I stare at what I call a “Gilded Golden Glory.” It is a door. Not the wooden heavy front door of my home back in Miami. Not the white door that opens to my room back in Spring Hill. It is quite like the main doors of Collegio Alma Mater- it is a door opening me up into the life of Italy. Yet, it is completely different. It opens me up to an Italian life that existed centuries ago, one that exists now merely because the door still exists, but this life does not exist any more (other than the physical existent buildings). But if it weren’t for these doors, no one could have entered into this Italian world, not then, not now.
This “Gilded Golden Glory” gives the depiction of the life of St. John the Baptist. A saint known, praised and glorified worldwide, yet all the more in Florence because he is the Patron Saint of this terrific (yet presently too touristy) Tuscan city. The door was created in the fourteenth century, but the adorning trees surrounding St. John the Baptist were “sprouted” during the fifteenth century. The towering, twirling Tuscan trees I see out in the distance may be older than me, but they are of this lifetime…not of the lifetime of St. John the Baptist nor of the lifetime of the trees shading him over the centuries.
People like me who stare at this door (some not even knowing that this is St. John the Baptist) are not the people who opened this door to enter the church to pray and worship. I, we are now simply people observing and appreciating the door- just as I am observing and appreciating this city. I could touch the door and stare at the door-, which I did indeed do. I felt awed by its astounding and intricate beauty, yet I felt smaller than myself, I felt inferior. I felt like I was not worthy enough to just stand there. The door was not created for people to just stand there in front of it. This was a church door was created indeed for its majestic materialistic art- but it was created for more than that. It was a door opening up to the house of the Lord.
Just as I felt inferior in front of the “Gilded Gold Glory” door- I felt the same quite often throughout Florence-feeling that I am only just a visitor in this city. This city is not mine, nor is it the city of the beyond thousands of tourists who overpopulate it Atop the tower, thousands of feet high staring out under the Tuscan sun to all of Firenze I saw Florence as it is now- ornate churches, golden doors, cobblestone streets with saint statues on the corners…but, I could imagine how it was many moons ago, centuries ago, when the Medici family ruled….
Now there are materialistic markets overflowing with goods (especially Florentine genuine leather!), moons ago they were selling fish and meat and cheeses (oh how I love the smell when I near a cheese shop…and a panneria!)…And so too probably leather… not millions of gloves, wallets, and trinkets and especially not shot glasses. I get so enthused about markets, and was extremely enthusiastic about Florence’s market. I guess I was “one of those” in the market, one of those who fell victim to the market mania…but I was a manic with purpose. I was in search of the perfect leather book sack. This would be my Florentine purchase…. and thanks to Chelsea who shared the same leather desire, she found a sweet little lady in her sweet little leather shop with the sweetest leather bags (like if I were a child with the sweetest tooth) I finished my gelato in the leather store and then proceeded to find the next thing to satisfy my sweet tooth…the leather bag! I tried on several bags, needing to find just the right one…and I did. But it was juts not the right color, not the right flavor... and so the sweet little lady left me and Chelsea and Elle in her shop while she went out to her stand in the market to get the bag in just the color I wanted (She trusted us alone in her shop, I am a trustworthy person, but this bewildered me). Chelsea and I pranced around the shop until the sweet little lady came back and gave us a sweet discount on our bags. Walking for almost 16 hours the entire day (morning, afternoon and night) I didn’t feel guilty about the gelato and I didn’t feel guilty about the bag because it will last me a lifetime, for all the hours I will walk with it on my back.
Now onto opening the other doors of Florence…
The door of the “Battistero” (The Baptistery door) was another immaculately beautiful door in Florence, opening up the doors back into what Florence was like centuries ago. The preparation and adorning of this door sparked a competition greater than gold, a competition to see who would create the best door for the Baptistery in 1401. Bruneleschi was among the competitors, but the winner was Gilberti who followed the Gothic style of the time and represented all the scenes of the life of Christ including the doctors of the church, the four apostles. These four figures stood at the base of the door because they represented Jesus’ life.
…And after I penned the information of the Baptistery door in my journal I wrote, “the wind is throwing my hair around- I am being blown around”- blessingly beautiful abundances. I paid attention to what Elisabetta was saying with my ears, but sometimes the details of everything around me- distracted my eyes and I could no longer listen to her and my thoughts were not Elizabetta’s words but my own thoughts on my own interpretations of the door. A beggar, a mother, begged while I stood at “the door of paradise.” Michelangelo called this winning door “The Door of paradise” and I call it this not because I am a posing follower, but because I agree, and because it is.
I have my camera in one hand, and my notebook and pen in the other…and the world all around me. And it is appropriate to say symbolically say “the world” because Florence is the most diverse city I have yet to experience thus far in all of Italy.
When I went to sleep at night beneath unwashed red fleece sheets in the sketchiest- yet, probably like most hostels, atop 415 steps to its anonymous wooden door, finding a man with thin light brown and somewhat greasy hair behind a night stand also the color of his hair and a dim dainty light serving as a reception desk -- I heard not Italian voices but the voices of English speaking Americans. The menu’s were in English- and translated into almost every language. The people I asked for directions understood my English. I didn’t order a cornetto, but a croissant. There was no struggle to get by. It was like if I had left the country but I hadn’t left the people.
…and like Elio Vittorini says in the novel I began to read in the hostel bed (probably accompanied my Florentine bed bugs) “Conversation in Sicily,” Vittorini describes the different conversations he hears while traveling “…but I had come to know the man with the oranges, the Big Lombard, the man from Catania, the young malaria victim wrapped up in his shawl…maybe it did make a difference whether I was in Siracusa or somewhere else.” I agree, the people do make a difference, they make up the place. The people are the place. They are the moving, present day alive statues, which fill Florence.
I have come to know the people of Bologna…from Sarah to Steffano and the other two girls who sit with me for almost three hours in the Collegio Alma Mater lobby as I make Italian flashcards of probably almost every single Italian word I know. We sit, we sing, we sing “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious…” in English and they teach it to me in Italian. I recite it to everyone who passes by. The poor man at the reception has to hear me struggle 100 times saying “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! Anche se il suono È qualcosa di atroce Se si dice abbastanza forte Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!” (which I know have taped onto my bed wall to rehearse every night before bed). Then the poor reception man has to hear me say it another 100 times when I feel I have perfected it.
Sarah and Steffano are my teachers. So is my professoressa Elisabetta who took us as a class to Florence. A wild thing! People study what I study, art history, all around the world. And I feel so honored, so privileged to literally marathon run to a train station, and by the time I catch my breath, have my breath be taken away by the art of which I have and am studying. It is right before my eyes, and although I cannot touch it nor can I photograph it, I can see it closer than most any other students. I can see the paint, I can see it beautifully chipping away with time.
While Elisabetta was teaching about a painting in the Duomo, I heard Todd mutter under his breathe to another student how people pay over 200euro for a private tour like this! And here I was journaling away in the Duomo… I am a student. Studentessa.
I learn not only from Elisabetta’s class, but also from what I hear, from what I see, from what I read, from what I taste, from the mistakes I make (like ordering a calamari pizza with no cheese). I learn from teaching too…
MI PIACHE. (I like). This was my favorite part of being in Florence…Gia met a lady, a teacher who taught second graders in Florence, while she was working as a hostess in L.A at Duke’s restaurant. Gia, the social Queen Bee, my great friend here, told this teacher how she would be studying in Italy next semester and next thing you know this lady, Romina, told Gia to come to her school to teach the bambinos English! Gia told me how she had signed us all up to teach at the school and I was thrilled! The day before teaching, we (Me, Gia, Sarah, Mark, Chelsea and Elle) were sitting on our hostel beds and Gia asked who was still in. I was. And so was Gia. It ended up being us two…the two adventurers. The next day I woke up early to see the sun rise on the Ponte Vechio with Chelsea, enjoyed a cappuccino and a frutta croissant and met up with Gia. Gia and I crossed Ponte Vechio, stopped for another espresso and headed to the school with very vague directions.
Gia and I became two school children, making friends with a Florentine mother and her two bella bambinas who were heading to the same school we were trying to find. I felt like I was no longer a tourist in this city, a feeling that I had since felt since arriving in Florence. I was a bambina too, a child exploring Florence. Many more mothers joined us and Gia and I gave “chinques” (high fives) to all the children, asking them questions and they skipped in front of us and behind us, in their boots and smiling faces eager to get to scuola!
Children kissed their parents goodbye and ran up the steps into their classrooms. Rooms where they learn, and where I did too through teaching. Romina came running down the steps. A thin, blonde, hyper, kind young lady embraced both Gia and I and I did not feel like a stranger. As soon as I entered the classroom, I did not stop smiling for the three hours Gia and I were there.
All the children looked like little Madeline’s in their blue robes, the blue robes of the little were embroidered and decorated with white iolite. These children were all so beautiful and intelligent… and so eager to learn English. Carmelina, a beautiful seven year old, the daughter of the most famous neurosurgeon in all of Italy, already knew the language and served as a translator between me and the children. She hopped on over to help me when I was trying to speak to Francesco. She was patient and kind. We taught the children the days of the week, the colors, what they liked and what they didn’t like… which most of their replies were “I like gelato” and “I don’t like vegetables.” We went over the colors by example with their colored pencils. They wanted to know the exact difference between the light reds and dark reds, the light blues, the turquoises, the dark blues. I taught them all I could. Standing there in front them, some of them almost as tall as me…the twins Niccolo and Cosimo were bright smiled boys while Cosmo seemed like a little sad puppy who slammed his fists on the tables when he was frustrated. Romina stood by him until he got it and Gia and I gave him high fives, his face no longer drooped down. The children, Francesco, Niccolo, Cosimo, Cosmo, Giulia, Carmelia, Vichenzo and all the others drew pictures of us and hugged us so tighly. In this Scula Nadia Nencioni I learned more than I thought I could. I learned about myself and of these Italian children and of Romina. I learned how life is about passions and if you are not passion about something do not bother. I stood up in the classroom and I learned how I was passionate to help these children learn, even when they were frustrated with differences of colors that were the same (like orange and peach and light orange) they learned too because they were passionate about learning- even puppy Cosmo. I showed them a globe and where I was from and where they were. They were all so impressed- but I was more impressed by them. There intelligence at the age of seven, their compassion at the age of seven. They saw me struggle with their language- and even at venti years old, they didn’t laugh or think I was stupid. They understood where I cam from and helped me. They were the one’s with patience, with me, when I tried to talk to them they struggled with me, until we had it…and figured out that they hated vegetables and liked gelato. We shared stories about our sorrellas and fratellos (brothers and sisters) and our pets. We hugged and we laughed... and then it was snack time for the children, bread and oranges and it was time for Gia and I to go and visit the David at the Galleria dell’ Accademia. The children embraced us and begged us to come back, as so did Romina. They showed us their drawings of us and we took many pictures with them. Although regardless of the photos, there is no way this moment
The steps to the David, the steps up to the hostel, the steps to the Michelangelo park, the steps to Romina’s second grade hostel and the 830 steps to the top of the tower…I was stepping all over the word.
Atop the tower, Chelsea and I tried to give Florence a color. I imagined the color of Verona was beige, whiter with a stain of red for it’s romantic feel. I tried to give Florence a tower while I stood there, facing the Duomo and the entire city. Like the children wanted to know the exact difference of color between their orange colored pencil and a lighter orange color pencil- I wanted to give Firenze (how Florence is said in Italian) an exact color, and just as seven year old Giulia gave her pencil the name of what would be a color of a crayola crayon, so I did to Florence: Wheat macaroni. It wasn’t quite yellow nor was it quite brown-ish. But it was the color of uncooked wheat macaroni. (and just now I recall, by looking at my journal writings that Elisabetta said the color, the real color, of Florence id Violet!)Yet, the front of the Duomo is an exception. The inside of the Duomo felt somewhat empty compared to it’s exterior. The interior was indeed beautiful with frescoes and paintings but the outside was beyond expressively ornate, intricate and beyond beautiful. The Duomo is the city’s geographical and historical focus. And with reason. The exterior of the Duomo blew me away with its richly decorated marbles and reliefs. Never had I seen such a beautifully built building. The façade of the Duomo, however, did not match it’s interior as it was commissioned to be rebuilt in another century.
It was breathtakingly stunning as the Tuscan sun was burning me, seeing the Duomo from the tower. I had the most spectacular view of arguable one of the most spectacular cities in the world!
Along with beauty on a corner street comes some not so beautiful times on the same corner streets. Witnessing a photo shoot taking place on a column of a street corner I saw the street corner where I faced one of those not so beautiful times. I thought this lady was beautiful, in her politically correct way to say “Roma” and not “gypsy” outfit, begging for money. Elisabetta was teachingly professing about statues inside a wall while I pulled out my camera and took a photo of this Roma lady. The photo was blurry. I put my camera away and then I could smell the lady next to me. For some reason, I smelt fear. I smelled myself. She was yelling at me. The class paused. David ran over to stand in front of me. People were nodding their heads at me to not give her money. I did not know what to do. She seemed brute. She seemed hungry. Todd threw some money into her cup but she continued to fuss. I threw in some money, although others nodded not to. She wanted more. I threw in some more. Some people thought she wanted to steal my camera. That thought didn’t even cross my mind. I thanked Todd and David and Todd told me it was a personal decision to give her money, you can’t give them all money but it is up to you to give to whom you want. My mind felt tortured at that moment. I did take a photo of her and would have given her money but when she started being so verbally brutal with me I no longer wanted to. I trembled for a moment but then stood still. I thought of my social justice class, and how I had defended these people, and I still wanted to, but at that moment I felt victimized. Yet, I wasn’t even the victim.
Walking away from that corner street, the class proceeded to see more. We moved away from tourist locations into a local neighborhood where in a little nook of a corner was situated a beautiful cathedral called Santa Maria del Fiore. It took almost fifteen years just to make the door, and yet we only stood inside for ten minutes for that was all that was allowed even with our paid entrance. I saw depictions of Adam and Eve, their story will always intrigue me. Probably because it was the first Bible parable I could recall.
We were viewing things from the humanistic period- a period focusing on, well on the human as an individual. We are the viewer, I am who chooses what to see while here in Florence (and in all of Italy). While walking on the side streets of Florence there was a wall next to me and on the other side of the wall there was water and beautiful buildings. I could see the buildings and even the bridges, but it did not occur to me that I could not see the water. Chelsea and Gia were talking about how beautiful it was and that’s when I whispered to myself that “Oh, I can’t see” and it didn’t even bother me but they picked me up and I saw the water, the reflection of the buildings and the bridge on it and saw all of its beauty.
The Ponte Vechio (a bridge that was saved even after Hitler and WWII) was where I stood to watch the rising if the Tuscan sun with Chelsea. The street looked like little wooded treasure boxes and jewelry boxes and at 8:30 in the morning one could see the little wooded treasure boxes open up and see the glimmer of silver and gold jewelry- and nothing else for the street of Ponte Vechio is only to sell gold and silver. It used to sell meats and cheeses and then goldsmiths took it over and since then it has become a law to only sell such treasures.
Once Kristin and Lee joined us in Florence (we had planned to train trip to Pisa and Sienna, but then opted to stay in Florence) we escaped throughout the streets. On our Saturday night we ate pizza and wine and on our Sunday we had gelato and encountered a Chocolate Festival in one of the piazzas of Florence! I had chocolate covered strawberries and chocolate covered pineapples while others had cups of chocolate, chocolate bananas, chocolate bars… we were on a chocolate craze.. and I let go of any worries and enjoyed my chocolate covered treasures. (as a girl, today was the perfect day for chocolate for my cramps were now cured). Florence was sweet.
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