I would like to preface with a note that this is an old blog I wrote back in December and never posted. Upon request I will try to maintain this blog more regularly. Thanks to my family and friends for continuous encouragement and support. It was great seeing you this summer.
It was a picturesque start to the winter vacation. As the children ended their holiday performance with choruses of “Shout”, the air reconciled itself to the coming snow. Hugs, greetings, and well-wishes warmed the church, while outside eager drivers warmed their cars in hopes of beating the promised winter storm. My colleagues and I drove toward the center just as the first flakes floated down.
Back in my apartment, I dug out my camera and set off for a day of market shopping in the snow. It was a glorious sight. Passing the Arno, the sky was grim and the air blurred with snow, but people filled the streets with delighted anticipation. Italian women clad themselves in fur from full coats to shaggy boots and motorcyclists walked their bikes while buses skidded to a halt several feet past the stop. “Exscusi,” they said to the boarding passengers. The youth improvised using slick jackets to sled down the steps leading up to Piazza Michelangelo,
Escaping the crowded bus, my blue umbrella popped up joining the myrad of others. The rust-colored roof of the Duomo whitened and flashes swarm the vicinity as tourists try to capture a rare Florentine day. Behind the Duomo, a quaint Florentine paper shop became a convenient haven from the cold. My eyes darted over the expensive floral-printed paper as the shopkeeper’s chatter bought me “thawing” time.
Markets are always intense experiences. Vibrant colors and patterns attract the eyes. Haggling. Bargains. Clutched bags. Shopping lists. Other single-minded people with a purpose just like you. On a snowy winter day, the San Lorenzo Market continues business as usual, however, deals seem to be easier to come by and more stimulation adds to the intensity. I dodge a pair of young boys throwing snowballs at each other across the walkway. They are quite conscious of the tourists, but I can’t suppress a moment of anxiety when passing through the crossfire. The snow now layers the cobblestones, which adds new meaning to “Watch you step.” Small children are dragged along on toboggans and vendors beat their tarp roofs to relieve the pressure of the snow. The winter market is no place for the absent-minded. Snowmen spring up in the aisles adorned with used drinking cups and other scraps and soon a new tourist attraction is born—pictures with Frosty!
After a successful market day, my dead camera and numb toes sent me homeward. The story-filled sculptures in Piazza Signoria seemed to sleep under the blanket of snow—frozen in an agonizing lunge or vicious grasp. Walking through the archway, the Arno met me moving in spite of the slumber that surrounded it. Snow clung to the river walls, the rooftops of the architecture, and across the bridges. Every twig donned white and the black pavement of the roads was no longer visible. The busses had given up and rested along Ponte Grazie. Restaurants and stores that were normally open were closed--likely because the workers were stuck in traffic. A white blanket weighted my umbrella and accumulated in the fingers of the bare trees. Concerned about my numb toes, I call a colleague to see if I can’t defrost in her apartment for a few minutes. The tiny blessings and anxiety ridden inconveniences of the snow…I can’t decide if I want it back or not. And yet, it is not really for me to decide.
