Making Like Tourists

Oct. 10, 2003-Busy AM
(photos:da Vinci's experimental wings,
David)

We took bus tours in the morning and afternoon with a break for lunch. We wore color-coded stickers and watched as a Nazi masquerading as a tour-guide “defrocked” one couple by removing their stickers. They were herded off our bus and directed across the piazza to theirs.

One of the best shows in town is the tour bus drivers. We had ringside seats as our driver put our behemoth of a bus into spaces and places where a betting person would take odds it would never fit. At one point we couldn’t navigate a turn so after much debate and gesturing the driver of the bus behind us unceremoniously picked up and moved the parked motor-scooter that was in the way.

We crisscrossed the River Arno where the only original bridge not destroyed by the Germans in WWII was the Ponte Vecchio. The river floods every century but we’re safe for a while. The last flood was 1966. Almost as an afterthought our guide pointed out the house “where Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote and died.” We climbed cypress-lined boulevards past villas that were used as embassies in the 19th century when Florence was the capital of Italy. Our destination was Michelangelo Square for a panoramic view of the city.

The Renaissance was born here in the 15th century. Rival bankers of the Medicis built the Pitti Palace but the Medicis eventually bought them out. I have never seen so many chandeliers in one palace. Each room was festooned with them to the point where I wondered if a previous tenant was afraid of the dark. The Palatine Gallery is housed in what were the former winter quarters. A few of the artists represented were Fra Lippo Lippi, Rubens, Raphael, Caravaggio, and Titian. One depicted the martyrdom of St. Agatha. She was carrying her severed breasts on a tray before her. Without missing a beat the guide said it was, “ typical of Catholic tradition.” One of my favorite portraits was a Raphael in which he used thirty shades of white to paint the folds and nuances of a sleeve on a gown.

Ancient Florence was a grand city in Roman times. It was rich with marble temples and public buildings. The Christians helped themselves to the marble as they took over. The result is that church facades are covered in that marble. The Duomo is bedecked with said marble in shades of green and white with a touch of pink for accent. The Duomo, the bell tower, and the Baptistery were constructed between the 13th and 15th centuries. There was a contest to see who could create an economical design for the dome. The winning architect also had to devise the engineering of scaffolding and pulleys needed to bring his ideas to fruition. As elaborate as the exterior is, the interior is simple and Gothic. The Ghibertti bronze door of the Baptistery depicting the Gates of Paradise was something I longed to see since freshman art history class. It’s a shining, detailed depiction of classic biblical stories wrought in metal. The one I lovingly gazed at was a reproduction by a Japanese TV network. The original is in the church museum. If the guide hadn’t told us that fact I would have happily thought I’d seen the original and would be content in my ignorance. So much for disclosure.

There’s no security to speak of here. We waltzed into museums, palaces, and churches without so much as a metal detector or bag search. Cameras were permitted everywhere but using them was sometimes forbidden. Most tourists ignored the signs. Being law abiding Americans we complied and neither snapped nor flashed.

It was laundry day for our friends. They’d been traveling for eight days so we decided to throw our dirties in and do wash together. Now that’s friendship. Their eight days in Italy also left them with a taste for something other than Italian food. We will never eat Chinese in Italy again. Mediocre comes to mind.

Our email event for the day was that I’d accidentally (who would do it on purpose?) deleted the group in my email address book. I had to re-create it on the spot. It was annoying but not a “fatal error.”

Crammed PM

Our afternoon tour took us to Fiesole, a hilltop town dating back to the Etruscans and the 8th century BC. The Etruscans were marvelous engineers and artists but the Romans whipped them in battle. Fiesole was the home of Leonardo da Vinci and the place where he first experimented with flying machines. It’s no wonder he was inspired to fly. Everything is uphill. Fiesole was thought to be a safe haven during the Black Plague and a home and inspiration to Boccacio and Milton who wrote, respectively, the Decameron and Paradise Lost while living there.

The man sitting behind us on the bus was a character or perhaps he’s mentally ill. He’s from Columbia, Maryland and is retired from the Dept. of Transportation in Wash., DC. He learned Spanish, French, and Italian at night school so he could read books in their original languages. He said he never comes out of his basement anymore. He has all his books down there and it seems that he even eats there. He didn’t want to travel, but his daughter prevailed and sent him on a solo grand tour of Europe. It seemed like a form of shock therapy for an agoraphobic. By the way, he hears the voice of Joan of Arc.

Our stop at the Church of the Holy Cross was a study in name-dropping. Everyone who was anyone is buried there: Galileo, Michelangelo, Dante, Machiavelli, Rossini. I paced as our guide rambled on in an inaudible voice. I felt as if I was held captive in Catholic churches today. We only went into three but a few go a long way.

At last we were released for our last destination, The Academy Gallery of Fine Arts. It’s the present home of the original (no copies here) Michelangelo’s David. Our friend, Karen, was so excited to see it in the marbleized flesh that I was sure she would genuflect on the spot. Before we could enter the “holy of holies” we had to pay our dues and pretend to be interested in paintings and sculpture in other galleries. Our guide explained that other sculptors made plaster prototypes before working in the marble. Michelangelo alone could release his creations from the marble without prelude and trials. He believed that the form was in the marble waiting to be released. He was twenty-nine years old when his David emerged full grown and set Michelangelo’s career course. We still had not spied the David when we entered a narrow gallery of unfinished works. I noticed that Karen had disappeared. When I looked for her my eyes went to the end of that gallery to a domed room. There he was, David, in all his sinewy glory with Karen sitting worshipfully (in a chair) at his feet. He’s as lovely as his photos, but more powerful. He towers, glowers, threatens, and hypnotizes. His stark white body is a study in perfection…almost. His hands and head are proportionately over-sized. He’s been damaged but patiently waits next to the scaffolding that permits experts to minister to him. His dignity intact, he dominates now and forever. Amen.

Toby