Once in Milan, do as the escursionista do, we decided, and proceeded to eat a hearty supper of fresh crusty bread, fagioli soup and salad, fuelling up for the next day of sightseeing. Painfully stabbed several times in the soft palate by what could only have been nettles in my dish of greens, I soon retired to bed, trailed by the others up the endless staircase. My friend wanted to wash her hair, and did, in the tiny sink, shrieking for rescue as shampoo frothed into her eyes and down her front. Finally, all dried and still chatting tiredly, we slept.
The next morning was Christmas. We woke bright and early, heading out after a warm breakfast in search of some art and spiritual soothing. Leonardo should have been alive now, I told myself, as we stood in front of the Last Supper, his masterpiece painted on the wall of the refectory of the convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie. It was partially hidden by scaffolding and tarpaulin, somewhat protected from prying cameras and curious fingers. The work had gone through trials by fire, water, man and war, we read, finally being given a professional restoration and careful policing. As we looked on, the crowds started dissipating; it was almost time for Il Papa’s address, the caretaker of the chapel explained.
Doing a brisk trot through the piazza in a chill wind that cut through layers of wool and down, we explored further, reaching our destination of the Duomo. There, occasionally stamping our feet and clapping our gloved hands, huddling close for warmth in that freezing, high-ceilinged, stone building, we listened to the Pope’s service broadcast on Vatican Radio from all those miles away in Rome, speaking of peace and brotherhood to an audience of many million devout Catholics.
Warmed by the experience though chilled to our sacroiliacs – a cold that lasted until we got to the sun-baked ruins of Herculaneum - we piled into the car and headed south, like the birds, to Florence. It was warmer there, we found, sitting in the sunshine to feed the pigeons and watch people being people. Booked into a small hotel with rickety wooden floors and great atmosphere, we found a bonus – downstairs was an art shop, its windows enticing buyers in with colour and astonishingly life-like reproductions of familiar famous works. My friend and I went in, and came out soon after with identical posters, black and white, of crows picking at grain. Very graphic, very suggestive, very stark, very evocative. Mine still hangs in our house, brightening up a darkish corridor.
In Florence I managed to use my scant Italian to get revenge for my friend’s giggles over my horror at a plate ringed with squid tentacles. At dinner at a small and intimo restaurant, she ordered pizza, with lots of black olives – which were her favourite ‘vegetable’. Make it diavolo, I suggested and, with a little conspiratorial help from a charming young waiter, she was persuaded into it. The plate arrived, the pizza hot, gorgeously fragrant with cheese, oregano and, of course, olives, with a fresh egg just broken over the top and still quivering with rawness. She shuddered and glowered, I giggled and wiggled in my chair with delight at her plight. She hated raw eggs; I loved watching her deal with one. Finally, once the egg had thoroughly cooked with the heat of the pizza. I helped her eat it. We were still friends. And she wanted to wash her hair.
It had been a long few days, what with the snow, the cold and the drive cooped up in a not-too-big car. But we were starting to enjoy the blend of old and new, familiar and novel. Tomorrow we would head for Rome, our original Christmas destination. The Pope was waiting for us…
No comments:
Post a Comment