Fritti and San Miniato

The morning routine is one of the simplest joys about being in Italy.  Nearly every block contains a cafe, known as a bar, in Italian, where you can both begin your day and bring it to a close.  The routine is the same on virtually any street, in any city, throughout Italy.  You approach the cash register first, explain what you want, and pay.  You are presented the receipt, which you in turn present to the barista, who tears it (indicating that it is now no longer valid), and sets it on the counter in front of you, a placeholder for your coffee.

The participants in this morning ritual seem to be of two groups.  The morning professionals, who want to come in and drink their coffee standing at the bar, often in one gulp that can hardly be called a sip.  The rhythm is brisk, but familiar.  The casual visitors who have more time on their hands, as I often do, prefer to take the coffee to the side, allowing room for those in a hurry.  If available, I will often take advantage of the tiny tables outside so that I can observe this morning routine.  Everyone plays a part in the same process.

This process is very similar in the evening.  The patrons are headed in the other direction from the morning, and the drinks have switched from coffee to spritzes.  The flow and the counter remain the same; spaces in Italy often hold many layers.

Generally the order is the same, a coffee and a pastry.  The standard pastry in Florence is known as a cornetto, which appears similar to a croissant, but less flaky and more substantive, and often filled with creme or chocolate.  A cornetto is a wonderful breakfast, but along the Borgo dei Albizzi in Florence there is a cafe that provides a treat for the mouth and the eyes.  Along this street, in the neighborhood of Dante (whose house tourists can still visit) there is a bar and pastry shop that serves fritti - wonderfully, warm sugary donuts.  It is a marvelous experience, because the bakery itself is on the second floor, and the cafe is on the first.  As you walk down Borgo degli Albizzi and peer through the window  you can see the patrons ordering their coffee and getting ready for their busy work morning.  In the corner of the window is a metal chute, and periodically there drops a warm, sugared donut.  

The genius - and delight - of this experience is that you don't have to go into the crowded shop hoping for a fresh donut.  You can stand outside, glued to the window, and then, as you see the sugary delights come down, you can go in to be assured of getting the freshest pastry.

It is wonderful to experience that.  To simply wait for the donut, knowing that it will be warm, and the sugar is the perfect amount.  You order that with your coffee and the donut melts in your mouth, the sugar lingering to accompany the bitter, yet smooth coffee.  The smell of the baked donuts and the coffee mix with you and you realize that this is an experience you need to remember.  This experience - this participation in the morning ritual - is a reminder that often the best moments are the little daily moments.  

The word borgo, as in Borgo degli Albizzi, is the same word that you find in Strasbourg, St. Petersburg, and Salzburg; it means city.  A direct translation is difficult, and perhaps unnecessary.  For example, if you were to say to an English speaker, specifically an American, “Provide me the definition of ‘boulevard’”, you might be looked at with a peculiar face.  Nevertheless, although we may be unable to translate or provide the etymology of street, avenue, boulevard, or parkway, I believe there is a difference in understanding or perception.  For example, if you were to say, “Let’s head out on the boulevard” versus, “Meet me at Oak Drive”, there are two different connotations.  The one implies a bigger street, likely lined with no homes.  The other indicates a quaint little neighborhood.  And similarly, using the term ‘parkway’ hints at a Sunday drive out of town.

In this same way, borgo evokes the essence of traveling to or from the city.  In point of fact, the Borgo degli Albizzi, despite being exceptionally straight (and narrow, to adopt a phrase), the name changes precisely at the point where the ancient Roman plan of the city begins.  This plan is still visible in the grid of streets, a square demarcation in the center of Florence, and reflects the ancient Roman planning, a square city surrounded by walls.  This plan exists today.  Inside the ancient plan of the city, the street is called Via del Corso.  Outside the Roman plan, the street is Borgo Degli Albizzi.  The change is imperceptible to the pedestrian.  But the change belies the history of the area.

In addition to lying just outside the ancient Roman border, Borgo degli Albizzi is a narrow street. It is part of the oldest part of the city, where the roads are the very same medieval roads which, in turn, trace the same Roman roads. There are currently raised sidewalks, but they seem unnecessary given that it is currently pedestrian only. Likely, as in Pompeii, they reflect the need to keep pedestrians out of the streets dominated by horses and the filth that accompanies that.  Today, inevitably you will be day-dreaming or looking in the shop windows and come too close to the curb, creating a bit of a stumble. But, delighting as you were in your surroundings,  you weren't moving so fast that it caused you to fall. Admittedly, some parts the streets are crowded, but not in an unpleasant way. You are part of something, and everyone is doing their part to contribute to the city. It is just far enough off the tourist path that there aren't a lot of tourist shops - it has the feel of a local street. But every block or so the cross streets allow for a glimpse of the dome; you are never far from Brunelleschi's dome in Florence.

The streets remind you of the Roman past, but the large blocks of the medieval palazzi, or ‘palaces’ bear down on you with the show of force and strength.  The blocks of the buildings are large and rough on the ground floor - ‘rusticated’ is the architectural term.  The middle level of the buildings are less rough, and often the upper floors display traces of finery and decoration in the smooth blocks of stone.  This increasing refinery display the medieval heritage, where palaces were built as a status symbol.  With stones used for defense, although the defense is not needed, they still serve as a reminder of power and influence in the city. 

The evening too, has its rituals.  Later in the day, as evening approaches, I will cross the Arno river and climb toward the basilica of San Miniato al Monte, Saint Minias on the Mountain.  The church sits on the highest point across the river overlooking the City of Florence - even higher than Piazzale Michelangelo.  The church has watched over the city for centuries, ever present in its marvels and romanesque decoration.

In simplest terms, Romanesque indicates Roman-like.  And San Miniato certainly is a model for this interpretation of the architecture of ancient Rome.  The architectural elements associated with ancient Rome, such as columns, rounded arches, and a triangular cap or pediment, are flattened to a two-dimensional surface.  Different colored marbles present the architecture.  The facade has two levels; the lower half is a series of rounded arches, and the upper half consists of a triangular pediment supported by columns.  

Saint Minias was a monk who retreated high up to this magical landscape, long before the church was built.  He had chosen to live a life of penitence in the hills over the city.  However, he became a victim of Roman persecution under the emperor Decius, and in the year 250 AD he was dragged from his solitude above to the city below, and made to answer for his crimes.  As is often the case, various punishments and threats failed to persuade him - or kill him - and he was beheaded in the area of the Piazza della Signoria.

The aftermath of this persecution is an amazing story.  Legend has it (and who are we to deny the power of legend), Minias picked up his head, tucked it under his arm, and returned to the place of refuge at the top of the hill.  Seven hundred years later, in 1013, the church that honors Saint Minias was built, marking the spot for his spiritual retreat as well as the resting place of his remains.

If you were to begin your ascent up the stairs beginning at the Arno River, as Saint Minias did, you would find yourself having climbed four hundred steps.  Two thirds of the way up, stop at the Piazzale Michelangelo before continuing the remaining hundred or so.  That spirituality of the church doesn’t so much loom over you as you approach, but beckons you.  The stairs are a rite of passage, and you could recall Christ walking the steps to Pontius Pilate.  At the very least, the ascent is an exertion where you know there will be comfort and relief above.  Your visit to San Miniato al Monte begins with a journey.

As you finally reach the top, catch your breath and reflect on your surroundings.  You have left the crowded narrow streets and find yourself in an open area in front of the facade.  Florence is open before you, marked by the ever-present dome of the cathedral.  When ready, turn and pass through the portal of the basilica.

The church is dark, but not unwelcoming.  The colors are faded, but not spoiled.  The stones of its construction are weathered and worn, not dilapidated, but reflecting the centuries of human passage; people seeking what people seek when they look for meaning, their reasons as varying as the individuals themselves.

The nave, like the facade, displays the Romanesque style.  Columns support rounded arches that ultimately support a timber roof.  As you approach the altar you note that there are stairs leading in both directions.  One set leads up to the choir and pulpit, the area dominated by a mosaic of Christ, the Virgin Mary, and St. Minias.  The other set leads you down to the crypt below, the ceiling of which is lower, but still supported by columns and rounded arches.

If the upper level reflects the traditional church elements, the lower layer creates a new level of mysticism.  Unlike the nave above that leads you on, the lower level has no such direction.  the columns support the roof, which is the floor of choir and pulpit above.  Gleaming under a window is the altar and reliquary that is said to hold the remains of Saint Minias.  Some evenings, you will hear the monks who still practice their chanting in this crypt and the sound fills the lower level.  You are in a timeless space, knowing that you could be in 2025 or 1025. The tones echo back the voices and they pass through you.

When the echoes of the monks have stilled, exit the church.  Outside is the cemetery where the once-living now rest.  Among these are the Italian filmmaker, Zeffirelli, having shared his experience with the world, he is now a part of this quiet landscape.  Not far from him is Carlo Collodi, the creator of Pinocchio, a story of a wooden boy who longed be real.  Like Saint Minias, his story lies somewhere between fable and truth.  Each, in some way, asked what it means to live with purpose.

As the Sun goes down, the city is bathed in a marvelous light.  The rooftops of Florence warm in the glow.  Brunelleschi’s dome stands, the ever-present power in the city.  And yes, looking back the church of San Miniato reflects its history.

Recall the morning, when you waited for the donuts to drop.  Now you wait again, ready to close the day, waiting for the sun to set.  Eventually you return to the city and the narrow streets, headed home.  The same cafe that served coffee and fritti now holds people drinking their evening spritz.  The pace and the drink have changed, and tomorrow’s donuts have yet to be made, but the routine is the same.  Step into the cafe, grab yourself a spritz, and delight in the day.

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