ItalyPiensa, TuscanyIn the 1500's, when Pope Pius II was made Pope, he returned to visit his hometown, a poor town in the Tuscan hills. Instead of receiving a hero's welcome, the new prelate was pelted with rocks and rotten vegetables. His old neighbors resented his ascendancy. In an attempt to let them know he cared about them, he built them a new town, Piensa. I just happened to see a short film about this place on my Alitalia flight to Rome and knew I had to see the place. As I was driving from Rome to Florence, I took a detour, and am so glad I did. My side trip was the best part of the trip overall, between the beauty of the Tuscan countryside and the quaint medieval charm of the little town, it was amazing! I highly recommend a visit, by car. Make it a convertible.
Florence
When I arrived in Florence, I drove a short distance beyond the city into the hills to the town of Fiesole, where I stayed at
Pensione Bencista, a favorite haunt of celebrities but a very well kept secret. The view of Florence and the valley below was breathtaking. From the terrace one could hear the sounds of classical music being played and sung from the conservatory down the hillside, while gazing at a dramatic view of the Duomo.
My trip to Florence was part of my year of solitude. I traveled alone in Europe four times in that one year. Paris first. Florence second. It was an extremely moving and healing experience. I wrote about it in the poem Firenze. Until that year, I had lived my entire life with the belief that I couldn't follow my dreams, achieve my personal goals for life, that I was cursed somehow to have dreams and aspirations that would only haunt me but never materialize. During this year, I discovered the secret to making dreams come true. Buying the ticket. Simple but profound. Follow this
link to the poem.
I also made a journal entry in Florence.
Firenze, 3/15/1992As I walk these streets I am struck by how deeply I believed that such places were inaccessible to me, that somehow, even if I went there I would not really be there. I would see it all through a glass but could not not touch or inhabit it. Somehow, though I'm not sure how, I have my history to blame for that. But I'm
here, and I
am here. ***
Of course I flew into Rome, then drove to Piensa and Florence, and back to Rome again. I made this journal entry. I don't necessary hold the same political or religious views now that I did in those days, just fyi.
Rome, 3/13/1992Hotel in the historic district of a city where history b egan and life insists upon itself admist the ruins. Life seems to emmanaate from ruin here. American "ruins" do not biodegrade, they are cold, dead junk, the excrement of a culture fed on planned obsolesence, skunks upon the landscape, skunks upon the cityscape, junk- but Europe's ruins are fertilizer for future generations, emmanating truth, substance. Transcendent, they become bridges across time and so also portals to immagination. They are radioactive with the nuclear-waves of greatness, a coveted contamination which may grow a Ceasar in teh soul of the one who ventures too close, inhales too much, no doubt altering his feature, her features, forever.