Return from Tuscany

It is morning now, and my stubborn frying pan refuses to heat its center. The fried egg in the pan sits half cooked, and when I step outside, I feel translucent, unable to fully absorb the rich culture around me; After a week in Tuscany the great city sends me out to the warm edges, trying to catch a breath to peer back inside. The relatively cool morning moves slowly toward the Campo.

In the afternoon, we arrive at the Portone. The pan Di Fiori has already finished simmering its bountiful produce on the metallic cobblestones, and by the time we set out for the Ponte Sisto, the garbage men have arrived. There is no garbage in the Campo at this hour: no plastic wrappers or tin foil, no stray tape or unattended clothing. On the ground are scattered shallow cardboard boxes (that would be coveted by the seaports of China). In the cracks between the black square stones are crammed full leaves of lettuce, fruit peels, perhaps a carrot. This is fresh trash. There is of course a mound of bottles, varied in material, uniform in their remains of a small pool of alcohol.

Five garbage trucks raid the Campo di Fiori. Two move, scooping the bottles in with their madly whirling brushes, leaving behind them parallel lines of muddied junk. One truck sits, and inside, one man snores, his stubble growing with as much inertia as the trash-consuming (and distributing) beast sits still.
Gabrielle tries to speak over this.
But amongst the hustle, it is the Warrior Pope who will be heard first. Elise tells us first of a Franciscan with three daughters and great riches. She speaks of the man who freed Italy from France and opened it to alternate occupation. This character of "violent rages, formidable, crazy" was the same that swept up his cardinals to lead the legions in bloodless battles, the same "il papa terrible' that gained the largest funeral crowd for a pope of his time. He was the soldier the beatified the city, with the helped of the similarly internally tormented: Michelangelo. I think Julius II was a thesbian.

Now it is Sixtus The Builder's turn, and he will speak through Gabby. On the bridge that we cross each day, a mere footbridge to us, we finally learn of the layers we step on. The Ponte Sisto was the footbridge, a heroic work that reduced the mad flow during pilgrimage season. He set the foundation for future carpenters of the papacy, and additionally confirmed the methods of these constructive successors: heavy taxation and the sale of ecclesiastical offices. Under Sixtus IV, hospitals, museums libraries and a Sistine Chapel were formed, the aqua Vergine restored and laws granting powers to his "supervisors of the streets" were distributed, thus releasing the city into a organized chaos of construction. On this bridge, we are wished health and in return must wish health to this fanatic who literally created much of Rome.
And we've comes so far on this worn bridge of the pilgrims, we've had it so rough today - we'd better finish it off with some Testaverian gelato.

This great journey, and the fatigue it brings!

It is evening now, and the pans are warm. In each home, a group has seemed to gather at the center, to cook together. Together we sit, together we eat.

P.S. It is two weeks later and, with the frequency of Gabrielle's speeches, Sixtus is STILL building things. The eternal hammer...