Ally says:
Florence in June is hot. I mean really hot. It’s the kind of
hot where the sun laser beams its heat through the top of your head allowing your
skull to cook your brain like a macabre crockpot.
That sort of hot.
And yet, in the beginning we try to go out. We walk. We force
smiles as sweat pours down our faces. I suggest stopping for a drink but the
idea of wine in this heat turns my stomach. We’ve already been to the
museums…all of them and there’s still another three days (three days with 90 plus temps) for us to kill before we
return to Rome and then back home.
We cross the Piazza Santa Maria Novella. It is a wide open
space – a massive yawning maw just cooking with heat. There is no shade,
anywhere. I imagine this is what the Sahara is like – only with less screaming
Italian children playing football. No one else seems to mind and I’m convinced
these people aren’t human.
My husband spots it first.
The Fiddler’s Elbow.
An Irish pub - here, in this hot hell that is Florence. An
Irish pub that will be dark and cavernous and cool and full of beer, the exact
opposite of the Italian cafés that requite outdoor seating with no shade, too
sweet wine and a glaring lack of air conditioning.
He crosses the piazza, desperate for the solace that the
Fiddler’s Elbow could provide. Nay, must
provide. When we walk through the front door, I nearly cry. The air conditioner
is on high, blasting the sweat that has been pooling across my lower back into a
fine ice. I exhale as we saddle up to the bar. My husband attempts to order in
Italian – the few words we have managed to learn for this trip – but the Irish
bartender waves it away with a laugh. She pours two thick frosty mugs for us.
“Settle in,” my husband tells me as the door swings open
again, allowing a radiating blast of heat and light to penetrate this dark
haven. “We’re gonna be a while.”
When we do leave, the sun has set and yet the pavement still
crackles. A hazy fog has enveloped the city trapping the heat. When we get back
to the hotel, which is called La Gioconda but we have renamed Hotel Hot Hell,
we have to get our key from the desk. Each time we leave or come back we give
it to the man at the desk and he hangs it up on the back wall. There are three
of different men. Each has a varying look of disgust upon seeing us. This
evening it’s the one who cares the least. He barely lifts his eyes from an afternoon spent people-watching to hand us our key. We take it and climb
the M.C. Escher-esque staircases, march up and down long hallways, until we get back to our room.
Inside, the air conditioning unit on
the floor is turned off. The room is an inferno. I lean down to turn it on but
nothing happens. Tried, a wee bit drunk, and frustrated I sit down on the floor.
My husband strips down to his underwear and lays on the bed. He laments ever
coming to this wretched city. I take all my working knowledge of small
appliance repair – (exactly 0%) – and go to work fixing this thing. I touch a hose and
it comes out in my hand. Water pools all over the floor.
“Uh oh.”
“What oh?”
“No, uh oh.”
“Your uh oh’s are never good.”
“I was just trying to fix it.”
“Why do you always have to touch everything?”
That is a valid statement. I do always have to touch
everything, I think as the water continues to pool across the floor, soaking
through the thread-bare carpet. I pick up the phone, call the front desk and
attempt to explain what happened. With no working knowledge of Italian and an
appalling lack of visible hand signs this proves difficult. I keep repeating “It
is wet.”
After about 20 minute there is a knock on the door. It is the
third man from downstairs – the one who seems the least interested in the
affairs of this hotel. I imagine they are all brothers. If this were a Wes
Anderson film he would be played by Adrian Brody. He seems put out. Exhausted.
He looks around the room, as if there were some other issue,
before finally settling on the air conditioner unit. Brody zeroes in on the wet
carpet. He taps it with this nice Italian shoes and water sloshes up the soul
of his shoe. He sighs.
“It is wet,” Brody says.
“Yes. That’s what I said when I called you.” I mimic talking
on the phone.
“I have another,” he turns toward the door.
Joy rises in my chest like a once trapped bird. “You have
another air conditioning unit?” Oh sweet joy. I realize that this unit was
probably broken all alone. I have a fantasy about a night’s sleep so deadly
cold that I will need a blanket. A blanket! I shiver at the prospect of being
wrapped up all snuggly.
He looks back at me. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
My bird is brutally shot down. He opens the door and leaves.
My husband, still on the bed, sighs. Brody returns with a handful of towels
which he shoves under the air conditioning unit. He re-inserts the tube and
clicks the machine on. It groans but then produces a thin stream of cool air.
“It’s okay?” I ask.
Brody shrugs. “I don’t know. Is fine. More towels.” He hands
me a stack and with that he leaves.
I crawl into bed. My husband flips through the channels.
There’s no BBC here so we settle on music videos. I watch Michael Kiwanuka sing
and wander down a dusty road somewhere in the middle of America. It looks decidedly less hot there.
Tomorrow we will go to Sienna. It will also be unbearably hot
in Sienna where everything will be the cover of my least favorite crayon in the
box. I will get crapped on by a bird, which based on the size of its defecation, must be some sort of griffin/hippogriff mix. Its crap will cover my entire arm
from my elbow to my wrist. So much that it will drip.
Two years later we’ll talk about going back. We’ll moon all
wide-eyed over the beauty of Florence, the food, the wine, the art, the view
from Piazzale Michelangelo (and conveniently forget the mountain we climbed in
the heat to get there – every few steps my husband announcing that I should go
on. That he is having a heart attack and prefers to die alone) We’ll laugh
about Brody and I’ll wonder if he’s still sitting there…watching the tourists
go by. A closet nearby stocked full of towels, just in case.
 |
The author, inside the Fiddler's Elbow, demanding no more photos
|
Aleathia says:
Cleveland Rocks! Cleveland Rocks! Ok, so I never really liked the Drew Carey show at all, but Cleveland really does rock.
I have made many treks to Cleveland over the years for poetry readings and events. This city loves poets and artists and they provide so many opportunities for them to flourish. When I go to Cleveland I often stay with my friend Sue who is the ultimate hostess. She loves showing off her city and all the wonderful things in it to do.
In 2011, Cleveland was part of my summer tour of poetry readings and art museums. Sue had tons of plans for me and it was an eventful trip. Our first stop when I arrived into town was to a quaint placed called the Treehouse Gallery and Tea Room in neighboring Avon, OH.
The Treehouse Gallery is filled with antique furniture, folk art, jewelry, and other finery you can purchase. They also have a tea room/restaurant. This is the view from their forest lined deck where you can sit out and enjoy nature while you dine.
The food is heavy on the vegetables but very tasty. They also have great iced teas.
When you walk around the complex you will find nice gardens, sculptures, and random folk art sprinkled on the grounds.
After a little needed rest from traveling in the brutal June heat through the midwest, we went our for a night on the town to the Tremont Art Walk. The is a great little neighborhood that envelopes their artists. It was my first time going to this particular event which is held often in the summer and I'd go back again.
Tucked away in this little part of town is THE most amazing chocolate shop called
Lilly Handmade Chocolates. Not only are these melt in your mouth divine tasting, but the flavor combinations are endlessly interesting. They are art you can eat!
The owners even have a wine and beer pairing with their chocolates!
This is a Polish establishment that makes hearty Polish style food and even sells Polish beers to go with your meal. They were established 87 years ago to deliver food to the working man. It is the oldest family owned and operated establishment in Cleveland.
It is right on the water so after dinner you can look out onto the city and its industry.
Lastly, we stopped off at a bar called
Night Town. It is a double sided bar split with walls of booze and a cubby door that the bartender slides through to serve people. It has a nice old 50's feel to it. Low light and quiet if that is what you are into if you go late, but they do have jazz music and were voted in the top 100 jazz bars in the country. This bar was named after a Red Light District in a James Joyce novel.
This concludes volume 1 of my Cleveland trip. Keep a look out for more fun adventures in Cleveland!
