As per usual, it was a wonderfully frigid afternoon, and, since I had yet to buy gloves and a hat, I was pretty cold. Sporting my new bizarrely colored LeSportsac bag (unlike my old purse, this one zips, which is a very important feature of gypsy-proof luggage) and camera bag—both of which were looped across my chest to protect them from the dreaded purse snatchers, and talking on the phone with my mother, I headed across the Ponte Vecchio.
The difference between the two sides of the river is pretty striking. The area I live in, near the Duomo, is super tourist-oriented. Most everyone speaks English, and lots of restaurants have names like “Snack Bar”. Across the river, shops sell only cheese or only wine and are all called “Italian word” or “Other Italian word” or “Trattoria”.
There are trees and gardens on the other side of the Arno. On the Duomo side, there is no flora whatsoever, which, even for a New York City kid, seems kind of weird.
The first store I went into was kitchen/hardware store fusion. The woman who was running the place didn’t speak English, so I had to whip out my Langscheidt pocket phrasebook to look up the word “dishtowel”. Amazingly she understood me and I walked out of there with a 1,50 Euro towel to wipe my hands on after doing the dishes.
Later I entered a shoe store and greeted the manger by saying “Buona Sera”. He later asked me if I spoke English, which may not sound all that exciting, but usually people here just immediately respond in English. It was like that one time in Paris when a woman in a department store started speaking to me in rapid French and I unfortunately had to tell her “Je ne parle pas Français”. (For those who know me and my love of injecting French words into everyday conversation, this was the summer before ninth grade—I had only been studying the language for two years at that point.)
I happened upon a fair-trade/eco-friendly store that sold various cosmetics, honey, tea, tchotchkes, and, to my extreme pleasure, hats and gloves. I bought a pair of llama wool gloves and a llama wool scarf that were hand knitted in Bolivia. Unfortunately, to my extreme displeasure, the set cost 27,50 Euros. But I’ve learned that the conscious consumer has to shill out extra cash, which is perhaps why there are so few.
While walking down some via or another, a group of EMTs exited from a very small door right in front of me. No longer quite so surprised by sudden arrivals in this city, I only jumped about two feet in the air. My jumpiness, although fascinating, I’m sure, is not the reason I wanted to share this anecdote with my adoring fans—incredibly, all the EMTs were wearing super bright neon orange pants with three reflector strips around their ankles. The shock factor was somewhere between 120 volts and seeing Elvis’s ghost. Which is probably helpful if you’ve just had a stroke? (Insert observation about how the color probably makes the EMTs more visible amid a busy crisis scene here.)
After two hours, I found myself back at the Arno. The sky was growing dark quickly, so I figured it was time to get back to my apartment because Sarah and I had plans to have dinner with the SACI students across the hall. When I was on the downtown side again, I turned around to take a panoramic shot. As beautiful as Firenze is, it really is amazingly polluted. I could see the thick smog settling among the churches and apartment buildings. While looking through the photos I’d taken later, I could tell that the haze had even affected the color quality.
* * *
Today I woke up at 2 p.m. At 4 p.m. I hopped on bus #14 and was on my way to Fiesole. Which I hadn’t known at the time. Armed with my camera and one roll of black & white film, I was ready to tackle my photography assignment.
Jacopo told us that people would stop noticing the camera pretty quickly. In my opinion, that’s a lie. One passenger even switched seats because she didn’t want to be in my direct line of sight (I think). Another passenger kept looking over at me every time I lifted the viewfinder to my eye.
I’ve always been afraid of getting old. I think every young person who has grown up in the youth-obsessed United States feels that way, whether they admit it or not. But while I was sitting there across from a pair of old people, I noticed how striking their wrinkles were. Years of experience had formed their features. And there’s something really beautiful about that. When they smiled, I could tell they still possessed some genuine childlike wonder. From a photographer’s point of view, I consider older people and children the best subjects—for different reasons, the two groups don’t cringe at the sight of a camera.
Having lived in Riverdale for the last four years, my opinion of seniority is skewed. I’ve come to associate age with grouchy customers who argue with cashiers over every cent they think they’re being cheated out of, women who yell at family members in the street, and Mrs. Katsoris. It would take me some time to explain that last one—let’s just say she’s pretty wretched and leave it at that.
I think there are definitely more wonderful people in this world than terrible ones; the latter are simply more ubiquitous. There will never be a story about a fireman saving some kid’s cat above the fold of The New York Times—instead whatever any given dictator did yesterday will claim that particular spot of honor. After all, no one needs to be warned about respectable fireman.
When I got to Fiesole, I discovered that my second favorite group of subjects was roaming the streets in full force. Tons of kids were running about in various costumes—Ninja Turtles, princesses, Pooh Bears, and puppies—celebrating what appeared to be Italian Halloween in January. Just without candy. But not without silly string, shaving cream, and confetti.
It was about 4:45 by this time, so the daylight was fading fast. Unfortunately, this meant I had to use a lot of the 1 second, ½ second, and ¼ second shutter speeds even with the F Stop (which measures the amount of light the lens of the camera lets in) on the lowest setting. To give non-photographers a good idea of what this means—the ideal shutter speed is in the neighborhood of 1/60 or 1/125 of a second. So we’ll see Tuesday if I came up with anything even remotely recognizable.
Because darkness was sweeping over Fiesole with alarming alacrity, I didn’t get to explore the town all that much. But now that I know which bus to take, I’ll definitely return another weekend. Instead I spent the majority of my time in the neighborhood photographing signs of decay brought about by neglect and bad weather. I’ve decided to call my (hopefully discernible) set of photos “Behind Bars.” Actually that wasn’t the name I came up with while in Fiesole, but I’ve forgotten that one.
After about ten minutes I found the local park, which is where I took most of my photos. There was graffiti all over the two small playhouses. Gardens outside people’s homes were overrun with weeds and dying perennials. A lot filled with construction materials appeared to have been abandoned. And the smog added to the effect by giving everything a Tim Burton’s Sweeney Todd-ish appearance. (Which I discovered will be playing at the Odeon—a cinema that shows movies in their original languages—as will several other movies I’ve yet to see: American Gangster and Charlie Wilson’s War.)
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