Botticelli Blue Skies: An American in Florence

31. The Altar of the Virgin of Siena

To take a day trip to Siena, we first must learn to read the orario posted at the SITA bus station (which is tucked away behind the Santa Maria Novella stazione). The options are many; we may take a one-hour bus trip via the autostrada, a two-hour bus trip via a succession of small towns along the way, or a combination trip, half autostrada, half hill towns. We choose the longer route since we have no reason to edit our experience ; everything we behold will be new to us, everything a surprise. We board the bus with sandwiches and drinks, and my usual burden of camera, water bottle, jacket, and fanny pack. We take just enough lire for the day’s contingencies but leave our travelers’ checks and passports hidden in the apartment in a box of Krisiriski rice cereal. The SITA buses are luxurious compared to the city buses—reclining upholstered seats, foot rests, mesh bags on the seats in front to hold water bottles, curtains across the great touring windows to shield one’s eyes from sun. Our round tickets for this trip cost less than ten dollars each. Almost as soon as we leave the city and pass the Carthusian monastery just outside Galluzzo (whose cells resemble condominiums modules climbing the steep incline), we can see hills rising up on either side 138 31 The Altar of the Virgin of Siena of the road. In no time we are in another country, far less populated than Florence, bright with open sky, feathery clouds, and the sheen of sun on cypress trees and the roofs of country houses. There are so few times in my adult life that I’ve had this sense of absolute expectation, of openness to what’s coming—without an accompanying awareness of personal problems, duties, obligations to consider. Today there is just a feeling of well-being, and of living in the here-and-now. The bus lets us off near the great Gothic church of San Domenico, which is listed in the guidebook as a “Don’t Miss” since it houses the head of Catherine, the patron saint of Siena. Joe and I agree we won’t begin our visit here. We’ll leave the head for last. The city is a maze of steep narrow alleys that slant and arch and angle at every turn. Each new street is an opportunity for a beautifully framed photograph. My breath comes out in a series of gasps as one extraordinary view gives way to the next, with only a few steps taken in between. Outside a fruttivendolo, a display of mushrooms is advertised: PORCINI NOSTRALI (home grown), 35,000 kg, GIALLARELLA (yellow), 19,500 kg, and TRUMBETTO DI MORTO (little trumpet of death!) —with no price listed. If (I calculate) the Porcini Nostrali cost about $24 a kilogram, I suppose it’s best not to ask what the Trumpet of Death costs. Or what it does to you. These fungi are already eerie, in their weird, asymmetrical shapes, their bloodshot colors, their ominous names. In English a sign above them says, “Don’t touch.” “I definitely don’t want a funghi pizza for lunch,” I tell Joe. But he is already at the next shop, examining a poster that looks like a shelf of real books, presenting the illusion of one leaning upon the other, some open, some with pages falling out. “Stand still right there,” I tell him and snap his picture. “Would you like me to buy you a poster like that?” I ask him, but now he’s moved on to stand in front of the latteria which advertises “PANINI (sandwiches), BIBITE (soft drinks), DOLCI TIPICI (typical sweets),” and I snap another photo. Then I hand the camera to him and Botticelli Blue Skies 139 140 “Mushrooms of death” hurry to pose myself under the mounted head of a boar wearing a red ribbon pinned above his brow. Joe positions himself like a tripod, squatting on one knee, squinting his eyes, gritting his teeth . . . and takes my picture. Photography, to him, is just an interruption in the flow of images. To me, photos are the safe deposit box of my journey. On any trip, information flies by so fast, so many things are glanced at and forgotten, scenes are admired but fade like a dream. The camera is my magic eye: it remembers the details for...