Page 32 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)
Every now and then a man’s mind is stretched by a new idea or sensation, and never shrinks back to its former dimensions.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
When our driver let us off at Michelangelo Square, I was surprised that the open area wasn’t very crowded.
It made sense, though, because the best time to visit this hilltop plaza was at sunset.
Locals and visitors alike flocked here at twilight to take in the sweeping views and watch the sun slip away behind the city.
I’m sure the sunsets were breathtaking. Our morning view was gorgeous too.
The rooftops, including the great dome of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, were made of red brick.
From our elevated distance, the buildings looked like they were all a neutral cream color.
The contrast in the morning light evoked the sort of old-world appeal that kept tour and longboat cruise lines in business in Europe.
“If I had brought my journal and we had lots of time,” Claire said, “this would be a fun scene to try to sketch. Don’t you love how the colors all seem to blend together? It’s beautiful.”
Behind the old city, the ancient hills were stacked one in front of another with their rounded tops smoothing up against the pale blue sky.
In the distance, an uneven row of white clouds lined up and took their time leisurely floating wherever the wind bid them go.
The scene was like gazing at an enormous oil painting.
While Claire took pictures she said, “I’m glad we started here. I like Florence better from this view than I did when we exited the train station.”
I clicked a few shots and turned to look at the statue of David behind us that was elevated on a concrete pedestal.
It was one of several copies of Michelangelo’s David .
The original masterpiece chiseled in marble was on display inside the Accademia Gallery.
Previous to that, it had been outside enduring the elements for four hundred years.
The replica that loomed above us wasn’t carved from marble but was made of bronze and had turned green.
I felt a tinge of regret that we hadn’t reserved tickets to tour the Accademia Gallery and see the original David since this one didn’t have the wow factor I’d expected.
In our research, we’d read reviews about the lines and crowds for the various museums and churches in Florence.
Before we left home we decided to make reservations for the Uffizi Gallery, one of the oldest museums in Europe, because it housed room after room of medieval and Renaissance treasures.
We hoped to get our fill with only one stop.
Our driver was waiting and took us down the hill and into town to the Uffizi Gallery.
It took him less than ten minutes to travel the two miles.
At one point we’d thought we would walk the trail that led from the hilltop through a rose garden and into the old city to reach the museum.
Amelia’s recom mendation was wise because we never would have made it in time for our tour.
The line moved quickly, and we were among the first to enter when the museum doors opened. Claire had downloaded an audio tour app on both our phones. We popped in our earpieces and pressed start at the same time so we could be in sync as we sauntered through the enormous building.
The interior walls and ceilings were stunning and offered us a feel for the elegance of historical Florence before we even entered the rooms with the displays.
Large windows loomed on either side of the main hallway.
One side provided views of the Arno River.
I paused to appreciate the domed ceilings that were well lit to show off their gold designs.
The interior was not what I expected for a museum that was more than two hundred and fifty years old.
We caught a glimpse of the famous Ponte Vecchio, or Old Bridge, that had crossed the Arno River for hundreds of years.
The wide bridge housed rows of shops on the inside, all jewelers.
The back side of some of those shops had boxed structures that jutted out over the river.
They reminded me of LEGOs because of the straight edges and the way they all looked added on.
Most of the additions were painted the same sandstone yellow of the upper covered walkway that ran the length of the bridge.
I noticed the green shutters on either side of many of the uniform windows and zoomed in to take a picture.
A few of the units had small terraces on the top floor.
I thought I saw a tomato plant growing in a pot on one of the small decks.
It fascinated me that world-class jewelers could run a business out of dilapidated-looking buildings.
I liked knowing that at least one of them included a tiny garden in the limited space.
We continued room by room through the museum, and I loved everything about our ninety-minute tour.
The spaces weren’t too crowded with visitors yet.
The audio tour was fascinating, and the sculptures were remarkable in their likeness to human figures and movements.
I spent a little extra time studying the round painting Holy Family , done by Michelangelo in 1505.
How could the blues in the painting still be so rich after all these years?
The ornate, carved wood frame that circled the image was as much a work of art as the painting.
Claire paused to study the Botticelli painting The Birth of Venus . “I’ve seen this before,” she said. “Haven’t you? I can’t believe I’m looking at the original.”
I stood beside Claire, appreciating the feminine interpretation of a pale, unblemished Venus standing at the edge of a large scallop shell. Her long, flowing blond hair curved around her as she looked to the side, her head slightly bent, her expression unruffled and thoughtful.
“Welcome to the world, Venus,” I whispered.
“Not exactly what you expected, is it, dear icon of love?” Claire added.
After a while I didn’t remember the dates or painters as the works were being described to us on the audio tour.
There was so much that happened in this intimate and ancient city.
By providing raw materials and gathering artists in guilds, the wealthy patrons gave the gifted men a place to develop their imaginative gifts.
Creativity flourished. No wonder Florence was considered the birthplace of the Renaissance.
I could see why it was such a romanticized time in history.
The artistic beauty overflowed onto the buildings, bridges, and especially in the churches.
We stopped in front of a small painting of St. Francis kneeling. I felt as if I was seeing a picture of a new friend I’d made through social media. Our audio tour guide said Francis was one of the patron saints of Italy and described his upbringing.
Claire motioned for me to pause my recording. “Did you catch that? Francis was from Tuscany. No wonder he’s so popular around here.”
The next thing the recorded guide said was, “His preaching emphasized the humanity of Christ. At that time, Europe was Christianized and shared a common belief in the Savior’s divine nature.
Teaching in the church did not encompass Christ’s full human nature.
Jesus wept. He was tired, hungry, thirsty.
In his teaching, St. Francis portrayed a Jesus who was real and approachable.
The result was that artists and writers of that day began to portray approachable humanity in their art. ”
Claire paused her recording again. “The artists he inspired certainly adopted the humanity of anatomy. I have never seen so many . . .”
She didn’t finish her sentence because she didn’t need to.
We returned to our audio tour and meandered through a few more rooms before exiting the spacious, air-conditioned structure.
I felt as if we were going through a wormhole, back into the real world with cars and noise.
The weather had warmed, and I was thinking a bench would be a welcome sight right now.
Undaunted and still energetic, Claire led the way on what she assured me was the shortest route on foot through the streets to the Central Market.
It felt like we were wandering through the alleys in Venice again except for the many vehicles and wide roads.
Shops lined the way, and when we arrived at the impressively large building fifteen minutes later, we found rows of vendor stalls lining the outside of it.
The flea market stands appeared to be loaded with every sort of souvenir we could possibly want.
“Food first,” I suggested. “Then shopping.”
“Agreed,” Claire said.
The huge space we entered reminded me of a food court at a mall, only much larger and with items you’d never see in an American mall, such as fishnet bags of big, yellow lemons and strings of dried garlic cloves hanging down like icicles.
Fresh produce lined the front of the stalls.
Green cucumbers, bright red tomatoes, and shiny purple eggplants.
Large slabs of cured pork hung above the counters of stalls that offered scrumptious-looking assortments of meats and cheeses.
The plant and flower booth stood out as friendly as a smile next to a stall with rows of mouthwatering pastries.
It was like touring an expedition center, where each vendor did their best to display their goods and make their stall more appealing than the one next to it.
I felt caught up in the old-world ambience with every uneven step on the old flooring and every fragrance that wafted our way.