Weekend in Firenze

I’ve just returned from our first travel break! We went to Firenze (No, I refuse to tell you the English translation. Google it yourself.) and had a delightful time. The city certainly lives up to its reputation as a living museum. Which is both a good and a bad thing.
Museums are constantly full of visitors. Most of them usually enjoy themselves, in spite the gloomy staff. The restless pacing of the crowds seems static when compared to the dynamic timelessness of the exhibits. That is Firenze: swarms of roving pilgrims seeking to be changed by the unchanging past. All of which makes it a fascinating place to visit…but I would never want to live there. Those that do looked about as happy as bored, cynical museum guards at the Uffizi. However, if you are a museum buff like me, three days in the Renaissance capital of the world will fly by in a sort of exhausting ecstasy.
Friday night we went for a walk on the Ponte Vecchio—the only bridge that was not blown up when the Germans retreated late in WWII—and basked in the sparkle and glow of the goldsmiths and jewelers that took over the area after the Medici’s kicked out the butchers and other plebian shops because of the smell. It was a lovely setting, but a bit contrived. However, one little bit of sentimental urban legend really touched me. It’s said that if a couple writes their names on a lock and attaches it to the railing on the bridge, their love will last forever. I don’t know where the story came from, but it was very romantic to see all of the different locks hanging in heavy clusters from the wrought iron.

The next morning Lauren and I forced ourselves out of bed early and attacked the Uffizi. If you want to understand just how intimidating this museum is, think about this little tidbit: the Uffizi is the biggest art museum in Firenze, which has much of the art of Tuscany, which has much of the art of Italy, which has almost two-thirds of the world’s art (according to La Bella Figura, one of our books on Italian culture). That’s a lot of art. And I mean a LOT. We beat what I hope was an honorable retreat just before lunch, having seen hundreds of Madonnas, thousands of crucifixes, and simply billions of Annunciations. Oh, and more nude people than I ever plan on looking at again in one morning. The funny thing was that no matter how famous they are, the masterpieces somehow escape becoming cliché…Venus, especially, was stunning. I’m no art critic, but that indescribable something that makes art great was oozing all over the place.
To regroup and recover from our serious art overdose (too much Renaissance paint, I suppose) we hunted all over for the Leathermaking School of Florence. It was in a beautiful, peaceful former monastery, far far away from the tourist hordes, and had a wonderful display of bags, wallets, change purses, coats, jewelry boxes, and anything else that can be made out of leather.
After that, it was time for our second foray; this time we had to scale a giant cathedral. The Duomo is another of those eternal masterpieces that crowd this city, but it’s so darn huge that it dwarfs everything else. My favorite little bit of Duomo trivia: the original architect, Arnolfo di Cambio, drew up the plans for the enormous dome knowing that it was impossible with the current technology, and fully expecting that somebody would figure out how to build it by the time the cathedral was done. Sure enough, two hundred years later, the duomo was finished using a technique invented by another architect, Brunelleschi (complements of my Let’s Go guidebook). We got a firsthand view of his innovative idea; when we climbed the Duomo, we went up right past Michelangelo’s fresco, in between the walls, and in the cavity inside the double interlocking dome. We climbed 463 dark, dank, claustrophobia-inducing steps and emerged on top of the world.


That night, to finish up our conquest of Florence, Lauren and I went to a performance of La Traviata (apparently the inspiration for Pretty Woman). I’d never studied or seen the opera, and was very excited that we were able to get tickets the morning of the performance. It was in a small church, which made a beautiful and acoustically perfect setting. The audience was small but enthusiastic, and the performers excellent.
Now, I must admit, I’ve never found opera particularly powerful. Listening to elaborately costumed virtuosos warbling in a language I don’t understand, while pleasing on the aesthetic level, was too much of an artificial experience for me to connect emotionally. I bought my ticket partly because I knew that I would like listening to Verdi, and partly because I knew that I ought to, sad as that may sound. But Saturday night, something finally clicked.
When the lovers are reunited just before the heroine, Violetta, tragically dies (really, now, did you expect a happy ending?), instead of embracing his love, the Alfredo draws out the moment by beginning a gorgeous aria. When the couple finally stopped singing and kissed, I thought about how satisfying delayed gratification can be. The romantic climax of so many movies never touched me in the same way…who wants to see these people smooching for minutes on end anyway? Song, on the other hand, was somehow a better expression of the passion of the moment. Anybody can kiss, but only the hero can sing like that.
After wandering around for a little on Sunday morning, we finally decided to go to the Academia and “see David.” He was more intriguing than I had hoped. Also much bigger than I expected. When I first walked in, all I could say was, “Oh..there he is.” He is colossal, and, on first impression, a bit cocky. But as I walked around him, I realized that his sassy stance wasn’t sassy at all. He’s poised, tense, stretching his sling across his back. When you finally get around to where Goliath would have been, David’s over-the-shoulder glance morphs into a menacing, deadly stare, zeroed in on the giant’s forehead. I wouldn’t want to make this shepherd boy angry.
Lining the hallway leading up to the giant-slayer is a series of half-finished sculptures, Michelangelo’s “Slaves.” Of all the sculptures I saw this weekend, they were my favorite. Their half-formed shapes emerging from the marble looked just how I imagine Adam looked when God was forming him from the dust. Scholars still debate whether these were intentionally left unfinished. I think their magic would have been lost had they been completed…and Michelangelo knew what he was doing. The energy of arrested creation seemed locked inside the stone; the slaves have not been freed from their marble prisons.
During our morning wanderings, we stumbled upon an unexpected gift. Perhaps blessing would be a better word. Mass was being celebrated in one of the cathedrals (S. Michele) that we passed, so we slipped in and stood at the back. It was the first time that I’ve ever heard the Greek and Latin phrases that I’ve studied so much sung in the context that they were meant for. The Kyrie and the Credo, the Sanctus and the Gloria…it was as if I was finally hearing them for the first time. Every church I had visited before had seemed somehow empty. I think that I had been trying to imagine plainchant reverberating within the cold stone walls without realizing it. The unearthly beauty of the actual sound is something that I will never forget.