Florence is stunning. Seriously.
So. The rest of Monday... we drove south to Florence, passing through places I'd only imagined: vineyards in northern Italy, stretching out towards the horizons, wet under a dripping gray sky; the city of Bologna; yellow-green autumn mountains as we approached Florence, terraced into strips of green, punctuated by the occasional red-roofed stucco villa. We arrived in Florence mid-afternoon. Tad was driving; I was navigating. Thankfully, we had picked up a city map at a rest stop--without it we probably would still be driving aimlessly around the city. Honestly, I have probably never been so stressed out in my whole life (though Tad did a great job, and I was pretty proud of myself for keeping our bearings and staying calm--well, mostly calm; there were a few moments, but those will have to be discussed in person and not published online... yeah. Don't worry, Mom and Dad. We're all alive and in one piece.) Florence is absolutely gorgeous. Like, the architecture is breathtaking. We found our hostel--it's a big, popular youth hostel right in the center of the city--and headed out exploring (after Tad and I collapsed for a little breather). I'll put up some pictures so you can see--there's so much beauty here.
But perhaps the most poignant image I have of Florence is beautiful in a different way. Or maybe beautiful isn't the right word at all, come to think of it. We were walking down the street towards the city's central square, down this windy, narrow cobblestone street with huge beautiful buildings towering over us. The buildings house expensive shops: Gucci, Louis Vitton, etc., etc. (I don't really know what I'm talking about when it comes to high fashion). And at one corner, there was a man begging, prostrate on the ground as if praying, with a small cup in front of him. There was one lonely euro in the cup. Yet he was surrounded by wealth. He was begging in front of a store where women buy extraneous purses for hundreds or thousands of dollars--no offense--yet his cup was empty. I could have cried. Or maybe gagged. Commercialism and materialism have been eating at me this semester, as I find myself given a living stipend every two weeks to do what I want with. I could just buy chocolate bars and pastries (I do, sometimes). Or I could tithe it (though honestly, I don't know how to at some of the churches I've attended). Or I could give it to the poor and the hungry who beg around Lupeni. It's not a long-term solution, but since when does that excuse me from acts of mercy and charity? It doesn't. I have more to write about this, but now's not the time. I'll try to remember. If anyone has any wisdom to offer... please do.
One other vivid memory. We were walking through the central square in the city (where there's a carousel!) when we passed by two easels with beautiful hand-drawn portraits displayed on them. We stopped to admire them, and quickly were greeted by the artist, a ponytailed graying man from Albania wearing a yellow turtleneck, purple sweater, and grayish jacket. He spoke great English, and seemed excited to talk... and talk and talk and talk. We barely got a word in edgewise over the 20 minutes we stood there (though I really wanted to respond sometimes!) as he talked to us about art and anarchy and the idiots who run Florence and the idiots who run Washington, D.C., and how the Jews are wrecking America's economy and the Mexicans are destroying Los Angeles (what the heck?! that's when I really wanted to retort...) and so on... it was quite the blur of opinions and stories from this anti-communist, anarchist, Albanian artist man. But at the end he said something really interesting. I tried to extract ourselves by complimenting his art, and he looked at me and said, "Nah. You are beautiful. You are art. I just sometimes get lucky capturing it." I didn't know exactly what to make of his comment, but the sentiment struck me--how true it is, that people themselves, unadorned and honest, are art. People are beautiful. Their stories, no matter how tangled, are a form of art; their lives and hopes and dreams and personalities are individually creative and profound. Humanity is art. It makes sense: after all, we were sculpted, originally, by a pretty good Artist...
Later Tad and Julie and I ended up splitting from Zach and Marit and walking around other places, eventually finding a place to eat dinner (thanks to the ridiculous antics of a maitre'd outside of this outdoor restaurant, who flapped his arms and menus at us until we couldn't help but go talk to him, and then sweet-talked us into eating there with the promise of a meal and glass of wine for only 10 euros... it ended up being a really good choice, though). We wandered around for a while longer, but by the time we got back to the hostel we were pretty much ready for bed.
The next morning (Tuesday) we got up early to head to one of Florence’s many art museums. We’d been told to avoid the biggest one if we only had a morning to stay, so instead of the super-enormous one, we went to the museum that has the original of Michelangelo’s statue of David. Thankfully we got there early enough to only stand in line for a little while, and student tickets are pretty cheap… so there we were, touring an art museum in Florence, Italy, until we’d investigated every nook and cranny. It was amazing, even for someone who knows next to nothing about art. I wished Jack had been there… heck, I wish all of you had been there (whoever’s reading this blog, that is). If you ever get the chance, Florence is wonderful… you should go.
When we finally left the museum, we headed to the city’s central market. Mostly I bought fruit—including the best pears I’d ever eaten, seriously—but I actually found a couple gifts, too, which was exciting… I hate shopping. Especially for souvenirs. So I rarely bring stuff home, unless it strikes me as something a particular person would really love… and in this case it did. Small victory. The larger victory was getting out of Florence alive… I think we all breathed a sigh of relief once the rental car was safely outside city limits on the highway again. So we were off... to Milano, with a slight detour on the way for an afternoon in Pisa!
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