Florence Diary, Part Two

     Toward the end of  my previous post I included a journal entry about my arrival for my 1999 Florence trip, as well as photos of the beautiful house where I stayed. So I thought I'd go ahead and post the entries about the rest of that trip, which I took for a "total immersion" language program. This was my second time doing this program; the first time took me to Lucca in 1997 (which you can read about in these posts: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4).

     A word about the photos: I'm no photographer, first of all; secondly, these were taken with a disposable camera, so the quality isn't the greatest.

22 June 1999

     At this moment, I'm having my breakfast on the terrazzo under a rose arbor--no blooms now, but still so gemütlich! This is what I had imagined before I came to Italy last time. This is just about perfect--only there's some sort of construction shop next door beyond the gardens, so there is the occasional hammering and buzzsawing to break the tranquil birdsong. But I don't really mind.

     On my first evening, Sunday, the Bertinis took me along to a large dinner party in nearby Fiesole. I had heard much about Fiesole from travel shows and books--that it's very expensive and a bunch of rich people live there. The house we went to stands on the brow of a hill, modern, lots of glass, rather like a stylized ship. The company was comprised of some of the cultural hoi-poloi of Florence--directors of museums, members of philanthropical organizations--a supposedly "casual" sit-down dinner, which in Italy means that the men wear suits and ties and the women wear their best business attire and very important jewelry. I never saw so many gold bracelets in my life. And the fact that my own could stand up very well against theirs, sort of compensated for my tourist-fresh-from-the-States attire. However, no one seemed to mind my clothes, or if they did they were much too well-bred to show it. I was seated across from, as my teacher Donatella tells me, one of the most nobile women of Florence, Benedetta Someone-or-Other. She had beautiful carriage and the kind of face that carries her age very gracefully without artificial help. She was softspoken, but very kind and whenever I chanced to catch her eye, she would smile slightly. She owns and runs the Medici hotel (she's a descendant) and a splendid villa near Lucca.

     We sat at a very long table in a room with huge windows that afforded a wonderful view of the surrounding hills. There were two first courses: orzo with vegetables, and pasta with pesto; two main courses: baked salmon, and a sort of stew; green salad; an apricot tart with homemade yogurt gelato, and espresso--all of which was served by two people, caterers, I assume. It was all very noisy and happy with lots of gesturing and gesticulating. And Benedetta smiled benignly upon it all.

The arbored terrazzo where I had breakfast and most of my lessons.

     Yesterday, after my al fresco breakfast of toast and espresso and blood orange juice, I went up to the music room to practice for about two and a half hours, then got out my camera and took loads of pictures, mostly outside, because the house for the most part is too dark inside, even with a flash. Then Donatella and I sat down to lunch in the old kitchen--pasta pomodoro, roast beef, salad, fruit--all prepared and served by Gary, the Filipino houseboy.

Back of the house - music room with "Juliet" balcony on top floor

View of the garden from the music room. Donatella's art studio at left.

     After a brief post-pranzo siesta, we had our first lesson, in the library, because it was raining and we couldn't sit out on the terrazzo. We went through all the recits of Giovanni, she helping with phrasing and the grouping of words and correcting my pronunciation. Aside from being a well-known artist, Donatella also has a degree in literature, so she knows a great deal about archaic and poetic words and also the difference between Florentine pronunciation and other kinds. She told me something very interesting: the character Masetto's name is a diminutive of "Maso" which in turn is a diminutive of "Tommaso," which of course is "Thomas" in English. So "Maso" is "Tom" and "Masetto" is "Tommy"!

     We finished at 6.30, then Donatella made dinner, since Gary is only here during the day. It was a vegetarian meal--she's on a strict low cholesterol, no sugar diet, which makes me very happy, and she understands (unlike my teacher in Lucca) that I eat little. So this time, I don't feel guilty for not having three or four servings of everything! We had vegetable soup, bruschette, both smoked and regular mozzarella, and fruit.

     That evening, we and her husband drove into the city for the final dress of Pelleas and Mélisande. The brochure of the Maggio Musicale listed Cecilia [Bartoli] as Mélisande, so I was very much looking forward to it and to saying hello to her again; but when we got the Teatro Communale, I saw on the poster in the lobby that the Mélisande was to be my old friend from the Studio, Ana Maria Martinez! What a pleasant surprise!

     The production and costumes were ugly and the staging static. Actually, it looked a bit like a cross between Star Wars and The Wizard of Oz. I went backstage afterward to say hello to Ana, who gave a completely wonderful performance. Was she ever surprised to see me!

28 June 1999

     I've been far busier this visit than I ever was on my first, and although I've really seen very little of Florence itself (which my friends and family will not credit), my days have been satisfyingly full. Tuesday afternoon, after lessons in the morning, Donatella and I went by bus into the city so that I could change money and buy some books. We went to Marzocco, a very large bookstore in Via Martelli.

     Wednesday, I went around with Donatella because she had errands to run. We stopped at a fellow artist's apartment, an American woman who is in charge of some exhibit that Donatella is taking part in. Rebecca, as she's called, has lived in Paris, so she's fluent in French, and is married to an Italian musician and has lived in Italy for over 20 years, so she's also fluent in Italian. I'm so envious! Ana has had an Italian boyfriend these past two years. When she left Houston in '95, she couldn't speak a word of Italian; now she's conversant. I guess I either need to live here or find myself an Italian boyfriend.

     Saturday morning, I went with Donatella to experience an Italian supermarket. What a zoo! The aisles are extremely narrow, extremely crowded; no one says scusi, but then no one seems to mind being squeezed past or having their carts rudely pushed aside. This is one circumstance where I think Americans are much more courteous and civilized. The Italians move themselves and their carts through the aisles in much the same way they drive their cars on these narrow, busy streets. And I was a bit embarrassed for Donatella because she tends to park her cart in the most inconvenient spots, mostly right in the middle of the aisle; and then I was trying to move it out of everyone else's way, but after a while I gave up. They didn't care, anyway; they just shoved it aside if they couldn't pass.

     All the while we shopped, Donatella made me read prices out loud, because I'm so bad at numbers. Shoppers near us would hear me call out, "Quattromilaottocento, oppure qurant'ottocento" and smile in amusement.

To be continued. . . .

A Saturday Spectrum

Because I have nothing else to write about at this time, and because my brain seems to have come to a temporary -- hopefully not lengthy -- standstill, I decided to do one of my journal retrospectives, starting with an entry I wrote 22 years ago, and ending with my arrival in Florence in 1999.

In June long ago, I wrote:

1990   Never did write about Butterfly, did I? [HGO did the Hal Prince production in the spring of 1990.] Well, it was wonderful. Diana Soviero was incredible and I cried at every performance. She has absolutely spoiled me for any other Cio-Cio-San. During the run, I got to play for Marcello Giordani's voice lessons (our Pinkerton), and I also coached Gaetan Laperierre (Sharpless) a few times on Carmina. I earned lots of extra money that month.

1993   Had to get up at 5-frigging-thirty this morning. Angie and I had to do a Frida promo spot on Good Morning, Houston. You know, I should never again tape myself on TV -- that old saying about how you never look the way you think you look is totally true. I never knew, for instance, that my lack of a chin gave me a profile strangely akin to a bullfrog's, or that my right butt-cheek had a large parasite adhered to its upper slope. Good thing I have a sense of humor about it, or I'd be really depressed. My hair looked great. Also on the show was Princess Di's cousin, Lady Henrietta Spenser Churchill. She was promoting her book on English interiors. Of houses, that is. She was very friendly and charming in the Green Room, even after Angie asked her, "Does everyone call you Lady? Like Lady and the Tramp?"

1994   A quarreling couple has just come in to this restaurant. They are sitting a couple of tables away from me with their little girl, who can't be more than 7. The wife is complaining about having to ask for everything ("I hate having to ask!") and the husband is complaining about not getting any support from her. Their little girl has asked them, Please shut up. It broke my heart.

1996   Tonight I watched for the first time How to Make an American Quilt. I loved it! There was one moment that caught me unaware: near the end, as the women are finishing the quilt, Maya Angelou looks over at Alfre Woodard's patch and says, "That's good work." A shot of Alfre's patch shows a likeness of the Eiffel Tower, a poignant memorial of those few hours which she spent with her soul mate in Paris -- only a few hours, and they changed her life. She didn't even know his name. Anyway, I saw that Eiffel Tower, and suddenly I was sobbing. Pure gut reaction. Who can tell what effect a few hours, or days, or weeks can have on one's life? Even if I never see __ again, or never be anything more to him than a colleague and casual friend, those few precious weeks will always be a vital part of me.

1997   It's a very mellow time for me, and I'm hard pressed finding enough to keep myself busy. I have a project in the works, though -- writing an English singing version of Cenerentola. And I'm finding that it is not such an easy thing! When the Italian rhymes, I want the English to rhyme, and in these cases, the literal meaning of the Italian doesn't always work. And of course, the general rhythm of Italian is so different from English; the accents fall in different places. Then there's the problem of finding vowels that are suitable for cadenzas and embellishments and high notes; and in the patter sections, I have to be careful with the consonants. Very complicated. But an enjoyable and rewarding challenge, as well as an excellent exercise for my Italian.

1999   I have no idea what time it is. My new watch say 7.13 and my new clock says 7.58. At any rate, it's morning. A beautiful Tuscan morning. True to form, I woke up appallingly early and couldn't fall back asleep. Then the sound of church bells, very distant, very faint, from I don't know where, made me throw back the covers and dash to window à là Josie Lawrence in Enchanted April. Rooftops and treetops bathed in the rosy early sunlight, and below, the garden still in shade.

     My flight into Florence was only 10 minutes late, unlike last time (about 2 hrs. late). Signora Bertini, my teacher and hostess, met me at the gate and I was relieved to find her very easy-going and personable. Her speech isn't quite as clean and clear as Signora Bartelloni's (my teacher in Lucca), but it's good for my ear. Not everyone speaks like a language tape!

     The house is on the south side of town on a very, very old street indeed, Via Podestà. When we drove past the wall of the property, I knew it was going to be beautiful. Anything with a high stone wall has to be beautiful -- like the Secret Garden. And that's kind of what this is. The house itself is close to the street, ancient, noble, simple. I'll describe it to you in more detail as I get better acquainted with it. But the gardens are large and there are 2 pergolas and even a small labyrinth!

The wall around the Bertini's house, "Malavolta"

Front courtyard

       Inside the house, I was immediately struck (figuratively) by the low doorways. Obviously, people were much shorter at the time the house was built, about 600 years ago. The well dates back to Dante. And the many staircases are made of pietra santa that is so worn with time and footsteps that it's become slick and shiny, and the steps slightly sunken in the center. There are many rooms on the ground floor; I can't remember them all. The bedrooms are on the first floor (second, to Americans), as well as the library (lots of books!) and a tiny chapel. The large, bright, high-ceilinged music room is at the top in what must have been the attic. It's a wonderful room in which to practice; there'a a Yamaha baby grand and even a "Juliet" balcony with a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside.

View from the music room

      My bedroom is one of five surrounding the large open library. There are two very narrow twin beds of rattan, antique furnishings and lamps, which contrast with the 13 contemporary paintings (Signora Bertini is a well-known artist).

     

At the Café: A Reflection on Solitude

All during my fifteen years in Houston, I lived alone -- by choice. Until I moved there, I had never lived alone, and I am essentially a solitary creature, so when I did finally have my own apartment I relished my solitude and singledom. My job provided more than enough company, and indeed, companionship, as my work colleagues were also my only friends. Music is a very strong and lasting bond, and musicians are a breed unto themselves, as I wrote in an earlier post. I neither required nor desired friends outside my breed. In my time away from work, I preferred to be alone.

As much as I genuinely enjoyed going about on my own to shops and even eating out alone, there were times when the cozy light of solitude seemed a bit cloudy. Often when I had a free afternoon, I would go to my neighborhood café, at an hour when it was almost empty, and there I would have a coffee and pastry and settle down to write or read. One afternoon, I looked up from the book I was engrossed in and saw only two other people in the café: both were lone women of my age, with coffee and pastry, and both had a book and a journal. In a large sense, I found this comforting. In another sense, it was slightly depressing.

Years later when I took up my poetry pen after over two decades of silence, I remembered that afternoon and promised myself I would commemorate it in a poem. Here it is.

     At the Café

     When light drips through the rippled windowpanes
     from stagnant pools of sun upon the roof,
     when dusty phantoms swirl above the tables
     lately sweating under luncheon plates,
     the eremites will enter, one by one.
     Each will settle in her chosen corner,
     cocooned by haze and wood, a novel, pen,
     and journal to affect a busyness.
     In this their separate camaraderie,
     they sip and nibble, scribbling down a line
     or two of verse, a half-remembered dream,
     the high points of their lowly lives.  If they
     could read their lives to one another, would
     they hear three solos, all in common time,
     whose lyrics are essentially the same?
     Would they hear songs of autumn afternoons
     in antique shops, of summers reading all
     of Austen yet again, and winter evenings
     watching films in black and white? And would
     another Anne emerge, to tell her tale
     of silent, long-borne love, that brings her here
     to drown her sorrow in a cup of tea?                 (revised 10/10)

The Perfect Italian Cocktail and a Star-Power Lunch

One of my favorite opera singers in the world is the great Italian baritone, Alessandro Corbelli. He's a former colleague, but I'm also blessed to count him as a friend. The things he's most famous for in the opera world, and rightly so, are his superb comic timing, unerring sense of musical style, commanding stage presence, and the depth of his characterizations, all of which are backed up by a handsome voice and solid technique. Nowhere do these qualities shine more than in the comic operas of Rossini and Donizetti. For the past two decades, Alessandro has undeniably dominated this rich field of baritone and bass-baritone roles, setting an incredibly high standard for future generations of singers of his voice type.

Here is Alessandro Corbelli in a scene that I call "the perfect Italian cocktail," that ideal blend of material (vocal, musical, and dramatic) and Alessandro's singular gifts. This scene showcases those gifts perfectly: Germano's aria from Rossini's one-act opera La Scala di Seta.

Another of my favorite opera singers, also a friend and former colleague, is the fabulous mezzo-soprano Joyce DiDonato. She and Alessandro have collaborated in many productions of La Cenerentola and Il Barbiere di Siviglia, the latter most famously so at Covent Garden (when Joyce broke her leg and had to perform in a wheelchair; this production is captured on DVD). These two operatic phenoms are starring together with another operatic phenom, Lawrence Brownlee, in Munich's La Cenerentola, which opens tonight.

A few days ago, Joyce posted a vlog from a restaurant in Munich, where she chatted over spätzle and goulash with Alessandro and Larry about the challenges of Rossini.

How wonderful to witness this "star-power lunch"! Thank you, Joyce, for posting this, and all your other wonderful and informative vlogs.

The opera business may be relatively small, but it is filled with exceptional, superbly talented people who give the world immeasurable joy. Their gifts make this world a better, more beautiful place.

Matthew & Jeremiah

These are two of my earliest poems, written when I was in the monastery and reading a lot of Christina Rossetti. I've always loved archaic language, and loved imitating older poetry -- until a priest who is also a published poet came to visit the monastery, read my poems, and told me no editor will publish poems in archaic language, unless it's used sparingly, for a specific effect, or to make a point. Consequently, I've never submitted my early poems anywhere, but neither will I hide them away. I wrote them in all sincerity; they are the fruits of much meditation, and indicative of my particular spirituality. I post them on this Pentecost Sunday in gratitude to the Holy Spirit, in whom I trust, move, and am.

Matthew 6:6

O take me to that room whose door
When shut behind admits no more;
But, op'ning ne'er again, keeps hid
What world and fleshly pleasures chid;
A solitude of soul wherein
The mysteries of life are seen
With eyes made clear by inner light,
Of Spirit born, the truest sight.

O give me of the empty deep
Where human tempests find their sleep,
Where sacred silence stills all thought
In mind with tangled musings frought:
'Tis there the soul keeps vigil sweet,
'Tis there she finds her joy complete,
'Tis there she quits the dinning throng
And hearkens to her Lover's song.


Jeremiah 29:12-14

Belovèd mine, where may I find Thee?
Wherefore art Thou hiding still?
Through misty dark my soul doth wander,
Shiv'ring in the friendless chill.

O speak, that I Thy voice may follow,
Speak, that I may find my trove!
Have pity, for my pray'rs are weary;
Day and night they ceaseless move.

Hast Thou a word for me, Belovèd?
Some faint hope wilt Thou impart?
If thou dost seek Me, thou shalt find Me;
Only look within thy heart.

30 Years of Brilliance

I just realized that today marks the 30th anniversary of David Hyde Pierce's professional debut -- and on Broadway, no less! It was Christopher Durang's play Beyond Therapy, starring John Lithgow and Dianne Wiest, and the fresh-from-Yale David Pierce played the small but showy part of Andrew the waiter. The show only ran for two weeks after 11 previews, but it was still a Broadway debut, an auspicious beginning to any actor's career.

Twenty years later, a CD was made of the play, and this time Durang asked David to play the lead role of Bruce. The CD is a bit costly, but it's really a must-have for any DHP fan, and he's wonderful in it.

Thank you, David, for giving the world such joy these thirty years!

Kindred Spirits, Unlikely Friendships

     When I lived in Houston, one of my favorite places to go on my weekly day off was an antiquarian book shop called Detering Book Gallery. In those days it occupied an old two-story house on the corner of Bissonett and Greenbriar, and was the kind of cozy refuge, with its dark wood and worn oriental rugs, that provided just the right sort of comfort, whether on a cold rainy day or a searingly hot and humid one. I loved wandering through the various rooms on the ground floor, the children's section tucked underneath the back staircase, and the rare book room upstairs which was presided over by an affable, mustachioed gentleman named Oscar. I almost always came away from Detering with some hard-to-find treasure or other, usually a novel by one of the neglected British women authors for whom I have a predilection, or an old play whose film adaptation I loved.

     After a while, I began to notice that many of my purchases had something in common: the name "Mildred Robertson" on the flyleaf, or Mildred's bookplate on the front pastedown. This Mildred and I seemed to share the same taste in books; more particularly, a love for English women authors of the mid-twentieth century, as well as theater. The books themselves were of earlier printings, some first editions, all in wonderful condition. Best of all, dear Mildred had the delightfully meticulous habit of placing inside them clippings of pertinent articles and reviews from various newspapers and literary journals. Inside my copy of Elizabeth Bowen's A World of Love, for example, I found a wonderful review of the novel, along with a retrospective of Bowen's work from the London Times Literary Supplement. In my 1929 edition of Philip Barry's play Holiday are reviews of a 1987 West End production starring Mary Steenburgen and Malcolm Macdowell. Bless Mildred's archivist heart!

     One of the clerks at Detering told me they acquired Mildred's library after her death in Galveston, but he couldn't tell me anything more about her. I Googled her, but didn't find out much beyond her being a longtime resident of Galveston. No matter. I have a kinship with her through the books we both loved. I feel privileged to own a part of the library she had discriminatingly acquired over so many years. Her books still grace my shelves, and whenever I take one down to read again, I feel as if Mildred and I are settling down to hold our own private book club meeting for two, over a nice hot pot of tea and a plate of buttery scones -- in Texas. We both know very well the power words have to transport one to places one longs to be. And I know that Mildred would thank, as do I, Detering Book Gallery and all those wonderful antiquarian bookstores -- that sadly dying breed -- for bringing about unlikely and enduring friendships such as ours.

Since posting this, my sister Celia found more information regarding Mildred Robertson and what became of her papers and correspondence. Thanks, Cel!