A proper Tuscan hill town, Cortona, where we spent the night before visiting Siena for the day.
The view from my hotel room in Cortona.
But as you eventually make your way through the outlying areas, you find yourself, once again, in a beautiful, bustling medieval city. The transition from modern to ancient is actually startling. In one step you’re picking your way down a sidewalk as scooters and cars and buses roar past and the next you’re in a cobbled street too narrow for anything but the occasional vehicle, the buildings leaning out over your head closing down the view of the sky above, surrounded by the remnants, presence and vapors of those long since dead.
Squint and you can see the vapors of the dead. Main St., Siena, Italy.
By now, these types of posts have a well established pattern. Went to a city. Food was amazing. City was charming. Something historic happened there once upon a time. Blah, blah, blah. So none of that this time. Just a few of my pictures juxtaposed with other unrelated happenings. Cognitive dissonance on a small scale. One thing I will say though. I am continuously struck by the thought that for many of these buildings, the men who laid the first and oldest stones very likely died before the building was completed and quite likely their sons or even grandsons were present for the champagne celebration when the ribbon was cut. It’s a little melancholy to think of these men, reporting to their first day of work knowing they won’t live to see the finished structure.
"My great-, great-grandfather built those steps." The main duomo in Siena.
Italy is hosting the 2010 Men’s World Championship Volleyball tournament and Ancona was one of the cities to host the second round. The US team was in the group playing here so last Friday Valentina and I bought tickets and went to the match. As the defending Olympic champions, I had assumed that the US would do to Cameroon in volleyball what Cameroon does to the US in soccer. But the US was flat and lacked any energy while Cameroon played like they were having fun and wanted to be there.
The best part of this picture is what you can't see - the horrified Dutch mother and son huddling right below that window while I lurk and skulk above them pursuing my art school fantasies.
Cameroon won the first and third sets, easily, with powerful serving, a solid front line and enthusiastic defense. The US gutted out wins in the second and fourth, with timely kills and by taking advantage of a few too many errors from Cameroon due to over enthusiasm. This set-up the deciding fifth and final set. By this time, a nominally uninterested crowd, inspired by a small but loud contingent of Cameroonian supporters were fully behind the team from Africa with constant, noisy, inspiring encouragement. You know what they say about not rousing the slumbering lions? Even if Cameroon are the Lions, they smacked the US one time too many and between the crowd and the prospect of being eliminated, the US summoned some heart and rallied to win the fifth set going away to continue on in the tournament.
This is the Piazza del Campo where they host horse races (palio) two times a year to the fascination of thousands of tourists, immense benefit of the local economy, and horror of a few activists. When it's not being used for horse racing it's a delightful place to watch the clouds and eat gelato.
For me, this was the first time I’d seen an American national team compete live, outside the US. In general, except for the Steelers, I don’t get that emotionally invested in cheering for a team. I root for the US because I’m American and I do love my country, but I usually just want to see a good match and the best team on that day win. I don’t go wild with passion, and in most of the major sports that “we” care about, the US is favored to win anyway and usually does and in everything else it’s easy enough not to care about the result because really, who cares who got the gold in luge and if it was Moldavia, well good for them.
The Tuscan countryside as seen from Ciciano, our third city of the day, and another fine example of a medieval, Tuscan hill-town.
But on this particular Friday, I think I finally understood what athletes mean when they talk about being so proud to play for their country and to wear the national uniform. At the start, it wasn’t just the national anthem being played, it was MY national anthem being played for MY team and MY country. And at the start, I assumed the US would win easily. I kept waiting for them to run away with it, but as the match carried on and the crowd went from neutral and relatively uninvolved to partisan and actively against the US, I could feel myself growing defensive, as if the win or loss reflected on me as an American personally and on the country generally. It became imperative to win, both so I could walk out of the building with pride and so “we” could shut all those people cheering against “us” up. And we did win and their disappointment and my joy felt good. It served them right! America is the best. And then Tuesday night, the US lost 1-3 to Italy in the next round, but I didn’t even watch the match so I really didn’t care. How fast it all changed. How fickle the fan.
I’ve got a doozy of a cold right now. Everything hurts. I leave for Istanbul on Saturday morning so I’m drinking honey and lemon, gargling salt water and pounding aspirin in the hope that I’ll be right as rain for the trip. Sean is in Egypt now. If you’re on Facebook, you can see him in front of the pyramids. Next week, you will be able to see us in Istanbul, a good three weeks or so before I will finally get around to posting about the trip I’m sure.
No comments:
Post a Comment