The Thames and Breakfast

My trip this weekend to London was wonderful, and relaxing. As Mom described it when I was telling her about it, kind of a vacation from this quarter abroad. I spent most of the weekend simply hanging out and visiting, remembering stories, swapping photos, chatting for hours. It was a lovely counterbalance to the things that are slightly difficult for me here in Florence – I stayed in the easy, comfortable company of good friends and I spoke in English.

I hadn’t really realized that a small amount of stress comes from the difficulty of having to concentrate every time I want to say anything, or anyone says something to me. It’s become a part of the day for me here, but to be able to drop it, to understand the conversation overheard in a crowd, or what the radio was saying in the background, to be talking and totally relaxed – it was nice.

And of course it was absolutely lovely to see Harriet and Tonya (counselors with me this summer in LPC) again. I’ve never really had the chance to go over camp months after it was over, since no other LPCers live near me, and it was interesting to both think about my views on it now that I have some distance from it, and also hear what the others think now that it’s over. And to get to relive it with people who were there with me.

To be honest, I didn’t really see that much of London. We drove into the touristy area, through Notting Hill, past Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. We parked by the Thames, and spent several hours walking along it. The street performers were out in droves, entertaining passers-by on the cold, windy day. Many people in some sort of costume, pretending to be statues or odd personages like a dinosaur on a bike or Mickey Mouse. If you gave them money they would do something fun, and Micky and Fran (Tonya’s daughters) had fun giving out coins and being part of the performance of these various curiosities. We thought about going on the London Eye, but it was a long wait, an expensive ticket, and being overcast, a bad day to go up. So instead we looked at the Houses of Parliament across the Thames and got a Jedi Knight to take a photo of us in exchange for listening to his spiel about some event he was supposed to be selling tickets for. Then back up the Thames, past the Tate Modern and the Millennium Bridge to a café just past the Old Globe Theater which Tonya said was a very good place to get tea and scones. However the café had turned into a bar/restaurant since she had been there last and they didn’t have scones, so we got a pastry and some hot chocolate instead and enjoyed the view of the Thames. The theater was unfortunately closed, but I walked past the outside, which is cool enough for the moment. I definitely hope to come back to England in the future – I must admit I barely saw anything. Hardly a surprise, since I was there for less than 48 hours and didn’t want to rush around.

I did, however, have a blast. Tonya, Harriet and I got to spend some time on our own – we went out to an Indian restaurant close to Tonya’s house, and then out to a pub afterwards. The pub was pretty nice, “posh” if you want to be British. And, as Tonya described it that night “full of blokes!” I hadn’t realized how many words and phrases are different between American English and British. Some of the street signs caught my eye – “Dual Carriageway” apparently means a road with a hard divide between the different directions, and instead of speed bumps they have signs that say “Humps for the next 600 meters.” And little things, like a car park instead of a parking lot, or car hire instead of car rental. So many more than I had ever known!

Above all, I enjoyed how relaxing the weekend was. Dinner with Harriet and her dad in their kitchen, breakfast of toast with delicious multi-grain bread which seems to simply not exist here in Italy. Lunch all together in the candlelit warm living room of Tonya’s house, or lounging on their couches looking at photos. Harriet and I stayed in the attic room of their house, which seemed appropriate and familiar after the attic room the girl counselors shared this summer in camp. And Micky, bless her heart, came up with the idea to bring Harriet and me fruit and tea in bed to wake us up, telling us when we were up there would be pancakes and bacon downstairs. Lying there in the quilts with Harriet, waking up slowly and sipping tea, enjoying the extra hour of daylight savings so that we didn’t have to rush to get to the airport. Downstairs we sang some of the camp songs, sat down to a cozy breakfast, and wrote an email to the rest of the staff. Simple, homey, friendly things. It seemed so luxurious to be so comfortable and taken care of and at ease with Harriet and Tonya and her family. A real vacation, and a wonderful weekend.

Voting

I officially mailed in my Absentee Ballot today, after waiting impatiently for several weeks for it to show up here in my mailbox. However, one of the best parts of voting is getting the "I Voted" sticker (I'm not sure I want to think about what that says of my maturity level), and I obviously didn't get one here in Italy, so I thought I would give one to myself. Here it is, the prized sticker:


The election has been front and center in people's thoughts here. Our teachers are using it at every excuse to share American view points with Italians, and for Italians to share their opinions of America with us. Lots of cultural sharing happening. We're also organizing an election watching party, one of many here in the American-saturated city of Florence. And, many thanks to the time difference, we will be up till at least 2:30 in the morning (5:30 pm pacific time) to watch elections, maybe later. Anyway, fingers crossed for November 4th!

I Left My Heart in Assisi

Everybody knows the beauty of Tuscany. The rolling hills sprinkled with villas, vineyards, ruins, art. It is famous. In fact, I just finished reading “Under the Tuscan Sun,” which I picked up from an English bookstore here in Florence, since I felt that it was culturally important to be familiar with such a well known story. Although I did not realize that the book and the movie are so different. Anyway, my point is, Tuscany is famous.

Umbria is not. And why, I have no clue. As far as I’m concerned, it is the unknown gem of Italy. Granted, I haven’t exactly seen all of Italy. But I was completely unprepared for the beauty I found there. Umbria is a region in central Italy, just south of Tuscany. We made our way there to its capital Perugia last weekend for the European Chocolate Festival, which the city was hosting. Delicious. Overwhelming and crowded. Fun. But I was struck by how beautiful the city itself was. We had a beautiful panoramic view of the city: small, spread out, and sprinkled with fields and trees and greenery throughout the valley. Gorgeous old buildings, enough so that it felt like a large town, but that it still felt like it was half in the countryside.

We hadn’t been able to find a hostel in Perugia for the first night of this chocolate festival, so we ended up staying at Hostel Sul Lago, on Lago Trasimeno, about a fifteen minute train ride out of the city. We got there late, and had to leave early the next day, so we didn’t see much of the area, but we did manage to fit in a bike ride before we left Sunday morning (they had free bikes!). We woke up at 7:30, and hurriedly got dressed. Since the lake was surrounded by hills, it was light out but the sun wasn’t quite over the crest of the hills yet, so we biked in the pale, rosy light of dawn around the edges of this lake, surrounded by fields and meadows and beautiful trees. The trees were just shading themselves with golden yellow of autumn, and a fisherman was pulling up with his catch, a crowd of birds following him. Across the lake I could see a small town of old buildings, built who knows how many centuries ago. The hills were patched with the lines of vineyards and olive groves and houses scattered around. It was beautiful to be out in the countryside.

We cut our bike outing short in order to catch the train to Assisi, which my host mom recommended we do. We boarded an incredibly crowded train, which emptied itself of Chocolate Festival goers after we passed Perugia, and we arrived about half an hour later at Assisi. The city itself is up on a hill, and is the prettiest town I have seen yet, here in Italy, which is saying something. As Kelly said, every time I see something I think it has to be the prettiest thing I’ve seen, and then I see the next thing. But I think Assisi will be able to contend for prettiest for quite awhile. We walked very quickly across the historical center, hoping to make it to the church at the other end while it was still open (our guidebook said something about it closing at 12:00). We passed beautiful squares, a roman ruin which we hardly glanced at they’ve become almost commonplace, and passed the occasional panorama of the valley below and sucked in our breath at how pretty it was, but kept walking. When we rounded the corner on the steep winding road to the Cathedral, I was struck with how simply beautiful it was.

The church wasn’t ornate or overwhelming in its intricacies or beautiful arches, mosaics, carvings, colored marbles. It was simple, with a few delicate details, and much more graceful than many of the Italian churches I have seen with their heavy presences. And it sits on the edge of the hill, with a grassy area in front of it, so the eye sees a field lead down to this beautiful, simple cathedral, and the panoramic valley set out beyond it. It seems to almost float there, a companion to the birds soaring and swooping around it. The perfect place to dedicate to a saint who loved nature as much as Saint Francis did. With a town like that, living with a view like that, it would be hard not to love nature. And, to complete the impact, as we walked into the cathedral the choir for mass was starting, and the voices echoed through the frescoed walls. Churches have the most wonderful acoustics, and hymns are some of the most beautiful songs in the world. It was probably one of the most spiritual places I have ever been to. And of all the saints I know of, Saint Francis is the one who I agree with the most, so it seemed more powerful to me than a place dedicated to beliefs or ideologies that I don’t relate to at all.

The lower cathedral, built literally under the larger one, was much more intimate, but generally very similar to the other. Beneath its floors lies the body of Saint Francis, and a steady stream of people were quietly filing down one set of stairs and up another. Down the stairs the crowd slowly and reverently walked up to the body, around the pillar it stood in, and back out. Some people had stopped on benches on the side to pray, and a monk sat keeping an eye on the crowd. The only sound came from the shuffling of feet, quiet whispers, and the noises of children. Infants carried in the arms of their fathers and young children just learning about the world. One small child pointed and told his father, both showing off and double checking, “tomba.” “Si,” the father encouraged the use of the new word, “tomba.” And a few older children whose mothers, trying to instill some piety, irritably told them to be quiet and stop complaining about it being boring.

After the beautiful churches, our stomachs returning us to the world of practicality and the need for lunch, we went to a restaurant called “Locanda del Podestá” in some ancient building – who knows how old the wall that I leaned my purse against was. But the food was some of the best I’ve had in Italy – ravioli dei tartufi (truffles) e noci (walnuts, which are in season at the moment) with a side of asparagi (asparagus). Absolutely, completely, satisfyingly delicious.

On our walk back to the bus stop we wandered through the town, looking at some of the things for sale and enjoying the poetry of the buildings. I swear I have never seen a town as universally beautiful as Assisi. Even the trees that lined the road seemed more beautiful, more graceful as they dropped their leaves, spinning down to the sidewalks like dancers, than normal trees. It must be something in the air of Assisi. Maybe St. Francis really did bring a blessing to the place.

In any case, Assisi currently has my vote for most beautiful town in all of Italy. If you ever get the chance, go!

Gelateria La Carraia 2

I’ve walked past this Gelateria almost every day since I arrived in Florence, because conveniently enough it is located on my walk to and from school. A small hole in the wall place, I didn’t originally have much faith in it. Judging a gelateria on appearances is a fine art, as there must be thousands of gelaterias in Florence. According to my host brother, gelato was invented here in Florence and, he added, the inventor of the ice cream cone was an Italian, in America, who got tired of his glass ice cream dishes breaking so invented cones to replace them. Don’t random facts like that make life more interesting?

Anyway, I didn’t go inside Gelateria La Carraia 2 because I couldn’t tell if it offered gelato of the mass-produced, poor quality type or not. Eventually, though, convenience overcame my skepticism and Kelly and I stopped in one day. We’ve stopped several times since then – I think of it as sort of the “house wine” of gelaterias. Not jaw dropping, celebrate a special occasion kind of gelato, but rather a pretty good every day gelato.

It has several things going for it. First, as I mentioned, its always easy to stop by. There are several good lunch places nearby too, so its easy to just make it our next stop. Second, Kelly’s favorite flavor which she never fails to order is yogurt, and Gelateria La Carraia 2 offers not only yogurt gelato but also yogurt and nutella gelato – how can you beat that? And third, it offers gelato in a 1.30 euro price. Most places the smallest you can get is 2, or 1.50, so this generous small is nice – just the right amount, never so much that you feel uncomfortably full even if you do come straight from lunch, and not so much as it makes you reluctant to pull out your wallet (gelatos seem to add up very quickly here!).

I've enjoyed trying several flavours: cioccolato fondente (dark chocolate), cioccolato (chocolate), nocciola (hazelnut), and biscotti (cookies). Very good. Its hard to find a flavor to stand up to the decadent but not super sweet cioccolato fondente, but I love it, so I’ll keep experimenting with new combinations.

"Home"

Slightly brain-numb from the exhaustion of traveling and overwhelmed by the Archeological Museum of Naples, Tristan, Kelly and I let our eyes drift over the knickknacks, books and posters in the bookshop. Some of the images seem pretty and I wish we had been able to see the originals, the vast majority of which are currently not on display. I think I might be interested in a poster if I can figure out what each rolled up and saran-wrapped image is, and while we’re looking at them Tristan mentions that he wouldn’t be able to get it home. Glancing up at Kelly, I realize we’re both uncertain and I turn to ask Tristan “Home, as in Florence, or home as in school?” He responds with a laugh “Oh, I just meant the hostel. I don’t want to carry that around all day.”

It brings up an interesting point, at least for me at this point in my life. What is my home? Is it the place where I lay my head? That’s what Tristan meant. And for the moment, that’s where I belong you might say, with reservations and plans with the others to spend the night there.

Or does it need more? A space that will be yours even while you’re not there? A community you belong in. A place to come home to. Does the house of my host-family in Florence count? I notice that I can’t seem to call it my house. But arriving at the train station in Florence I don’t need to pull out a street map and check my progress at every corner – I can walk strait home and pass the familiar shops and restaurants. Dinner is waiting for me when I get there, and there are people to greet me as I finally walk in the door, to ask how my travels went and welcome me back. There are places to put away all my things, and unfinished tasks waiting for me as I sit back down at my desk. Today, on my walk to and from school, I waved a quick greeting to the cobbler and the wine store owner – both of whom I have made eye contact with enough times on my daily commute to recognize. Knowing a place and the people in it, and having them know you, does that make a home? There are people here who care about my well being, provide for me, and help me out. There is a room that is mine, where people ask my permission to enter. Is this my home?

And of course, the debate about Stanford campus and Encinitas. I call them both home. When people ask where I am from, I’m not always sure which answer they want. I spend the majority of my time at Stanford now, so if they want to visit me the best odds are to go to Stanford. I have a family of friends there, who I can look to when my world falls apart, or simply get a second opinion on a new dress. We have our regular routines and I have a room all my own, with my things and a key to lock it shut from anyone else. I know the local restaurants well, and I know how the public transportation works. There is a community on campus of common interest and shared experience. It is definitely a home of mine.

But Encinitas, despite only living there for two months out of the twelve this year, will always be home for me. My family, and my old friends, and my old self all live there. The people there know me at a deep level, better sometimes than I know myself. I can walk into Pannikin and have the waiters say “Wow you’ve grown up! I remember you when you were five!” The community of home is stronger there than any other home I have, and at this point the physical place of that home is so ingrained in me that it has strength too. Even if everyone moved out and strangers bought the house, there would still be a connection to this place. So even though I can go home and be surprised by the changes made in my months of absence, I can slide easily back into a place worn comfortable for me over the years of living. Unlike any of the other homes mentioned, 1402 Eolus Ave will keep the title of “Home” forever.

It seems, though, that it will have to learn to share.

Cultural Quirks

Life runs by quickly here. There are many things I’ve experienced here that I have thought “Wow, I can’t wait to write about this!” And then for various reasons, often because I’m busy doing more things which I also want to write about, I never end up having time to write about them. So I’ll see what I can do. Some of the entries may come up late, or out of order. In the meantime, I’d like to share a few of the Italian quirks which I have stumbled over during my time here.

A very important one to keep in mind while traveling in Italy is that strangely enough the Italians have two different numbering systems for street addresses, and they use them simultaneously. These numbers tend to be either written on ceramic tiles, or more commonly engraved on a stone in the wall. Residences are numbered in black, but businesses are numbered in red. And the two have nothing to do with each other. A street can easily go 32 (black), 34 (black), 82 (red), 36 (black). This causes a few difficulties, even when you know it exists. One, it makes everything harder to find. Like looking for a red Easter egg amongst all the black numbers, you run along the street hoping that the next one will be the elusive restaurant that you are looking for. Two, because they can travel at different paces, opposite sides of the street are completely skewed numerically. Just because you are standing at number 27, doesn’t necessarily mean that 28 is across the street. It can be blocks away from you. And, finally, keep in mind that mapping programs such as Yahoo have not yet become sophisticated enough to deal with this totally illogical system, so if you do as we did, and enter the address of a recommended pizzeria, don’t panic when it isn’t where the map says it is and you are seeming lost in a slightly sketchy neighborhood. The map found black 67. Feel free to wander for blocks in either direction looking for red 67. You’ll probably find it eventually. And asking around is definitely not cheating when dealing with a system like this. A hint for finding your way – if you see "27 (r)" as an address that means you are looking for a red number, so don’t get fooled by the apartment house number 27. Keep looking!

Also, don’t be fooled by small store fronts. The doors of buildings and the little storefronts can be crammed close together, but they are more than they seem. I walked into what looked like a tiny little market with only bread and crackers, and as I walked back, and back, and back I realized that the market carried pretty much all the food I could want in its labyrinth. Living in buildings built for a different era, many stores have adapted by carving themselves into the bowels of the building, using whatever space they can find to spread out all of their wares. Restaurants that look like they are to-go only often have hugs seating areas up a level, down a level, or both.

I’m not sure Italians have to-go only. Kelly and I have noticed a complete lack of to-go places amongst the Italian restaurant scene. When my host mom doesn’t have time to cook dinner, she makes homemade pizza with a pre-made but still raw pizza dough that then goes in the oven with sauce and mozzarella. Not entirely sure how that logic works, but it’s her version of American take-out.

Italians drink their milk warm. They leave it out, or zap it in the microwave for a bit to get it to room temperature. Its part of their cultural war against cold. For Italians, cold = sick. This also translates into a serious lack of ice in your drinks. The only time I have seen ice here in Italy was at a social event thrown by Americans for Americans, and even then it was offered as a possibility to put in your drink, not a default. Of course, this doesn’t mean that Italians detest all things cold, as proven by their love of gelato. It just means that some things are warmer than back home. Feel free to get used to it, or get used to ordering things specially adjusted to American tastes.

In the course of my studies here I have walked into several school supply or art supply stores. Unlike the giant help-yourself warehouses found in the States for these things, all the stores I have come across here are much more old-fashioned. A store owner behind the counter, with a warren of cubbies at his back, asks what you want, and then goes to the exact cubby where they are stored, sometimes with the aid of a step stool, and places one on the counter for you to decide if you would like to buy it or not. Absolutely charming, it reminds me of Ollivander’s Wand Shop from Harry Potter.

Once Upon A Street in Napoli

Tired out from travelling and in what I like to call the “museum zombie” mindset, Tristan, Kelly and I wander down from the Archeological Museum of Napoli to our next stop, Napoli Sotterranea. We have over an hour until the next tour starts, so once we find the entrance and figure out how much a ticket costs we wearily look around for a place to buy a drink and sit down. I indulge in a soda, and though I am craving an Orangina they no longer seem to exist in Europe, so I settle for an orange Fanta (everytime I say that word the stupid jingle “wanta Fanta!” pops into my head. Yes, I want a Fanta, so please shut up!) The bubbly processed sweetness tastes good and the three of us settle down on a bench next to the old San Paolo Maggiore church and watch the life of Napoli walk by as we recharge.

Napoli seems so much more Italian than Florence or Rome. Perhaps it is the lack of tourists. In our hour of sitting on the main street of the historical center we only see one tour group pass us by. Everyone else crowding the busy street are Napolitani, creating their community together outside on this lovely Saturday afternoon.

Children have finished their Saturday half-day of school, and are out on the street in force. Unlike other Italian cities, the vast majority of Napolitani children seem to be overweight. Too much pizza, but it’s hard to blame them when the pizza is that good. Walking, running, strolling, zooming by on Vespas, the schoolchildren swarm the streets of Napoli. The three of us are amazed to watch a gang of what must be eight-year-old girls walk by. Seemingly without an adult to accompany them, these little girls walk down the street well dressed, each swinging their own little purse and talking loudly and animatedly to each other. They’re busy entertaining themselves, impetuously going down the street then coming right back up five minutes later, turning when one decides they have thought of something to do, such as run up the stairs to the church and get a better look around. We saw that group of girls several hours later at the famous pizza place, di Matteo, located on that same street. While we were eating our pizza they came up the stairs and walked right through the crowded restaurant as if they owned the place. They spent ten minutes back-and-forthing, and talking with all the waiters who were rather exasperated by these little girls. The old woman sitting next to us yelled at them to keep it down, as they shouted up the stairs to the waiter. It amazes me to think that we were slightly worried for our safety in this city, with the numerous warnings we were given to watch our belongings, not wear watches or jewelry, and keep an alert eye out, and here this gang of eight-year-olds is, out on the streets for hours, and not a concerned parent in sight.

As I finish my Fanta in the tiny little piazza, a Vespa comes and parks near us, driven by a young man in his late twenties, dark haired like all Italians seem to be, normal looking with decent clothes and only a tinge overweight. In his lap is a big bouquet of yellow lilies, and seated behind him is an old man holding his cane and crutch. The young man helps the old man swing his leg around, and slowly the two of them walk over the cobblestones and into the church. Ten minutes later they re-emerge, bright lilies gone, and return from whence they came. Whether he is being a good nephew, grandson, or neighbor, I am impressed.

Mostly revived, the three of us are looking around, really enjoying people watching, observing the different life styles and clothes styles here. The group of smartly dressed women at the café across the street. The cars that try and fail to roar down this street clogged with people, Vespas, parked cars, children, and café tables. The dry yellow grasses on the church steeple across the street.

As we watch, we spot a woman all in white, holding her train and a bouquet of little calla lilies, and walking down the street with a purpose. The wedding party comes into view, the bride in front and the guests and photographer trailing. She walks up the steps of the church next to us, and her new husband bounds up the stairs after her, two at a time. The photographer comes with them, and a few moments later we see him standing on the railing and telling them to shift a little to their left. The rest of the party waits at the bottom of the steps, and the children everywhere cry “Auguri! Auguri!” to the couple, Italian for good wishes. After a few minutes of pictures the bride, groom, photographer and his assistant come back down, pausing for a photograph while descending the steps, and go to take photos at the next church, which is just across the street and over one building. And, afterwards, I amusedly watch as the whole party congregates and seems to take a picture in front of a gelataria on the corner! Amazing. Maybe one of them owns it. Maybe the couple met there. Maybe they could get the perfect angle of the church in the back ground. Who knows. The party continues down the street, chatting, talking, photographing, and enjoying their wedding day.

More than any single place in Napoli that we saw, the people of the city were the best part of the trip.

Forster's Fiesole

I took a class, freshman year, called something like “Italy in the Anglo-Saxon Imagination” about English and American books that had been set in Italy. We read many books and poems of varying appeal about this country, including E. M. Forster’s “A Room with a View.” When I was packing in September, and trying to pick the few books I would take with me as my teddy bear of sorts, I grabbed it. I had enjoyed the story and it was one of the few books that actually took place in Florence, which I figured would make it more fun, as I could experience and explore Florence just as the characters, British tourists, had. One of the scenes takes place on an outing to the hill of Fiesole, just outside the city, and has stuck in my imagination the past couple years because it is my favorite scene in the book. So when I was making plans with Kelly and Tristan this morning about where to meet to catch the bus to Fiesole, I was remembering this description, written exactly 100 years ago:

“A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. … Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d’Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. … ... ... Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end. This terrace was the well head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.”

Idealized and romanticized? Absolutely. But as it turns out, not too far from the truth. As all Florentines can and will tell you, Fiesole is beautiful.

Unfortunately, somehow what always stands out strongest to me are those things that break up the harmony. For example the cute flea market that sold absolute trash to all the tourists. Or, in the Roman amphitheater dating back to at least the first century, the modern art sculptures of gigantic hearts (anatomical, not valentine). Amongst the olive groves and the ruins’ gray stones covered in lichen, curling ferns and grasses with a backdrop of Tuscan hills, a neon yellow man-sized heart, complete with bright crash-dummy symbols, jarringly disrupts the scene.

Who knows what the caretakers were thinking. I certainly have no clue. The giant iron heart, seemingly buried in the center of the amphitheater, reminded me of “It” from Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Wrinkle In Time” and from the moment that thought occurred to me it was imbued with the huge evil from that story.

However, other than those real oddities, Fiesole was charming. The ruins on this crisp, sunny fall day were totally spellbinding in the lack of attention paid to them. Yes, they were fenced in and preserved, but nature had been allowed to crawl all over them, and we climbed over and around all of the wall fragments, enjoying the miniature scenes tucked into every corner. The birds chirped, the air smelled like mint, and yellow leaves were just starting to scatter the ground.

We followed the walking tour recommended by the guidebook Stanford gave us and continued on to scale the heights of the hill for the panoramic view of Fiesole and Florence and the Franciscan monastery, still in use, crowning the top.

The light in the late afternoon was golden and delicious. We tramped down the road for awhile, half afraid we would be killed by the cars speeding by us on that windy road with a serious lack of sidewalks. Despite our fear for our lives, the views from that road were wonderful. The light honestly looked like it was honey lying across the city below us, and we passed villa after gorgeous villa, trying to choose which one to buy when we become billionaires.

We stopped our walk a bit early, because we were getting tired and a bit chilly. We sat, waiting for the bus, with the most beautiful view I have ever had from a bus stop. All in all, giant yellow hearts aside, Fiesole for me has lived up to Forster’s description.

The Priest, My Professor

During our orientation he was described by the director as an excellent teacher, and a character. The director was right. Professor Verdon teaches “Women in Florentine Art,” an art history class focusing on the different roles which women have taken in the paintings and statues of Florence.

The first day he walked in with a kind, elderly face that has held up pretty well to age. He has a classic old man’s head – bald with white hair in a thick rim around the sides and wispy on top, and large round glasses perched in front of alert eyes. And he has added an additional, unusual detail to this image of your stereotypical old man – a white band tucked into his collar that marks him to the world as a man of God.

His voice is loud, carrying his inflective and expressive tones easily throughout the classroom to the thirty students seated, watching his slides flick by on the board. This impressive projective ability is essential, as half our classes take place outside of the Stanford Center and in front of the original pieces of artwork here in Florence. As a class we have gone through the Loggia del Bigalo, il Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, and the Uffizi, listening to him as he tells the historical importance and the intriguing characteristics about the fresco or the statue in front of us which defines an important aspect of the feminine as it was seen here in Florence.

It is quite an experience. In public places we always gather a scattering of intrigued listeners who subtly tag along in the back of the students, and as we walk through the museum our group slowly snowballs, picking up those around us. My favorite moment so far was in the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, which houses the artwork of the Duomo which has been removed to that location for its preservation. We stood as a class, arrayed against the back wall, as Professor Verdon lectured about the statue of the enthroned Mary and baby Jesus before us. The statue was meant to be in the tympanum above the main door to the Duomo, according to the original façade design, which covered the front of the Duomo with statues. Verdon says this was to emphasize the physical body of Christ and therefore his humanity, which was popular in the religious beliefs of the day. The interesting aspect of this statue, as was immediately obvious, was that Mary’s eyes had been covered with glass which reflected the light and immediately drew our attention to them. The effect as we looked at it was literally a glassy-eyed and rather stupid looking Mary.

Verdon noted this unfortunate effect but then went on to explain that this statue was designed not to be seen at eye level in the bright lighting of a museum, rather as seated high above street level in the ever changing light of the sun. So, in order to replicate this original perspective as faithfully as possible, he said we should all lie down on the floor of the museum and look at Mary that way. After a second of glancing around to see if we were really going to do this the thirty of us, laughing, put down our bags and our notebooks and lay down on the floor of the museum. Verdon was definitely right. As he continued easily lecturing from his new position, his back on the hard floor, he explained how from this perspective Mary appeared to be looking off into the distance. Instead of seeming stupid and empty-headed, she now seemed visionary and intelligent. This unusual depiction of the intelligence of Mary and of women in general was common here in Florence in part due to the influence that this very statue had on artists of the city for more than a hundred years. Trying to take notes from my horizontal position on that cold floor, I was impressed by how striking this different effect was and how much it changed my perception of the statue.

I was also amused to watch the reactions of the other visitors to the museum. Some, who had been surreptitiously listening, looked around at all of us and then joined us on the floor to note the effect themselves. Others walked into the room to be surprised with some thirty five people lying on the floor of the museum and gave us, justifiably, very weird looks. I wonder what they think of us Americans now.

It was a great lesson. And so far, they have all been that good. I am loving the class.