The steak I can't remember
I went to Siena to verify a book, and spent the day proving it right. What I actually remember is the heat, the wine, a steak I can't place — and the girl walking patiently behind me.
I went to Siena to verify a book, and spent the day proving it right. What I actually remember is the heat, the wine, a steak I can't place — and the girl walking patiently behind me.
Tuscany's second city, they say — as if that were a ranking that mattered. Siena lost the wars, kept the shape, and built an invisible river to stay alive. Walk it and it doesn't feel like a place that lost anything.
Vignola built a road to make the climb compulsory. Four centuries later, two helmets and a lazy Sunday defeated it. On knowing the right way — and taking the easy door anyway.
Some places you visit and forget. Others follow you home. The Palazzo Farnese at Caprarola is the second kind — a fortress turned into a palace, and a whole town rebuilt to serve it.
A improvised trip, a suite too big, and a night spent locking every door — after writing a piece about thresholds as invitations. On doors that open and doors that defend.
The portal of San Fortunato asks you to stop one second longer. An architect reads Todi — its three walls, its Roman forum, and the doors built to make you pause.
I went back to Civita with my daughter. She ran across the bridge; I walked behind, asking why we keep building bridges toward a city that is disappearing.
Everyone crosses the bridge to photograph the dying city. Almost nobody asks the real question: why do we keep building bridges to reach a place that is disappearing?
Four visits to Orvieto, and I'd never seen it. Then I took one step to the side — and the whole building changed. On why this blog begins from the wrong angle.
Everyone photographs the golden facade. Almost nobody asks why it's so bright — or what holds it up. An architect's reading of Orvieto's cathedral, from the mosaics to the hidden engineering.