27 January 2008

So, as far as I can tell, the apartment above mine houses a band that only practices late at night. And it seems their friends enjoy dancing along while wearing wooden clogs. But I’m in Firenze, so what do I really have to complain about? Annoyingly loud neighbors is extremely low on the list of “Things that are incredible grievances”.

I bought a bike last Thursday. The man running the store spoke little to no English. I had to resort to flipping through my Langscheidt pocket phrasebook/dictionary, which, alas, was not very helpful. When I was trying to ask which bicycle lock was strongest, I couldn’t even find the word “best” in the dictionary. Eventually I just pointed to the rack of locks for sale and made a vaguely quizzical thumbs-up sign.

Since I had video relatively soon after I wheeled my shiny and new green bicycle (bicicletta in Italian) out of the store, I immediately sped in the direction I thought SACI was in. After five minutes of pedal-to-the-medal biking, I decided to take a glance at my map to make sure I was on the right track. Of course, that wasn’t the direction SACI was in.

Once I had turned myself around and parked by the sketchy leather market near the school, I checked my watch and thought I was 10 minutes late. On the first day of video, Bruno told us we have to bring cookies for everyone in the event that we arrive late. So I bought twenty cookies at the corner bakery because I also hadn’t done the homework, so I thought I should be extra generous.

When I get to the video classroom, not only is Bruno not there yet, the door’s locked, and I’m not even the last person to arrive. At least my classmates appreciated the cookies.

* * *

On Friday I decided to take a bike ride on the other side of the Arno in the direction of Ravenna. There’s a lovely bike path that runs along the river, which is, naturally and thankfully, car free. Even though Florentine drivers are very good at sharing the road with bicyclists and moped-ists, it’s still unnerving to realize that a huge lumbering vehicle is slowly pulling up behind you.

The part of Firenze below the Arno is called “Firenze Sud”, which is a verifiable community with parks and schoolyards and children kicking soccer balls against walls. It was a refreshing change from the Duomo, all the Piazzas, and various other touristy locations. Wanting to carry as little as possible with me, I jammed 30 Euros, an I.D., a cell phone, and a map of Firenze into the small pockets of my camera bag. I also schlepped along several rolls of film.

After biking for about thirty minutes downriver, with a few stops to photograph various waterfowl and Homo sapiens, I decided to hop off my wheeled transportation in favor of my feet. When I got to a park I sat down with my camera and stayed there for several hours. Nature, even human-informed nature, is my lifeblood. Even when surrounded by beautiful old architecture and gorgeous hallowed halls of stone, I’m not content until I notice the flock of birds flying in a V-shape overhead.

I haven’t settled into the role of being a photographer yet. I still feel awkward trying to capture the visages of people I don’t know. Some people are thrilled to be followed by a camera lens; others turn their backs and tense their shoulders. As an ardent viewer of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, I feel especially peculiar when taking photos of children or playgrounds. I know I don’t look like your average child molester/fetishist, but the association creeps me out as much as white vans do now.

Once the sun started sinking below the mountains that encircle Firenze, I decided to make for home. On the way to retrieve my bicycle, I stopped to take a few photos of what appeared to be a broken-down community center. At one point, while the viewfinder was pressed against my left eye, I heard a rolling sound coming towards me. After taking the photo I lowered my camera cautiously, and on my right stood a very short, extremely sketchy-looking fellow and his wheeled, black suitcase. He started talking to me in Italian, and I quickly sidestepped around him and walked away briskly. He yelled angrily after me, but since I don’t understand that much Italian, I just assumed the worst and went a little faster.

* * *

On Saturday I took bus #7 to Fiesole with my roommate Sarah, and two of the girls who live across the hall, Alexa and Stephanie. The ride took about 15 minutes, and we ended up pretty high in the mountains. I took my digital camera with me this time and started snapping photos the second I stepped off the bus. Fiesole is beautiful. The streets wind up and down and houses have lemon trees in their front yards.

The view was expansive and probably incredible. Unfortunately, because of the bright sunlight and the pollution that rises from the city like steam out of a boiling pot of water, we couldn’t see much of anything by way of Firenze. I could make out the vague outline of the Duomo and the flashes of the sun reflecting off moving cars, but other than that, everything was just a haze of white smoke. I took several photographs of the supposed view, but unless iPhoto has a feature that eliminates smog like it does redeye, I doubt they’ll be worth saving.

At about three, the four of us had lunch at a restaurant called “Etruscus”. I had, surprise surprise, a pizza margherita! I am, if anything, predictable when it comes to ordering food. We also got a half carafe of white wine to share. Sitting there with my bubbling wine and pizza, I felt like a real Italian donna (woman) soaking up the rays and listening to the chatter of my fellow diners.

* * *

On Sunday I overslept and immediately headed to the darkroom when I awoke. I took my two finished rolls of film with me and hoped for the best. I’ve only developed one roll of film since eighth grade when I took photography with Mr. Stracke, and I did so under the strict and watchful eye of Jacopo.

For me, the hardest part is transferring the film from the roll to a reel and putting the reels into the light-tight bucket. All of this occurs in utter darkness. It’s uncanny because your eyes can’t adjust to the darkness.

I’ll save you the extremely tedious specifics and just give a rough overview—first the photographer must open the roll of film with a can opener. Both Jacopo and our TA Jamie commented on the behavior of other students while performing this particular task. Apparently a lot of blood is involved.

Then you remove the film from the canister and have to roll it around the reel with minimal fingerprint interference. And by minimal, I mean none. I always get stuck on this one because you have to insert the end of the film into this little slot on the outer rim of the reel that feels pretty much like every other part of the rim, and if you insert it incorrectly, it won’t catch and you’ll just be winding and winding fruitlessly.

And now class, we get to leave the darkroom and head out into the light. Developing the film is an eight-step process. So you have to really love photography to sequester yourself in the darkroom for hours upon hours. Or perhaps the chemicals addle one’s brain just enough to make one crazy enough to spend copious amounts of time in the darkroom.

* * *

Because my only food in the refrigerator was half a container of yogurt and some fizzy water, I headed over to the Grana Market. The ingredients I can buy here are light-years better than anything I could buy in the United States. Today I had a definite mission—in broken Italian and broken English (the latter referring of course to the woman packaging the food, not me) I managed to procure five balls of mozzarella di bufala, some sun-dried tomatoes, several ounces of pesto, and half a loaf of pane (pronounced pon-a). And when I got home, I made the best sandwich I’ve ever had in my life.