Florence Then and Now

I’m always amazed at “the earnest tourists”. You know them. They are on the go from morning to night, guidebook in hand to make sure they miss nothing, driven by the idea that this will be their only chance. I’ve always been more of an “ambler”. I do what I have the time and energy for and never feel much regret if I don’t see everything. I’ll do it “next time”, I promise myself. This is pure optimism. There has seldom been a “next time” for any given location. Take Florence, which I visited forty years ago on a Christmas tour of Italy. I’ve returned to Italy numerous times but never to Florence. So I was delighted when my friends Maggie and Paul, last visited in London, told me they’d be spending six weeks there this summer. A chance to go back!
I remember Florence as one of my favorite places on that long ago Italian vacation, travelling with three acquaintances who, like me, were not interested in the “I visited 10 countries” type of student trip. But, when I tried to recall the City, I was startled by how few details came to mind. Was it the lack of photos? (My camera had been stolen in Naples at the beginning of our holiday.) Or that we had basically let Marilyn decide everything because she spoke Italian? Or simply the passage of time? In any case, I was ready to update my memory banks.
This trip, instead of taking the train and looking for a cheap pensione upon arrival, I flew in and took a taxi to Maggie and Paul’s one bedroom apartment -- on the other side of the Arno from where the tourists stay.



They had found their “Room with a View”



And soon -- a few streets away --I had found mine.



It was fun to be in the locals’ Florence.
My friends had already discovered the best gelato place.



I decided gelato is better appreciated in May than in December, like the city itself.





Strolling with a three year old leads to a different kind of tourism.





Of course, we visited the Ponte Vecchio just as I had done years before



though the lovers’ locks tradition hadn’t started yet.
About 10 years ago, lovers began fastening padlocks to the Ponte Vecchio and throwing the key in the Arno as a sign of their undying attachment. There is now a 50 euro fine for this as the sheer quantity was not only esthetically offensive to the Florentines but was beginning to cause harm to the medieval bridge. But when did lovers ever put the law above their emotions?



On my first visit, aside from waiting with various degrees of impatience while Marilyn chose just the right gloves, I mostly remember going to art museums. A vivid memory is Giovanni Antonio Bazzi Sodoma’s St Sebastian at the Pitti Palace.
This time I concentrated on churches.
On Sunday, Maggie, Camm and I picknicked in the gardens of 12th century San Minateo


and admired the view



The next day I paid my respects to Santa Croce.



Like Lucy Honeychurch, I had no guidebook (amblers seldom do)though the audio guide I rented explained what I wanted to know.
Like Lucy, I met someone I knew in the church. Paul had brought his students on a visit.



No trip to Florence would be complete without a visit to the Duomo and its Campanile.



Surely I had seen it on my last trip? I couldn’t remember.
Camm knew its name and had already climbed to the top as he told me excitedly (and repeatedly). I had no memory of having done so. And no desire to change that.
I did remember seeing the Gates of Paradise on the doors of the Baptistery on the Square near the Duomo. Who could forget them?



Moses – one of 10 scenes on the east door called Gates of Paradise by Michelangelo.

Home on the bus for one last dinner with my friends – and one last gelato afterwards. And the next day it was off to the airport and back home, glad that, for one beautiful city at least, there had been a “next time” to appreciate it.

One More Year

Yesterday was June 15th. “Ah yes”, my English friends remember. “The day the Magna Charta was signed."
« The day the US-Canada border was finally settled, » exclaim my history-loving American and Canadian friends.
« Eh, oui . The day Georges Pompidou was elected President! » my politically-minded French friends pronounce.
All true but I have a personal reason for remembering this date. It was on June 15th 2009 that I became a blogger.
Like most projects, this one has evolved a good deal since my first slightly naïve image of what I wanted to do and who my readers would be.
I gradually came to understand, without totally accepting, that most of my friends would not be regular or even occasional readers. My disappointment was hugely diminished by the realization that a number of people I had never met would be. Some stumbled across my blog by accident; others came looking for specific information that one of my posts provided. Some made only one brief appearance on my reader statistics. Others became regulars. The fun I was having and the slightly but definitely increasing readership was all the incentive I needed to continue for one more year – especially as I knew that I would soon have a trip to Sri Lanka to share.
As some of you know -- and others can discover by reading my posts from September to December 2010 -- share it I did. Though I was only in the country for two weeks, it took me three months of almost constant posting to reach the end of what I wanted to describe. Exhausted from my thirty-five Sri Lankan posts and a little lost as to what should come next, I was just a step away from writing a final farewell post when a journalist friend of mine, who is a regular reader, startled me by remarking that I had become a travel writer. She was about to start an adventure of her own, teaching writing on the University of Virginia’s Semester at Sea summer program,
and asked if she could use some of my posts as reference material for her students. Of course, I said yes! The flattery of this and the fact that my readership continued to increase even though I was no longer writing, made me decide that it was too soon to say goodbye. Since January 1st of this year, readers from 74 countries have consulted my blog at least once – most of them (including a number of Sri Lankans) interested in the Sri Lankan posts but also reading others.

This is a map of where my readers in May and June connected from. Always a thrill to see.



I’m finding this a heady experience. And I do still have things to tell you. I was recently in Florence. I have only scratched the surface of Paris. I have plans for a fall trip which should be fun. So I’m launching myself into another year of bloggery. I hope you’ll come along.
(If you want still more travel, why don’t you join me as I read my friend Jeanne’s blog of her summer adventure. I know she’d love to see you, too.)

Bread and Circuses

One of the fun things about living in France is the number of free events, large and small, politicians have scattered throughout the calendar for our enjoyment. It seems they retained the idea of “bread and circuses” from their classical education, without remembering that Juvenal meant it as a criticism. Or perhaps they simply feel that if it worked for the ancient Roman government, it could work for the modern French one.
May’s festival, for the last 16 years, has been the Fête du Pain (Bread Festival). It was established by Jean-Pierre Raffarin, then Minister of Small Business and Commerce, to honor bakers and bread as well as to teach French children a tradition that supermarkets and diet books were altering. The French eat 5 times less bread today than 100 years ago and, though the neighborhood baker still exists, more of what they do eat is bought in supermarkets or baked in factories and delivered to local bakeries. Young people looking for jobs often don't consider one which requires such long (and early) hours.
For all these good reasons,since 1996, bread and bakers are fêted all over France for a week in May. Why May? May 16th is St Honoré Day – feast day of the patron saint of bakers.

The Paris version of the Festival changes venues every year. This year it was held in the square in front of Notre Dame



to the bemusement of foreign tourists who had no idea what was happening and had just come to see the Cathedral.
This year, for some unexplained reason, Normandy was being honored. There were Norman musicians and ladies in traditional costumes



and people happily honored Normandy as directed.





Schoolchildren, dressed as bakers



learned how bread was made. Grownups didn't get special hats or have guided tours -- but we were allowed to watch the film.



Throughout the week, bakers participated in contests and were honored with prizes and diplomas. Here are the winners of the bread sculpture contest.







There was even a display of breads from around the world.



The English were represented by a display of hot cross buns and bagels.



Bagels? Don’t tell any New Yorkers you know!
The Americans were represented, too.



Ah well. To each country its own pièce de résistance.
French specialties were to be found between the cinema tent and the tent for tourist attractions in Normandy.



Freshly baked bread is wonderful and well worth a Festival. Merci, M Raffarin et bon appétit to all!

My Secret Oasis

Of course, Paris is a vibrant city. But some days, especially when the sun is shining, you need to escape the bustle. During the extensive renovations of Paris undertaken during in the late 19th century, Napoleon III had public parks created in each corner of Paris. I’m lucky enough to live near the “northern park”. -- probably the least well-known to outsiders.
Not only is it family friendly, but it also contains the history of several centuries of Paris in a nutshell.
There are four ways into to the Parc Monceau but I usually use the majestic main entrance.



Two sand and gravel “allées” bisect it.



There is also a circular path around the outer edge and, within the circle, smaller paths which make you forget how close the city traffic is.



Lining all these paths are green benches. People sit snoozing or reading Kant, the latest Danielle Steele or Paris Match according to tastes. Families or friends in twos and threes enjoy the fresh air, the flowers, the trees, the latest gossip – or the free WiFi.



In the areas between the paths, groups of families and friends relax on the grass – a triumph of democracy. Until a few years ago, the disapproving residents of the elegant apartment buildings that surround the Parc required guards to patrol regularly, moving people on. A compromise was eventually reached. From October until April the grass “rests”. From April until October more modest apartment dwellers can enjoy the soft green carpet.









The Parc Monceau is the neighborhood children’s “back yard.





Another attraction is the duckpond.



But I promised you history, so let us stroll through the Parc again,looking with different eyes.
Beside the main gates, there is a large stone rotunda, prosaically housing the public restrooms.



Its past was grander. This is one of the few remains of the Wall of the Farmers General which surrounded Paris until the French Revolution. Unlike today’s gardeners



these “farmers” had no tractors or hoes. They were tax collectors. Anyone desiring to enter Paris with merchandise had to pay tax at places like our rotunda. The wall has long since disappeared but the tax was only abolished in 1948.
I used to wonder how old the park was. A pyramid stands next to one of the walkways



and the ruins of a Greek temple partially surrounds the duck pond.



But, I found out,these are just an architect’s nod to exoticism as are the romantic grotto, bridge and waterfall in the Parc's heart.

Louis XVI’s cousin bought this land in 1769 in what was then a pleasant country area just outside Paris. He continued enlarging and improving his private park until 1778. When the French Revolution began, it was declared a National Treasure and became the scene of popular fairs and entertainments.
In the southeast corner of the Parc, a small plaque commemorates the world’s first successful parachute jump. On 0ctober 22^nd 1797, just about the time that Napoleon I was coming to power, André Jacques Garnerin, a Parisian military man, jumped from a hot air balloon at 3200 feet and landed safely in the Parc Monceau. Can you imagine the crowds that day?
The city of Paris acquired the Parc in 1860 – smaller the original since half the land had been returned its original owners – but enough to allow us city-dwellers to enjoy a sunny day.