Monday, April 09, 2001

Saturday morning and I purchase tickets for our final ride in Firenze—the ride out. (If you're train'ing in Italy, btw, seriously consider a billeto chilometrico. It's a metered ticket; ours is good for 3000km, 2 months, and 5 riders, in 2nd class: $120.) Other than "bye," I have only two other (cheerier) words to say about this place: Oltrarno. It means south of the river, and—just as did hilly Buda on the opposite shore—the neighborhood of Oltrarno proves our sanctuary and our salvation. The tourists thinned out as the grade increased, and we found ourselves happily lost on idyllic little streets—and gelato was available. (Three days; three gelato binges. Perfecto.) Few tourists, no scooters, gelato, spectacular views. Andate Oltrarno; andate oltrarno.

We descend back into the chattering maelstrom to brave the Uffizi. Erin is correct to point out that we can't leave Fireze without doing one major museum. She's right. But I'm pretty much finally sure that I just don't like Renaissance art. It my have spoken to its age, but not to mine. Moreover, the themes are repetitive: what an amazing amount of work to create an scene already created so many times. Who could wake up one morning in 1544 and say, "You know what? There are just one two few Adoration of the Magis in the world. While I'm at it, I think I'll crank out a spare Madonna with Child. Now, that's outside-the-box thinking . . . "

We retire to the birraria I located just by our hotel, which, for the first time, is open. I think of it as our local, despite only one visit . . . Moreover, I get a Hacker Pschorr on tap, in an HP glass. Bliss. From there, we make a last minute decision to visit the same trattoria we've visited the last two nights, though we've nearly tapped out the menu. E: "Those people can't fuck anything up." Sadly, the joint is shuttered, so we wind up at a lively, highly tasty pizzeria. Behind the counter, a 70-year old man in apron twirls pie after pie of pizza dough. We consider what it would be like to be slinging pies at that age. He still seems intent on each one, though—and the sequence never ends. We dub him, alack, "Pizzaphus." His pizzas rock, as it happens.

Morning, one last coffee on a cafe patio, facing our largely lovely piazza, of which we've grown fond. (Here it is just before, and just after dusk.) We consider that we can look forward to Christmas, in 2021, when we recount over coffee, "Hey, remember that time we sat on that piazza in Firenze, drinking coffee? That rocked."

Then, two hours rumbling over the Tuscan countryside to . . . Siena. At the station, we hop a cab to our hotel (mainly because we despair of otherwise finding our hotel in the tortuously twisted streets of this medieval burg, which is almost uniformly colored . . . well, I'll let you check your Crayola 64-pack at home). Our maniacal, wized cab driver taps his horn unceasingly as we cut through the tourist waters that flow, thick as sewage, through the streets. Amazingly, this looks worse than Firenze, tourist-wise. Argh. After check-in, our first stop—Piazza de Campo—confirms this. See that mob, like the floor at a Lynard Skynard concert? Moreover, see those painted sheets covering up the restoration of the facades? It is, we are sure, the apothesis of Disneyfication.

We resolve to hit one more attraction—and then run-not-walk in the least mobbed direction we can find. Lucky thing, we decide to suck it up for one more: it is Siena's Duomo—and we agree it is the best building we've ever seen. And the elaborate facade actually pales in comparison to the interior, which is grand and varied and lush beyond description. It is cavernous, with a starry dome, striped marble pillars, stained glass, elaborate altars, busts of saints lining the balustrades, towering arches, human-sized cherub candleholders, frescos frescos frescos, a 3-D crucifiction scene, statuary, ornate floor-tile mosaics.

M: This place has got everything.
E: This is the first church I've seen that beats Karlskirche. In fact, it makes Karlskirche look like St. Annes. [Our Marietta place of worship, on Mom's side.]

After this, we take off and get good and lost. We know we've done well when we get to wildly irregular streets, with radically weathered brickwork, and laundry hanging from the windows. Erin needs coffee, and I need beer, so I recite my favorite phase from my Italiano tapes: "Vado a bar!" It rings so much more commanding than in English, I think . . . On the way, we pass more laundry, and a bit of blue sky, which crowns the Tuscan hills, and the stone wall that rings this medieval town.

Tomorrow: Assisi (where we hope to, God willing, get to the very fringes of the Tourist Hun advance). Cheers to all. 8^)

Michael