far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Monday, March 03, 2003

Florence, late this last Saturday afternoon. Me in an internet joint finishing up the day's entry, positioned at the computer nearest the door, the only place in the room that gets natural light. The street outside is narrow but busy, the doors are wide open. The noise is considerable at times, but the motion, the people walking by, the bicycles passing all compensate.

I'd gotten absorbed in writing, paying little attention to the scene outside, and at some point, just before I finished, a huge amount of noise started up -- many footsteps, people shouting, and, strangely, no vehicle noise. I looked around, the street was packed with people walking by, chanting stuff, holding banners. Some caribinieri stood on the curb in front of the internet place watching the passing river of people. A demonstration, seemingly out of nowhere, probably re: Iraq. For a few minutes, the sound of all those passing people filled the shop. Then they were by, several bicycles rattled past in the sudden quiet, motor vehicle traffic resumed.

I was out of there shortly after, just the other side of 5 p.m. The sidewalks and streets were alive with people and activity, lots of whom had been involved with the demonstration. The atmosphere felt nicely energized. I walked a bit, stopping in at a café I'd been to a day earlier where a genuinely congenial counter person had prepared me a fine cup of cappucino. Two German families were in there this time, juggling all sorts of food/drink, talking German and English, their three 10 or 12-year-old boys carrying on, eating sweet stuff. The counterman recognized my face, waved, whipped me up a cappucino that easily matched the previous day's cup. I inhaled that, used the facilities (used them carefully, I might add, having committed quite a bit of comedy the previous day, to wit: (a) went downstairs with the key, discovered four doors to choose from, all locked, all without signage; fumbled with each before I find the right one, managed to get it open; (b) entered, tripped and nearly fall over a small step located a foot or two inside the door; (c) going back up the stairs, I put my hand on the bannister, it came off its mounting rods so that I nearly fell over, recovering to find myself carrying a surprisingly light eight-foot length of brass; I rest it back on its support rods, regain composure, return the key upstairs, get out of there). Then I'm back out on the street.

The city bustled, at least as busy as it was at that hour during the previous weekdays. I head into the area of the central market, a warren of streets surrounding a gigantic square market building, street vendors' carts lining every street. I walk for a while, enjoying the busyness, the sounds and visuals. I find shops that remind me of Madrid -- meat shops, egg/chicken shops, bakeries and bread shops. I spot a couple of unique places -- one whose wares consisted almost entirely of chess sets, sets of all kinds, all sizes, all colors, filling most of the shelves in the shop; another that seemed to have nothing but masks, of amazing variety, sizes and designs.

I decide to head back to the hotel, discover I can't seem to find my way out. This was an area I'd been in and out of quite a bit, the idea that I'd gotten lost again seemed ridiculous. I bucked up, headed down some crowded streets that just seemed to bring me back to where I'd been, going around the market area in a large circle. For a while, then, I did a circuit around that building, figuring something somewhere would look familiar and lead me to freedom. Nothing doing. This went on and on, me beginning to smile in amazed disbelief, getting nowhere. And at some point, I widened the circle, moving further out into the neighborhood. Still no luck.

I'm walking slowly along, wondering what the hell is up, and I approached a corner where the neon lights of a cafe shone above the door, stopping me in my steps with a display of the universe's incomparable sense of humor. The lights read -- I swear I am not making this up -- "IL TRIANGULO DELLA BERMUDA."

I get out my notebook, begin scribbling the whole story down, groups of people walking by, brushing against me as they pass, some casting me curious glances, me leaning against a wall, writing away, a silly smile on my face. I finish up, do another circuit around the market building. This time everything falls into place, things look familiar, I head down the streets I'd been looking for with no problems.

My last evening in Florence.

rws 3:50 PM [+]

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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

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MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

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ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done.



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