Firenze: Santa Maria Novella

Picture this. An overcast Saturday morning. Kids are screaming and fighting over toys. And running around. And biking around. And kicking regulation soccer balls. In the apartment.

We knew we had to get the whole crew out or someone might not live to see the evening.

So, out to the busstop on our piazza, waiting for the 6A or 6B, the working idea being to go to Santa Maria Novella train station to talk to the ATAF (local transit) people about our bus passes. (Is Vic too tall to still ride for free? What’s the family pass? Is there a student discount? etc.)

Eleanor uncharacteristically acquiesced to being buckled in her stroller, squawking only a bit, and understandably, when we all gawked and exclaimed through the windows upon seeing a matching pair of white steeds pulling an open carriage through Piazza San Marco, driven by a handsome Italian in full grey livery – top hat, cape.

“Dove cavalli?” Eleanor demanded loudly. “Su, su.”

We all admired the horses together, then had a long discussion in Italian of what foods might constitute primi and secondi for horses. In what order apples? hay? sugarcubes? Eleanor thought they might best enjoy gelato for dessert.

The station S.M.N was of course a total Saturday morning zoo. We first addressed ourselves to the repurposed ATAF bus with our questions. About 10 seconds into the conversation, the attendant implored Jason to go inside to the ATAF window, where ATAF experts could best assist us.

Into the heart of S.M.N. we went, Jason holding tightly on to Victor’s hand, me pushing Eleanor forward in the stroller. We found the windows, waited briefly in line, and then monopolized the attention of a middle-aged functionary for a solid ten minutes. Answers:

  1. Is Victor much over one meter tall?
  2. Why are we so honest?
  3. Seriously, why are we asking about getting a bus pass for the little guy?
  4. What… for the littlest one too? It will be years before she is solidly past one meter in height.
  5. Who are you people? We don’t even understand your questions.
  6. I am Jason’s wife? 
  7. So I get the second annual pass at a deep discount if Jason buys the first at full freight.
  8. Vic needs a picture to make the bus pass.
  9. It sounds like he gets some sort of student pass for a very reasonable rate.
  10. But wait until next year, for crying out loud. He looks short enough to ATAF.
Eleanor and I assessed the plaster ice cream cones outside of Venchi. She angled hard for Saturday morning gelato but lost. The store was stocked with high-end chocolates of the hostess gift variety, such as might sell briskly in a train station.
We decided to bus to Oltrarno to pay a visit to our friend Ellen, but first the weekend bus timetable and then the weather conspired against us, as fat, cold drops began to fall while we attempted to herd the kids on a narrow median between the tram line and an arterial street.
We cut across the Piazza della Stazione to the busstop for the C2, and the minibus passed us as we were 50 feet from the stop. Of course no posted timetable. The rain seemed to have ceased. 
We decided to saunter in to Santa Maria Novella itself. We’re right here! Ir’s a pretty enough day. It’s not quite lunch. 
Eleanor was carrying on in very loud Italian, really establishing her cultural bona fides, on the pedestrianized street in front of all the retail on the piazza, to the delight of more than one Italian onlooker. “Ma dove?! Dove, mamma!? Dove? Di la? Di qua? Dimmi dove ti prego.”
No lines at all, and Jason had brought his ID card with him to verify our residence status, which got the lot of us in for free. We’d been before, each of us, numerous times, but not for years, and certainly not with Team Energy.
The church inside was cool but well lit, lightly sprinkled with tourists. I’d forgotten how big it is. 
I unsuccessfully attempted to leave the stroller at the entrance, as two youngish, robed monks to my left asked the information desk, “Who reserved a mass? We are here to say the mass. Where are we supposed to go? Someone has reserved a mass.” The organizational logistics of prepaid reserved masses were still being clarified as we headed up the right aisle. 
Victor and Eleanor each lit a candle. They also enjoyed scampering up and down 600-year-old marble staircases to see various chapels. 
“Who’s that guy on the floor?” Victor asked me in the Capella Ruccellai. A bronze face gazed beatifically heavenward.
“Mmmm he is buried there. His name was ….Leonardo Dati.” I squinted through the bars.
“He is in there?”
“Well … what’s left of him.”
As we came down the stairs I told Jason.
“Oh, it’s Leonardo Dati up there, really?”
Sigh – giggle. Being with Jason in Florence … there is really nothing comparable in my life to my walking Florentine almanac husband.
Someone please tell me which chapel this is.
I love the row of hanging iron lamps.
Feels like Cordoba.
We took the kids over to see the historic Massaccio. Victor was nominally interested. Eleanor immediately attempted to duck under the velvet rope to get really, really close to the priceless fresco. I quickly snatched her back.
Some large – ENORME – pieces of art had been extraordinarily opened from their equally gargantuan cupboards, the later paintings on the enormous doors seeming garish in comparison to the 15th century frescoed tones behind. We looked at both of them. I pointed out the solar line on the marble floor to the kids, a many-metered arrow from Cancer to Capricorn to measure the solstices and every day in between. I love matter-of-fact pagan semiotics when they appear (to the modern eye) incongruously in a famous domus dei
Victor and Eleanor ran a few laps up and down the solar line while we hissed at them to keep it down a tiny bit, for heaven’s sake. But because this is Italy, no one chastised us. The woman at the information desk was actually very apologetic that she was unable to personally mind Eleanor’s stroller while we wandered around.
From Cancer to Capricorn and back again.
“I want to go home,” Victor said. You could put a 15 minute timer on him for his tolerance of such activity. Good thing it was free, and that we live here.
“Home, home,” Eleanor intoned.
“When can we go home?” Victor reiterated.
Jason said, “Let’s see the Spanish Chapel first.”
There was a minor queue to enter. The kids immediately said no. 
Next time. We live here.
And it’s free.
We headed back outside, and lucky for us, met the C2 bus in perfect time at the stop.

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