How I met Salvatore

On Easter Sunday I wanted to see part of the crazy exploding cart thingy that is traditional in Florence.  This tall pagoda-like structure is covered with fireworks of all kinds and pulled to the front of the Duomo by four giant white oxen where a flying mechanical dove ignites the fireworks.  A spectacular display is said to insure a great harvest or good luck or something.  I only wanted to see the oxen up close.  So I walked over to the cart’s garage and met friends and scoped out the beasts.  Magnificent and huge and festooned with flowers.   After 30 minutes of my gawking, the parade of flag throwers and drummers and gun toters and flowery maidens moved off in the direction of the Duomo.  I began my walk back to the apartment to prepare Easter luncheon.  At the Ponte alla Carraia, I saw that I could sit on the river wall and watch the parade, so I did.  It was all very festive and Buon Pasqua was said by all.  A group of people came across the bridge from behind me and I thought I saw someone I knew.  He looked at me.  I looked at him.  He passed by and immediately circled back to talk to me.

“Are you Florentine” he asked.

“No, Americana” I said. 

“Americana, Americana?” he asked, since many Americans are of Italian heritage. 

“Americana, Americana” I said. 

“Di dove sei?”  Where are you from? 

“California, but I live here.”

“Where?” 

“In Piazza Santo Spirito.”

“IN the Piazza?” 

“IN the Piazza.” 

He said he went there all the time to drink the water from the fountain since it was so good. I said well, I sit in the piazza most days and drink coffee from 10 to 12.  Then he asked me if I liked to dance.  Sure, I said since I do.  Would you go dancing with me?  Sure, I said since I thought it would be completely safe to be in a public place with a man I did not know.  Do you smoke?  No.  I am a little deaf on the right side, he said.  Me too, I said.  He couldn’t pronounce my name let alone spell it so I put it into his phone and took his number.  And then I went home to make pranzo for 10 people. 

He called me later to be sure I really meant it and I said yes I did.  And then he sent a text about 9pm wishing me Buona Notte.  Very sweet.    The next morning was Pasquetta which I thought would be normal but in fact it was even more of a holiday than Easter.  He came at 10 and we went for lunch.  Not finding a cheap restaurant open that day, we bought  food and went to my place to cook.  After lunch we went on a three bus ride to a neighborhood west of the city.  We walked  into a small courtyard between two long narrow buildings:  half of one side was a small bar with everything from coffee to gin.  On the other was a card room with all of Martin Scorsese’s uncles and grandpas, dark coats and slouch hats and all.  I felt like I had walked into one of his movies.   When we entered the other narrow building, we found at least 50 men and women dancing around in a circle to a live musician.  They were all of about the same age as me and Salvatore, in ties and coats and spangles and heels.  The music was a mix of traditional Italian songs, modern pop music and rock and roll covers played by a single guy on a wild assortment of acordians, trumpets, trombones, piano and drums to the accompaniment of an electronic backup group. 

Salvatore turned out to be a great dancer.  He circled me around the floor and grinned and smiled and laughed as we learned to dance together.  He chucked my cheek and kissed his fingers.  He talked in a low graveley voice about my occhi azzurri (blue eyes), he  introduced me to his friends, all women, Carla with orange hair, the two blond sisters with the huge breasts, the siciliana.  All women!  They all said “C’e’ un buon uomo”, this is a good man.  He is.  I was completely smitten.  I still am.  Salvatore describes his first sight of me as a “colpo di fulmine” a lightning strike, love at first sight.  It is very romantic and I am very happy.

Bocci

We took the bus number 31 to the end of the line.  It was going to be the 10 but we missed it.  So “cambiamo il programma”.  It took us to Grassina, a small suburb of Firenze where he wanted to see the cemetery.  He made me promise that I would bury him there.  But we were hungry when we got there and so ate pizza with anchovies and pasta with bacon and pecorino.  After lunch we walked back to the center to the “Casa del Popolo” the community center found is nearly every neighborhood.  These are often large and well equipped senior centers with a bar, a dance hall, game rooms, a garden with outside seating and lots of anziani.  At this hour of the day it was all men.

I said “where are all the women?”  He said “at home, cleaning, making lunch.”   Grrrr.  Typical Italian, women doing all the work.  We wandered around, peeking in the rooms, eventually out past two very busy card tables under the trees.  Beyond was a shed roofed open sided structure with a crowd of men at the sides watching a bocci ball game.  The ancient roof beams and weathered pillars covered a clean swept, slightly dished surface edged with wood and capped by troughs at each end. 

We sat to watch just as one of the teams of four rolled a ball to within 4 or 5 inches of the target, a pink rubber sphere the size of a golf ball.  Two balls seemed to be the same distance from the target so a measurement was required.  A stalk from a broom was cut to fit the space and used to determine the winner.  The winner collected several coins.  A toss of the target and they began again. These vigorous old guys, short, mustachioed, all in jeans, windbreaker vests and athletic shoes, were able to roll the most amazing curves, esses and arcs that stopped on a dime, or straight shots with deadly accuracy, or throws that rolled up the side inclines, circled through the other balls to land practically on top of the target.  Incredible.  Only the 8 were playing.  Another 15 or so watched and chatted and commented.  We sat outside the shed on a bench under the trees.  The language was a dialect that Salvatore didn’t recognize.  The fall day was cool but sunny, the shouts of a football game and the gurgle of the river nearby;   the chatter and laughter of the men a rolling, bubbling comfort.             

Warming Up

Well today felt like the first day of spring. The flea market was in the square and a multitude came to see the crapola on display. It was finally warm, at least in the sun, of which there was a goodly amount. I came out early, despite a late night at Nikkie’s for dinner with the lovely Ennio and Stefano who walked me home, to find Novella had returned from her getaway weekend to Kenya with fancy man Chicco. She brought her six year old with her, the adorable Tappo (which means cork as in bottle stopper) who lugged along a grand bag of treasures which he proceeded to spread along the pavement and sell like all the others in the piazza today. We coffeed and watched as generous local ladies perused the cars and key chains he had to sell. He actually sold quite a bit. Not really sympathy sales but close.
After a browse, we ended up on the church steps soaking up the sun, which has been sorely missed these last months. All the spaces on the steps ended up filled so the denizens were a bit cramped. Janie’s crew arrived after a mass and blessing, not hard to find around here. More browsing. I found some little plates for a sensible price which I had sought for weeks in order to serve tiny dolci, the best kind. Janie found the EXACT piece for her bedroom to hold the TV and maybe socks and underwear. Random visitors were greeted. I went off with Doran to see a trendy furniture show in the former military fort. Nice contrast. More browsing, with wine. More people in the piazza than at any time all winter. Duh. Lots of tripe sandwiches were sold plus honey, cheese, oil, wooden things, books, pottery, picture frames, incense, purses, African masks, 50s jewelry, old shoes, furniture, bed spreads, candied fruit. Everything. One of the best parts of this adventure is to be so close to the action. With the advent of the nice weather and the tourist season, it’s only going to get better.