the line moves at the pace it does since beggars, some of them amputees displaying quite grisly wounds, pepper the sidewalk leading up to the gates. As you enter there is a sign showing the outline of a man in tank top and shorts in the middle of a circle with a slash across it. As it was November we were dressed modestly. I did, however, ponder what the wait in line would be like under a blazing summer sun in long pants and a long sleeve shirt. Short sleeves would probably be permissible, just keep those deltoids covered boys, no matter how attractive they may be.
As you enter you go through galleries filled with the art and treasures that the Catholic church has pillaged, excuse me, gathered, from ancient civilizations around the globe. Penises seemed to have either repulsed or excited the Holy Fathers as they have all been whacked off, excuse me again, chiseled off, of the priceless male nude statues displayed.
One space of particular beauty is the Hall of Tapestries. Every inch of wall space is covered with rich, lushly woven masterworks. My partner was enamored of one Tapestry depicting a map of Venice as we had been here just a few days earlier. He attempted to photograph it in the dimly lit hall without a flash. Light is restricted in this gallery to help prevent deterioration and fading of these fragile treasures.
Eventually one reaches the Sistine Chapel filled with the magnificent artwork of Michelangelo. The colors and figures depicted are rich and lustrous thanks to an extensive cleaning and restoration effort carried out over several years. Minute details, facial features and the folds and draping of clothing, long obscured by centuries of dirt and soot, look as fresh as they must have appeared during Michelangelo's time. The room is packed shoulder to shoulder with tourists snapping pictures and discussing the scenes on the walls around them and barrel vaulted ceiling above. Guards continually try to silence the crowd feeling that the chapel should be treated with quiet reverence. Fat Chance!
We exit the chapel and after a visit to St. Peters and Michelangelo's stunning Pieta, exit the Vatican and find our way to the Tiber river. We pause by the looming, formidable bulk of the ancient Castle Sant Angelo before crossing the river on a centuries old bridge. We briefly revisit the Pantheon, discover that we strode down the Spanish Steps on our first day in Italy and, quite by accident, come across the Largo Argentina.
It takes up a block of Rome. It is a place of significant historic importance but was forgotten and long buried deep under the layers of Rome, a place built, burned, pillaged and rebuilt over the centuries. It lies several feet down below the street, ground level at the time of it's construction. It contains the ruins of a complex of 3 temples, dating from around 300 B.C. and a set of steps which once led up to a bathhouse. The steps are where Julius Caesar was assassinated, hence their importance to the long history of Rome. Little is known of the temples, including which gods the were for or their exact date of construction. It is assumed they were destroyed, along with much of ancient Rome, in a large fire in 179 A.D. The ruins were built over and were discovered during demolition work in the 1920's. Scores of cats prowl the ruins or find warm, sun kissed spots to nap among the remains of the columns, steps and temple floors. The ruins contain the largest colony of feral cats in the city.
We had saved sampling Italian gelato for our final day. We purchased it at the same small restaurant where we ate our first night of the trip and enjoyed it on the steps facing the Trevi Fountain, watching the play of the waters and once again admiring it's beauty and romance.
Walking back to the hotel we passed an example of one of the things that make Rome such a special place. Along the street, next to a medieval church, stand two well preserved classical columns reaching up to the Italian sky.
We returned to our hotel, retrieved our luggage and went up to our room. We opened the door and took in our final lodging in Italy, a large room, with 2 equally large beds, a street view and beautiful green marble floors. A huge tub stood against one wall of the equally spacious bathroom. We soon decided, after the frantic pace of our trip, to spend this last night relaxing in this comfortable, inviting space. We walked to the train station, stopping and shopping at the various vendors carts along the way, picked up sandwiches and returned to the room and an evening of luxurious baths and Italian t.v.
As you enter you go through galleries filled with the art and treasures that the Catholic church has pillaged, excuse me, gathered, from ancient civilizations around the globe. Penises seemed to have either repulsed or excited the Holy Fathers as they have all been whacked off, excuse me again, chiseled off, of the priceless male nude statues displayed.
One space of particular beauty is the Hall of Tapestries. Every inch of wall space is covered with rich, lushly woven masterworks. My partner was enamored of one Tapestry depicting a map of Venice as we had been here just a few days earlier. He attempted to photograph it in the dimly lit hall without a flash. Light is restricted in this gallery to help prevent deterioration and fading of these fragile treasures.
Eventually one reaches the Sistine Chapel filled with the magnificent artwork of Michelangelo. The colors and figures depicted are rich and lustrous thanks to an extensive cleaning and restoration effort carried out over several years. Minute details, facial features and the folds and draping of clothing, long obscured by centuries of dirt and soot, look as fresh as they must have appeared during Michelangelo's time. The room is packed shoulder to shoulder with tourists snapping pictures and discussing the scenes on the walls around them and barrel vaulted ceiling above. Guards continually try to silence the crowd feeling that the chapel should be treated with quiet reverence. Fat Chance!
We exit the chapel and after a visit to St. Peters and Michelangelo's stunning Pieta, exit the Vatican and find our way to the Tiber river. We pause by the looming, formidable bulk of the ancient Castle Sant Angelo before crossing the river on a centuries old bridge. We briefly revisit the Pantheon, discover that we strode down the Spanish Steps on our first day in Italy and, quite by accident, come across the Largo Argentina.
It takes up a block of Rome. It is a place of significant historic importance but was forgotten and long buried deep under the layers of Rome, a place built, burned, pillaged and rebuilt over the centuries. It lies several feet down below the street, ground level at the time of it's construction. It contains the ruins of a complex of 3 temples, dating from around 300 B.C. and a set of steps which once led up to a bathhouse. The steps are where Julius Caesar was assassinated, hence their importance to the long history of Rome. Little is known of the temples, including which gods the were for or their exact date of construction. It is assumed they were destroyed, along with much of ancient Rome, in a large fire in 179 A.D. The ruins were built over and were discovered during demolition work in the 1920's. Scores of cats prowl the ruins or find warm, sun kissed spots to nap among the remains of the columns, steps and temple floors. The ruins contain the largest colony of feral cats in the city.
We had saved sampling Italian gelato for our final day. We purchased it at the same small restaurant where we ate our first night of the trip and enjoyed it on the steps facing the Trevi Fountain, watching the play of the waters and once again admiring it's beauty and romance.
Walking back to the hotel we passed an example of one of the things that make Rome such a special place. Along the street, next to a medieval church, stand two well preserved classical columns reaching up to the Italian sky.
We returned to our hotel, retrieved our luggage and went up to our room. We opened the door and took in our final lodging in Italy, a large room, with 2 equally large beds, a street view and beautiful green marble floors. A huge tub stood against one wall of the equally spacious bathroom. We soon decided, after the frantic pace of our trip, to spend this last night relaxing in this comfortable, inviting space. We walked to the train station, stopping and shopping at the various vendors carts along the way, picked up sandwiches and returned to the room and an evening of luxurious baths and Italian t.v.
Michelangelo's David, A bike Shop and a Racially Charged Incident
We are headed to the Galleria, the building constructed specifically to house Michelangelo's David. Originally David was to stand in a plaza outdoors. Saner heads prevailed and he was moved inside. A replica rests in the spot initially intended for him.
My partner stops at stalls in the street and starts to shop. I am patient but finally remind him that I have been anticipating visiting the masterpiece for several months and we need to press on. The line is long but moves at a steady pace and soon we are inside. There are several small galleries you have to go through before you get to the main attraction.
You turn a corner and enter a hall. Along it's walls sit unfinished sculptures by Michelangelo originally intended for a Pope's tomb. At the far end, in a rotunda, standing on a high pedestal, resides one of the world's artistic wonders. His beauty would leave even the most coldhearted person speechless. He is so amazingly well rendered that you almost feel as if you can see him breathe. You can imagine the blood pulsing through the veins of his powerful, sinewy arms. We spend close to an hour circling him time an again, viewing him from all possible angles. He is as remarkable as I remember him being when I first saw him at the age of 15.
We reluctantly take our leave of him and head back to the streets. My partner has somehow discovered and gotten directions to a bike shop in a residential area of the city. Following the directions scrawled on a map we wander tiny, narrow streets lined with apartment buildings centuries old., Two young boys peer down at us from one window. We locate the shop. He purchases socks and a bell for his beloved bicycle. I pull a marked down tee shirt with "Italia" emblazoned across the front from a barrel.
We are returning, walking down the middle of the narrow, stone lane, as this seems to be the custom in Florence, which is completely devoid of traffic. From behind us we hear the siren of a police car. We move against the wall as it speeds past us heading up the street. A short distance further we see it stopped in the street steps from the central outdoor market. An African man is standing with his palms pressed against the wall and his legs spread as a policeman is pulling the contents from his pockets and throwing them on the pavement. Another policeman is holding back an Italian man yelling and lunging at the spread eagled African. A racially mixed group of spectators have gathered at the edge of the market. As we move through them the tension between the native Italians and African immigrants is unmistakable. Each group eyes the other with an ugly air of contempt. It is the second time we witness the racial divide in the city.
We feel fortunate to have had the opportunity to view the magnificent David. We have found Florence beautiful, but not magical and awake early to catch a cab to the station for our train to Rome. We have one final day and night left in Italy.
My partner stops at stalls in the street and starts to shop. I am patient but finally remind him that I have been anticipating visiting the masterpiece for several months and we need to press on. The line is long but moves at a steady pace and soon we are inside. There are several small galleries you have to go through before you get to the main attraction.
You turn a corner and enter a hall. Along it's walls sit unfinished sculptures by Michelangelo originally intended for a Pope's tomb. At the far end, in a rotunda, standing on a high pedestal, resides one of the world's artistic wonders. His beauty would leave even the most coldhearted person speechless. He is so amazingly well rendered that you almost feel as if you can see him breathe. You can imagine the blood pulsing through the veins of his powerful, sinewy arms. We spend close to an hour circling him time an again, viewing him from all possible angles. He is as remarkable as I remember him being when I first saw him at the age of 15.
We reluctantly take our leave of him and head back to the streets. My partner has somehow discovered and gotten directions to a bike shop in a residential area of the city. Following the directions scrawled on a map we wander tiny, narrow streets lined with apartment buildings centuries old., Two young boys peer down at us from one window. We locate the shop. He purchases socks and a bell for his beloved bicycle. I pull a marked down tee shirt with "Italia" emblazoned across the front from a barrel.
We are returning, walking down the middle of the narrow, stone lane, as this seems to be the custom in Florence, which is completely devoid of traffic. From behind us we hear the siren of a police car. We move against the wall as it speeds past us heading up the street. A short distance further we see it stopped in the street steps from the central outdoor market. An African man is standing with his palms pressed against the wall and his legs spread as a policeman is pulling the contents from his pockets and throwing them on the pavement. Another policeman is holding back an Italian man yelling and lunging at the spread eagled African. A racially mixed group of spectators have gathered at the edge of the market. As we move through them the tension between the native Italians and African immigrants is unmistakable. Each group eyes the other with an ugly air of contempt. It is the second time we witness the racial divide in the city.
We feel fortunate to have had the opportunity to view the magnificent David. We have found Florence beautiful, but not magical and awake early to catch a cab to the station for our train to Rome. We have one final day and night left in Italy.
A 50th Birthday Dinner in Florence
On the evening of my partner's birthday we decide to watch the sunset from the roof terrace of the hotel. There we are "eyeball to eyeball" with the bell tower a half block away. As the city begins to change from daylight to dark, the bells in the tower ring, it is 5:29. As the bells ring scores of bats emerge from the towers colonnaded top and circle around it lapping up the insects that nightfall brings. Apparently the Doumo has bats in it's belfry!
His birthday dinner is taken outdoors in the Plaza Republica. He demands that we ride the carousel in the plaza, something I consent to only because it is his birthday.
I have not been sleeping well during this trip. insomnia is an occasional problem for me. Between the wine and night air I feel that I may be able to sleep this night. He deposits me at the hotel then returns to the plaza to cap off his birthday celebration.
Sometime after midnight I hear my name being called from outside. I stumble to the window and look down at the street below. In the center of the street stands my partner. "I'm locked out" he shouts. "I'm down here with 5 other people and we are all locked out." In pajamas and bare feet, I do not wear or even own slippers, I go to the elevator and descend to the ground floor. There is a glass door to the street, a vestibule and a 2nd door which opens onto the hotel lobby. I open the lobby door. I hold it open with one bare foot, if it closes I will be in the same state as the 6 people outside, plant my other bare foot on the cold mosaic tile of the vestibule floor, stretch my arm out as far as I can and manage to unlock and push the street door open just enough for my partner to get a handle on it and open it all the way. He and the 5 other guests, they have just arrived from the airport, tumble into the lobby. One of the guests joins us in the elevator leaving the others behind in the lobby with the luggage. We return to our room. She is headed to the reception desk to wake up the night desk clerk. We never did discover what transpired between them, although I am fairly certain that she made his night as memorable as mine.
His birthday dinner is taken outdoors in the Plaza Republica. He demands that we ride the carousel in the plaza, something I consent to only because it is his birthday.
I have not been sleeping well during this trip. insomnia is an occasional problem for me. Between the wine and night air I feel that I may be able to sleep this night. He deposits me at the hotel then returns to the plaza to cap off his birthday celebration.
Sometime after midnight I hear my name being called from outside. I stumble to the window and look down at the street below. In the center of the street stands my partner. "I'm locked out" he shouts. "I'm down here with 5 other people and we are all locked out." In pajamas and bare feet, I do not wear or even own slippers, I go to the elevator and descend to the ground floor. There is a glass door to the street, a vestibule and a 2nd door which opens onto the hotel lobby. I open the lobby door. I hold it open with one bare foot, if it closes I will be in the same state as the 6 people outside, plant my other bare foot on the cold mosaic tile of the vestibule floor, stretch my arm out as far as I can and manage to unlock and push the street door open just enough for my partner to get a handle on it and open it all the way. He and the 5 other guests, they have just arrived from the airport, tumble into the lobby. One of the guests joins us in the elevator leaving the others behind in the lobby with the luggage. We return to our room. She is headed to the reception desk to wake up the night desk clerk. We never did discover what transpired between them, although I am fairly certain that she made his night as memorable as mine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)