Florence! (aka Firenze) I managed to wake up in time to catch the early train. I had a friend when I was an undergraduate who kept pictures of ``the'' David in her dorm room. Always seemed a bit much for me. I began to doubt my skepticism of her adoration last week when Carl Simon said something to the effect of ``you know, at some point you're wandering through these European cities and it's just one painting after another and one more white marbled dude. But "the" David, whoa. You walk around the corner in this little museum, and whammo!"Even with Carl's warning, my reaction caught me off guard. "The" David really does take your breath away. It's not the placement (small museum, it may as well be in the Rackham lobby). It's the raw youth, the veins, the huge freaking hands, and the even larger head. I'm intrigued to see how Orrie and Cooper react.
I arranged to be at the Duomo at noon so I could hear the Campanile bells count of the hours. Buono. The Duomo museum is small but the Pieta was beyond expectation. I think the effect is partly due to the color of the marble, kind of a yellowy hue, but it's more the compassion in the old man's face as he holds Christ. That face bears a striking resemblance to Michaelangelo himself. What are the odds?
The overwhelming impression one takes away from Florence is that they have to do something about all of these tourists. I took a lot of pictures (mostly for other people). I've decided I must radiate a certain skill at taking photos. Sadly, skill is certainly not born out in the photo's I take. An old couple from Singapore made me take three photos of them in front of a statue because for some reason they didn't want their legs in the photo.
Below is a picture of some people in the Museo de Duomo. They gave this statuary the full twenty seconds it deserved, then they were off.
I shant forget lunch, a highlight for two reasons. First, I encountered a wealthy couple from Connecticut who had in their possession an itinerary with long explanations of what to do and see. It was 1:45 and they were to be at Gozzi Sergio (they were) a place known for Tuscan food. I'm not making this up. They had a four page battle plan laid out for how to take the city. Oh boy did they look FUN! I peeked at the schedule and saw what laid ahead:9pm Happiest, Happy Hour: Just South of Palazzo Pitti, there's a small...
Second, the pasta at this place appeared to be amazing. The spaghetti was about twice the diameter of what we get in America and it was the golden yellow of Jenna's hair. Anyway, I order
the tagliatelle, which the person I'm seated with (an elderly Italian man who cannot believe I don't order a carafe of wine) seems to be enjoying immensely. Unfortunately, and I know this will be hard to believe given that my Italian is practically the equivalent of a native's, the waiter thinks I say "tagliata" and brings me that instead (see photo right). Tagliata turns out to be Italian for "plate of meat." I'll add that to my growing vocabulary. On the plus side, a fine good plate of meat it was.How does one complete a day like this? Simple, a call home to the family and then a slow walk across town to two warm dishes of pasta, a small beer, and fabulous jazz at Chet Baker's. I went hoping to hear Rachel Gould, who'd played with Chet himself, but alas, I pumpkined at about 12:30 as the warm up act was starting its second set. Not that I should complain about the music: great bass player and a very young singer who could have been a little less awkward and eager (but can't we all). All sorts of people were just rolling into the club as I was exiting -- many several decades older than I. No gelato tonight, just some water, a book, and a warm bed.
