Saturday, June 07, 2003
At last, Blogger allows me to post!
I spent the day today doing a whole lot of nothing, and I have a feeling this is going to be typical of my Saturdays from here on out: I sleep in, do some laundry, eat lunch in town, read, and play around online. I find it very relaxing after the constant business of the weekdays. Today I devoured the rest of The King Must Die and spent probably longer than I should have talking to Alec illicitly on AIM -- but considering I'll be flying to England in five days, it's with good reason, right? As if I don't break the rule about no instant messaging anyway...
But enough about that. I know all of you are just dying to know about my second trip to Florence on Thursday, aren't you? OK then.
Our first stop in Florence this time around was the church of Santa Maria Novella, which I found very spacious and with a lovely facade, but otherwise rather unimpressive, even if Vasari did do a lot with it. There is a very famous Massaccio fresco there, though, that is totally worth seeing: it's one of the first examples of Renaissance perspective to create the illusion of depth. I remember it well from my art history texts, and it is always so thrilling to see these things in real life. Which is another reason the Uffizi enthralled me.
The Uffizi Gallery, of course, was our next stop. I had grand plans afterward to go with some other members of the group to see the church of San Spirito and Santa Carmine -- which has even more of the wonderful Massaccio paintings -- but those plans were quickly abandoned as soon as I set foot inside the Uffizi. It is... amazing. That says almost nothing about my experience there, but I don't know how else to describe it. And there is so much that I didn't see in the museum, because rooms were closed off or in restoration: Michelangelo's David is being cleaned for the first time in 130 years. About time, I should say, but I would have liked to see it! But even without the presence of David, there was still so much magnificent art; it made me feel overwhelmed with joy, and my heart beat quicker each time I stepped into a new room, and allowed my senses to be overcome with everything around me. I did several sketches; it is impossible not to be inspired when you are standing before these stunningly beautiful paintings by Carravaggio, Da Vinci, Botticelli, Canaletto, Rembrandt, Giotto, Titian, Velasquez, Ucello, Rubens, Raphael, Tintoretto... I could go on and on.
One of the things I liked best, though, was the collection of drawings: the sketchbooks of the masters. It's so easy to see the differences in individual styles when you view these small, once insignificant drawings; but what makes me happy is not the beauty of the sketches -- though they are lovely -- but rather their imperfections. Michelangelo's proportions slightly askew. Botticelli's woman with two heads, as he debated where to position her face. Gazing upon these drawings makes you realise that these artists were not the flawless masters we art students worship -- but students themselves, imagining and sketching and working through trial and error. In a way they are almost more beautiful than the finished products -- but it is a different sort of loveliness, delicate and understated, that is seemingly only appreciated by those who take the time to focus on such details. The room of drawings was one of the only empty rooms in the whole museum: Alas, for the visitors who chose to ignore the heartrending simplicity of graphite on yellowed paper.
I spent my entire day in the Uffizi, skipping lunch and wandering from room to room, surrounded by tourists but alone with the art in my world of wonderment. It was on this cloud of awe and inspiration that I floated out of the museum, reluctantly, to walk back to the train station and return to our little town.
It was on my walk back that the beautiful and romantic notions were destroyed, and the real Italy reared his unattractive, balding head.
The streets of Florence were busy, and I did not worry at walking alone. In my artsy reverie, I didn't really pay attention to the short, pudgy man who passed me on the street. But then he stopped me, and began asking if I spoke any Italian. He indicated down the street, and it seemed as though he he was asking for directions. Of course, I could do nothing to help him, and I said, grasping for words in my pathetic Italian, "Solo inglese -- sono Americana."
He was insistent though, and kept gesturing down the street the way I was walking. He asked if I spoke French. Again, I said no -- after all, I'm American, and everyone knows that we don't actually speak other languages. He asked me if I was a student, and then he gestured for a bit, and I was confused, and he was saying things in Italian that I didn't understand. So then he broke out with what was possibly the only English word he knew:
"Beautiful."
It was then that I realised, I was in trouble. All of a sudden he made much more sense; he was gesturing down the street to a cafe, and asking me to sit. I think.
"Cinque minutes!" he said hopefully, and repeated this phrase insistently a few times. I prayed that he meant "five minutes" to sit and talk, as opposed to anything else. In any case, I was not about to find out his exact meaning -- suddenly I knew much more Italian than I thought I did.
"Sono studentessa -- grupo -- tren -- no ho tiempo!" I said, and attempted to carry on my way to the train station, hoping he would get the point. If he did get the point, he bluntly ignored it. Not to be undone by my resistance, he grasped my hand and attempted to pull me back. Fortunately it was not in such a manner that I could not reclaim my slightly shaking fingers, which I promptly did.
Fairly creeped out by now, I repeat, more firmly this time, "No. No tiempo." He begs again, "Solo cinque minutes," but again I refuse -- and at last, he relents. Relieved, I start to turn to go...
And then he tries to kiss me.
I don't think my reflexes have ever been as fast as that day; my hands were in front of my face before I had even fully processed what was going on. He was quick, too, though, and swerved around my shield of fingers to kiss my cheek.
VERY creeped out by now, and rather squicked as well, I tore off down the street in a brisk walk, glancing over my shoulder in case he should follow. I made it to the train station probably in record time, where I quickly attached myself to another member of our group, and told her the whole story, vowing never to walk alone in Italy ever again.
And that, everyone, was my Florentine adventure. Pinching? Ha! You know, I always imagined that when faced with these situations, I would be the indignant woman who would knee the guy in the groin -- or at least slap him. It sounds good in theory, but I suppose my general inexperience with these things -- both the good and the bad -- leads me to be more shocked than assertive. Must work on that.
| 3:56 PM |
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