Via Visconti Venosta

We stumble through the three fortress-like doorways of our new home on Via Visconti Venosta, dragging our four enormous suitcases and two roll-ons. We stop at each barrier to figure out how to use the three keys given us at the lungarno: front metal gate, front glass door of building, and wooden apartment door. We ride up in the ascensore to the fifth floor…and find heaven. A bed, a toilet, a kitchen—what more could anyone ask? The bed (letto matrimoniale) is a soft square basket with a foam base, two single mattresses laid within, and an edging all around of cloth-covered foam. At once I lay myself inside it, on the dull green cloth that matches the edging, fully dressed, arms crossed over my chest like a saint in a display case. It doesn’t take long for Joe to join me on the other side. Our bodies crave the horizontal position. We breathe with relief, staring at the ceiling: our new Italian ceiling. Further exploration and discovery must wait. First we must have this healing moment, a pause in which we absorb rest like a balm. Joe’s hand inches over to cover mine, but even that is almost too much sensation. He takes his hand away. We need total absence of stimulation. We need only to breathe and close our eyes.

An hour later we crawl out of the basket of our bed and look around. We have two windows in our bedroom, both armored with slatted wood shutters; we have a wardrobe closet as well—a splintery, nailed-together box with a few wooden drawers at the bottom and a rod for clothing (a couple of hangers are provided) at the top. We notice two bedside tables, and two lamps upon them. Good…wonderful, in fact. They’ve thought of everything, those mystery persons who are our landlords.

The taxi that took us here drove a long route—we know our apartment is far beyond the old city of Florence—but the advantage of distance is modernity. There is, for one thing, the elevator, and now I see the lovely bathroom: big (Italian!) tub, stall shower, and the inevitable bidet, which sits face to face with the toilet and next to the sink.

Joe and I, in a kind of euphoria, wander about the apartment, calling out to one another what we’ve discovered. He, the living room! He guides me into it and I see furniture covered with flowered sheets. Matching sheets, it must be acknowledged, but under the sheets I find ancient leather furniture, scarred and torn, but once (in its day) elegant. I sit and find the couch comfortable. Joe tries one of the two chairs. He declares, “Not bad.” All right! We can live here!

The decorations around the room are composed mainly of stones and rocks. A tin pot of gray and white stones stands on a table in the corner. And on the coffee table (made of painted black and white wooden squares) is a small wooden bowl…filled with little smooth-edged rocks! Well, it’s clear our landlords are not taking any chances by having valuables in the apartment. The artworks on the walls are paper posters of Florentine churches.

In the kitchen I find what I feared having to deal with: a gas stove that must be lit with matches, a scratched porcelain sink (with red rubber mats on each side), and a refrigerator three feet high with a freezer big enough only for two narrow ice-cube trays. (Already they are coated with a thick layer of frost.)

I knew I would not find a kitchen like the one at home, with microwave, dishwasher, convection oven and seamless white countertop. But I hope I am a woman of character; I hope I can stand up to what I find in the cupboards. I count two blackened frying pans and two aluminum pasta pots, dented and with broken Bakelite handles. The drawers reveal a few dull knives with red plastic handles, some forks, six “cucchiaini caffè”—tiny spoons to be used with espresso. There’s no peeler, no can-opener, no corkscrew…but Joe says there must be a corkscrew. This is Italy. And he is right—there is a corkscrew…but no wine glasses. The drinking vessels consist of two very large mugs, several espresso cups, and a few juice glasses.

In the middle of the kitchen is a round table, covered with green oilcloth pinched to the table rim with silver clips. And in the middle of the table stands a bag of provisions; Joe guesses they were left there by the staff of the Scuola Dante Alighieri. A box (!) of milk, a package of “toast” (dried, hard bread squares), two oranges and a small packet of espresso coffee.

“Italians think Americans like toast,” Joe says. “That’s nice of them.”

“Very nice,” I agree. “Could we go to bed now? My knees are buckling.”

“Should we eat something?” Joe suggests.

I saw into one of the oranges with a dull knife. We each eat a piece of the crumbly toast and share the orange. I see the coffee maker on a high shelf and take it down; it’s a two-tiered thing with octagonal sides, parts that unscrew into two pieces, a strainer in one—a little chimney in the other. Making coffee now would be far too difficult an undertaking. Besides, how would I light the stove? There isn’t a single match in the apartment.

It’s dark out, we can’t see much from the windows but the headlights of cars. We don’t even unlock our suitcases, but peel off our clothes and drop them where they fall. Joe sleeps in his undershirt and I in the shirt I wore on the plane. I almost forgive him for making me come to this new land. We kiss goodnight in Italy, pull up the rough woolen blanket, fall instantly asleep.