I've written before about the hills behind Florence, on the other side of the River Arno. We both are drawn up here time and time again, Marc on his every-other-day runs and me, the Monastery on the hill, where I know music is made and peaceful contemplation is waiting. Plus, neither of us ever, ever tire of this view, this time at dusk.
We head out together for the afternoon, with Marc dropping me at the bus stop to go to the Monastery
di San Miniato as he heads over to the rugby grounds he's found. He's pretty sure that globally, no matter where you are, on Sunday at 3 pm, if there's a field and a Club, there's a game. He is not disappointed! He sits with the parents and fans of a Girls Team from Bologna, who crush the Florence team. He is mightily impressed with the Ref! He spends the afternoon at his shrine, conversing in so much more Italian than 2 weeks ago, and comes home very, very happy.
Meanwhile, at the bus stop, which I'm navigating to get to the Monastery! The public transit system in Florence is extensive, frequent, cheap and fairly easy to figure out. Most buses in the Centro Historico are tiny, seating maybe 15 people, cramming maybe 30. Other routes see the same-sized buses that we find in North America. There's also a light rail system on the outer ring of downtown, and a huge commuter rail line running out of the main Railway Station, Santa Maria Novella.
For €1.20, you can ride the transit line for 90 minutes. Even converting from the Euro to a Canadian dollar, it is cheap and becoming a great way for us to expand our sightseeing from beyond the city centre.
The bus driver will sell you a ticket for €2, but buying a 4-fare pass from the many machines throughout the city is the normal practise. You get a small ticket that you validate on the machine on the bus. Fare Police randomly travel the lines, checking that you've paid . This has happened to us here, and on the water bus in Venice, fines are huge and the system seems to work. We've noted how this system is more automated than ours, requiring fewer employees, so cheaper to run.
On-bus Validation machines:
The public transit system:
What we're interested in finding out: with no sales tax, what is the tax rate like to afford such an inexpensive transit system? We 're having an aperitif with our AirBnB hostess on Friday, and Marc has declared we will be ready with 12 questions in Italian! A great language exercise for this week!
So, Marc drops me at the bus stop, and off he goes to the rugby field. I'm feeling oh-so-confident that I've got this Monastery quest licked, standing happily at my bus stop, feeling like a local while the crowd grows, and no bus shows up! 30 minutes into my wait, a voice comes over the speaker system within the bus shelter announcing the delays on my line, in Italian. Amazing, a stop-specific intercom system, and I realize too, it's all solar-powered! Graciously, another person explains in hand gestures what I can't decipher, and I follow her lead to offer up a few "Mama Mia - Basta!", complete with more hand gestures. After an hour, hurray! Bus#13 shows up, on I get, and am whisked through the city and up through the hills, deposited at Piazza Michelangelo.
By now though, I'm frozen and desperate for a cup of tea before I head into what I know will be 2 hours inside the frozen cold Monastery. None of these churches are heated, an absolute impossible task due to size, age and infrastructure. And what we've found out about hot drinks, order one standing, pay €1, want a chair with that? €5! I say to hell with the expense.... I'm on my own, I have some journal writing to do, it's a beautiful spot to be, and I envision myself to be this:
Ha!
My mother once told us a story that has stayed with me, and applies not only to the cold I feel on this day, but helps me with the €5 tea decision. One of my mother's dreams was to go to France, by herself, for an extended period of time, complete with classes. She worked steadfastly towards this goal as she reached the end of her role as a Mother of Six. She got herself jobs to fund it , enrolled in by-mail correspondence classes in French, and studied almost every night with a strong lamp, her dictionary and a glass of wine at our dining room table. This went on for years. I can still picture her there. What I remember as being 'quickly' after my father died, she booked her ticket. FREEDOM! While away, she came to many decisions, one of which was that upon her death, she wanted to be cremated - considered a sin under the Catholic teachings then, being devout throughout our youth.
She struggled mightily with her loss of faith in the latter years of her life, and sitting in all those cold,
cold churches in France, she realized what it would feel like to be buried, so, not for her! Cremate
her, we did.
I finish my seated, €5 tea, and strengthened by it and my mother, I head up the steps and pathways to the Monastery. I have chosen this day because at dusk, the bells ring out, the Monks sing a Latin high
mass, and afterwards their nightly Vespers are sung in Gregorian Chant. It is everything I'd hoped for and more.
Doing a Bachelor of Music all those years ago, one of my first classes in the required Music History courses introduced me to Gregorian Chant, a tradition that has its roots in the plainchant singing documented during the time of Christ. It is haunting and for me, truly sacred. It has never been about the religion, but the contemplative simplicity of the chants - it really is universal no matter who or what you're worshipping.
I join the others drifting in, and follow them to the bowels of the Monastery, quite creepy actually!, I
light candles in honour of so many I've loved on my way by. There are about 100 of us, most attendees greeting each other with the double cheek kiss. The sermon is fervent, but I have no idea what this head Monk is saying. It's beautiful to listen to and I sit in quiet peace throughout it all.
The gated fence is opened for Mass, 8 monastery Monks light so many candles, till this nave is absolutely illuminated. I watch them all from my front row pew, marble tomb engravings underneath my feet, the eldest Monk in his 80s - complete with a knitted woolen cap and thermal fleece gloves, to the youngest, who looks to be about 25, shaved head, and by the size of all their girth, what I believe must be snow suits under their tunics to keep warm in this place! The Monastery of San Miniato dates from the 4th century, the current building erected during the 12th. You can feel that it is a holy, holy place.
The exterior of San Miniato at dusk. You can see and hear it wherever you are down below in Florence. The Monks live in the building to the right. It is an active Monastery, gardens, a massive cemetery, including the tomb of Carlo Collodi, the author of Pinocchio! The Monks make jams, honeys, soaps, candles, they have a working bee farm and grow seasonal vegetables as well.
Spectacular, no matter where you are.
The end of the service begins with the Gregorian Chant. I don't stay for all of it as the chill in my bones can't take it. I exit the grounds, descend the steps, through the Piazza, down, down the paths that Marc has taken us on, along the River Arno, across the bridge, back to the city and our home. A stellar, stellar afternoon. We both meet at the apartment, invigorated by spending time at each, our own, shrines.
Brief sample of Gregorian Chant.
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