Cortona senza sole Toscano

Today I am enjoying one of the pleasures of being in one place more than a few days. It is afternoon and I have the apartment all to myself. Our roommates are off to see David, and Sasha is climbing the 463 steps of the Duomo with two friends on a very sunny and warm day. The total age of the three of them adds up to less than my years, so I am willing to let them do that, tell me about it and show me pictures.

I have included a slideshow on this blog that has just about everything a voyeur needs to enjoy a trip to Cortona (Under the Tuscan Sun): Flags, flowers, children, a bride, narrow streets, stuffed tourists, gelato, some people you and I know, some people neither you nor I know, roasted pigs, beautiful markets, building signs, the street of little love, a cat asleep in the window (actually that's in Florence), dangerous dogs, war monuments and wonderful vistas. The weather that day was mostly senza sun (though it did come through now and then) and it was mostly chilly, though when the sun came out, it was hot. But, no matter. We took the bus from the train station and as we climbed up the winding road to Cortona, it looked and felt like the Italy that I have in my mind when I think of the Italian countryside. I think that if I had lived in Cortona before the book and the movie, part of me would be cursing the intensified fame that these events have brought; but if I were a merchant in Cortona, I would probably be dancing in the streets. One thing for sure, this is a "hill" town. No need for a gym membership if you live here. I think just getting from home to the market would be enough exercise to keep one in shape; certainly the climb to Santa Margharita (which I did do) gave me a good cardiovascular workout that maybe justified the tiny cup of gelato that I had when I came back to the center. At least that's what I told myself. The climb to the Fortress (which I didn't do) might have justified a larger cup, but I have my standards. The merchants in the market were kind and courteous, especially the lovely man slicing the prosciutto; no apparent "I'm so tired of these tourists" attitude here - at least not that I discerned.

This week has included some serious Museum crawling. The big draws are, of course, crowded, but, aside from those, the museums are mostly uncrowded, so it is possible to walk around a sculpture several times, sit and enjoy David - all 14 feet of him - contemplate a Donatello and take the time to try to figure out the Italian descriptions when there is no english translation. I am using two additional books as our guides to Florence: Room With A View by E.M. Forster and Stones of Florence by Mary McCarthy. Every guidebook has a point of view, but these books are by writers I respect and are not trying to be objective, so they give me a perspective against which I can judge my own experience. And so, Sunday evening I read the portion of Room With a View in which Lucy Honeychurch goes into Santa Croce without a guidebook after having been abandoned by her companion, Miss Lavish, who has run off with the Baedeker. While I was reading, the lights went out in our apartment and, skillful as we think ourselves to be, none of the four of us could figure out how to reactivate the circuit breaker and neither could our neighbor, who is English and a male. Consequently, we went to bed at about 9:30 - much too early to count on sleeping through the night. So at about three in the morning I found myself sitting at the table reading with the aid of one of those Sharper Image flashlights that casts an etheral blue glow over everything. Strange to be reading a book written a hundred years ago with the aid of such a ghastly glow.

More later.