Botticelli's Firenze

Walk through the opening of the square door in the first long corridor of the Uffizi Gallery leaving behind room number nine, the Pollaiolo Room. Pass the stony, unsmiling museum employees who police the rooms. “Non fotografia!” They shout at the occasional bold tourist who dares produce a camera around the historic art collection. Move forward into the heard of tour groups, guides, and school children all vying for a spot against the rope-lined walls of the room labeled 10-14 on the free gallery map. This chamber is known as the Botticelli room because it houses a cornucopia of works painted by the renowned Florentine.
An English speaking tour guide shepherds a flock of visitors over to prodigious rectangular painting on the wall left of the entrance. “Here we have the Birth of Venus a piece finished by Sandro Botticelli in the year 1486.” The tour guide explains while flashing a red laser in the vicinity of the art. Four figures people the pastel ocean landscape. The dominate figure is a nude woman who appears almost as a sculpture perched delicately on a flowering clam shell. Venus modestly veils her nudity with a handful of flaxen hair as she gazes off into the distance. In the right hand corner of the painting a tangled husband and wife, Zephyrus and Chloris, blow Venus into the receptive arms of the motherly nymph on shore.
“The painting illustrates a pagan myth, but it is a blur of paganism and Christianity. The Venus is in a pose that is typically reserved for the Virgin Mary, and the god of wind could easily be transformed into a Christian angel. Also the cloak bearing nymph is positioned similarly to images of St. John the Baptist.” The tour guide continues educating while illuminating the painted figures in red light. Thrusting, forceful tourists shove closer to the moat of metal fence. “Scuzi! Scuzi!” Butchering the Italian phrase, an American dressed in khaki shorts and a tourist t-shirt rams between a gaggle of European school children and an Asian couple. The man is part of the bumping mob aiming for the perfect view of the Birth of Venus. The obnoxious sightseer withdraws a digital camera. He is able to fire off one quick flash before the Uffizi guards begin their chorus accompanied by shaking fingers and sign pointing. The camera is re-holstered and slipped away.
The tour guide having concluded the speech on the Birth of Venus and allowing a moment of reflection in front of the painting plunges a sign containing the tour company logo high above her head. “We are now going to move as a group the the left side of this painting. Stay close and try not to get lost in the crowds.” The group shuffles along the wall until the guide pauses in front of a circular frame of gold painted wood. The extravagant frame of craved roses incases a painting of Madonna and child. The maiden mother, who is dressed in the symbolic cardinal and navy, dips the tip of a pen in ink preparing to compose more of the canticle of the Magnificat while the baby playfully sits in her lap holding a pomegranate. The Virgin and child are in the company of five angelic boys. Three of the boys assist and oversee the scripture; while the taller two lower a crown on to the scarf bound head of the regal Mary.
The guide allows a few stragglers to rejoin the mass before beginning her speech. “Madonna of the Magnificat, completed in 1481, is a quintessential example of a Botticelli Madonna, but the painting has the unique twist. All of the figures have the appearance of being reflected in a convex mirror.” She accounts the style and history of the painting to the group. The family of Piero de’ Medici, a lord who ruled in Florence, is believed to be portrayed. A notable member of the family, Lorenzo de’ Medici, is the young boy holding the ink pot. Lorenzo, who was later to be nicknamed Lorenzo the Magnificent, became a political celebrity and connoisseur of Renaissance art in his later life.
Again the sign is a deacon in the congested room. The mob is herded to a space on the white wall lined in pictures that is directly facing the entrance of the room. The center of the wall is dominated by flowery scene of white, red. green, and orange. Pregnant women with flowing gold hair dance around in a forest of daisies and orange groves. A man dressed in a red robe stands to the left side with his bow raised. On the right side a woman is being chased by a blue figure, but the focal point of the painting is in the center. A regal woman in the red and blue of the Virgin Mary is haloed in a crown of blue sky and foliage. The woman stands back gracefully admiring the events that surround her.
“La Primavera is another one of Botticelli’s famous pieces completed in 1482. This is another brilliant mix of pagan and Christian symbolism. The history of the painting is known, but it is believed to have been commission by a member of the Medici family to celebrate either a birth or a wedding. It is also thought that the inspiration for the painting came from an ancient Greek poem which served as a similar inspiration for the Birth of Venus.” The guide went on to describe some of the symbolism and representations in the painting.
Many of the characters present in the painting are the same as in the Birth of Venus. Chloris and Zephyrus are again present at the side of Venus, who is the central figure. New to this scene is the god, Mercury, the three graces, and baby cupid. Many of the painted figures are modeled after members of the Medici family. The extricate forest is suitable for the prosperous family. “Botticelli depicted over 500 specific plants and flowers in the backdrop of the painting.” The guide lectures. “Take a few minutes to take pleasure in the details and the overall effect of the painting and then follow me.”
The group follows the guide to the wall opposite the Birth of Venus. On this wall by the blocked door to the corridor the cicerone halts in front of a smaller painting that is predominately teeming with Christian symbolism. Botticelli’s Adoration of the Magi places the Virgin Mary and her baby in the ruins of an ancient building while the Florentine elite crowd around to revere the gifted child. “This painting was commission by Gaspare di Zanobi del Lama, a banker in Florence who was well connected to the Medici family. The banker and many of the Medici clan are portrayed in the painting. Botticelli is also thought to have painted his self portrait. He is the figure in the beige cloak on the right.” More lecture on the history of the painting.
Giorgio Vasari, an art historian from the 1500s, commented on the painting in his book, Lives. “The beauty of the heads in this scene is indescribable, their attitudes all different, some full-face, some in profile, some three-quarters, some bent down, and in various other ways, while the expressions of the attendants, both young and old, are greatly varied, displaying the artist's perfect mastery of his profession. Sandro further clearly shows the distinction between the suites of each of the kings. It is a marvellous work in colour, design and composition.”
The flock of tourists, clearly becoming antsy and bored, glance at the painting for a few moments before fidgeting and chatting. “So what do you want to get for lunch after this? There was a cafe outside. I am not really in the mood for anymore pasta. How about a sandwich?” A middle aged woman with teased hair and a fanny pack interrogates her balding husband. Sensing the restlessness of the group, the guide hastens the tourists along to the next painting.
Along the same wall as the Adoration of the Magi, the guide paused in front of a portrait of a young man with flowing brown hair that is topped by a red cap. The man displays a coin or medal in his hands. “This is thought to be the portrait of Botticelli’s brother although the exact identity of the man is unknown. He is holding a coin with the face of Cosimo the Elder. Lets continue on to the next painting.” The guide leads the group to the last unseen wall in the room.
Another tour group huddles in front of the painting the tour guide intends to show. “I will just go ahead and talk to you while we wait to see the Cestello Annunciation. This painting was completed in 1490 and was commissioned by the convent of Cestello. It is still in its original frame which has a Latin quote reading, “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee” under the frame.” The group is able to move closer to the wall and see the painting. The red and blue clad Virgin swoons towards the elegant angle at her feet. In the background a window opens up onto a few of Botticelli’s holy Florence.
“Well that is everything for this room. Lets make our way into room 15, the Leonardo room, where we will look at some of the artwork left in Florence by da Vinci.” The guide waves the sign above her head and begins to stroll toward the exit. A few of the visitors take one last look back into the room full of Botticelli’s masterpieces before disappearing into the next room of the museum.

Eating Asian in Italy

"What do you think of this?" Lynette held up a small bottle of El Paso guacamole. " I really want green sauce. I think I'm gonna get it." I nodded my head in agreement as she lowered the bottle into our basket. We were on a mission to find something other than Italian food. Pasta, although delicious, had run its course after the twentieth meal in a row. We were both craving the variety of foods that we had at home.
"Oooo! I found tortillas. What could we make?" I waved the one euro package of Spanish bread. We spent twenty minutes exploring the isles of the store looking for some kind of filler for our beenie blankets, but our venture was unsuccessful. I returned the tortillas to the shelf as Lynette stumbled across a package of ramen noodles.
“We can make Asian!” She declared triumphantly. I agreed in excitement, and we wound through the maze of isles another time to discover more ingredients. A frozen box platter of assorted seafood was added the the cart along with a package that appeared to contain some kind of Asian sauce. A bottle of Chianti red wine was included to complement our dinner ensemble. Groceries purchased, we rushed back to the apartment in the rain eager to try out hand at cooking.
In the kitchen we laid out all of our stuff. “How about we start with the seafood?” Lynette suggested while pulling a frying pan out of one of the small cabinets. The pan was settled onto one of the burners of the gas stove, and the gas was turned on. Lynette used a sparker to create a glowing flame under the black metal. I tore into the packaging of the frozen shrimp, oysters, and squid and removed all of the plastic until I held in my hand a block of ice and fish.
“Should we break it up or something before cooking it?” I questioned. “There is a lot of ice on the bottom.” The two of us studied the seafood iceberg for a few minutes. We had no idea what to do with it.
“I’m sure it will be fine if we just cook it like that.” Lynette finally decided, so we tossed the fish and ice into the pan to fry. Nicole, Lynette’s roommate, strolled into the kitchen to assess our progress on the dinner. She surveyed the pot of boiling water that would contain the noodles and stared quizzically at the slowly melting seafood before walking over to the refrigerator.
“Here lets add some zucchini, onions, and garlic.” Nicole offered placing the items on a cutting board and slicing them with a large sharp knife. She was the residential cooking aficionado. Nicole finished dicing the additives and tossed them into the pan with the fish. The ice had melted by now and everything was frying correctly. We added the noodles to the boiling water, and minutes later the food was ready to be taken off the stove.
Lynette used a bowl to mix the noodles with our seafood concoction and an Asian sauce. The bowl and an appetizer of dipping chips and the guacamole were added to the table. Nicole and I doled out plates, forks, and napkins. Finally we were ready to eat. I served myself a decent potion of the noodles while munching on the green dipped chips. Using a fork, I scooped up a bite of the meal and plunged it into my mouth. The taste of the food on my tongue was unlike anything I had ever tried before, but it was fairly good. Our chef experience had ended well. The three of us stuffed our faces until we could not fit anything else into our stomachs. My first home cooked meal was a delicious success.

An Eden in Florence

From the outside, the Basilica of San Lorenzo has the appearance of a large stone warehouse. The outside was never completed due to a disagreement between the Medici family and Michelangelo. The church which is in the middle of a tourist market is surrounded by boisterous venders who have set up shop and obnoxious crowds of tourists from across the globe. The atmosphere of clashing voices and languages makes it difficult to appreciate the church’s serenity and spirit, but travel through a heavy wooden door on the and down a stone path to find a quiet sanctuary.
The cloisters of San Lorenzo are filled in lush, stylized greenery. A courtyard of parchment colored arches and stone accented wooden doors surround a garden of stoutly trimmed hedges and blankets of grass stems. The only sound here is the scrape, scrape, scrape as a gardener reorganizes a gravel footpath and sweeps away fallen leaves. In the center of the garden is shaggy orange tree that ascends majestically into the dawning grey sky. The fruit on the tree is plump and the flecks of color add spice to the mostly neutral ocean of jade, wood, and parchment. I am in awe of this orange tree as a breeze catches a couple of the leaves making them waltz before falling back into place.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a leathered nun purely clad in a white habit. She reminds me of a sage angel who has donated her life to assisting man kind. The nun rounds a corner and enters one of the heavy doors as another zephyr takes the hand of the orange tree. I imagine I have found a small piece of Eden in this fruit tree. This, I think, is the world Adam and Eve once cherished. God makes his presence known through the dancing leaves of a simple, worldly orange tree.

Apartment Found

Our bus jerked to a wild stop on a side street catty corner a massive brick building that vaguely resembled the Texas Alamo. “What is that?” the petite blond girl to my right asked pointing in the direction of the building. The driver, a weathered man who smelled of cigarette smoke and body odor, spoke almost zero English and clearly did not catch the girl’s question. He exited the van and then opened up the sliding door on our side. The man made a large sweeping gesture with his arm. “Out. This you place.” The nine of us, all college aged girls, looked around puzzled and bewildered.
The cobble stone street was cluttered by white tents which contained market gifts of souvenirs, shoes, jackets, and purses. To our left a group of thug looking men were hocking a variety of designer handbags and sunglasses. There was shouts of “Ciao bella! Good price!” as obvious tourists made their way down the street. On our left was an Italian caffe; it was wafting with the smells of baking doughy bread. No where did I see the apartment at which the driver claimed we had arrived. Are we living in a tent with the street vendors?
I felt my luggage suddenly thrust against my leg; the driver had already completely unloaded all of our suitcases from the van. He pressed a key into our hands and shook his hand at an elongated wooden door. “That. Go up.” He said and then returned to the van and drove away. I was dumbfounded. I guess they don’t believe in a warm welcoming here. Another girl in the group walked up to the designated door and tried her key. The door swung open a staircase. Up we went; five flights of steep inclining stairs were between me and the apartment. It was a difficult climb as I lugged all of my possessions required for the next two months. I was out of breath when we reached the top and another wooden door. We tried the key again, and the door opened to reveal the spacious apartment I would be living in for the next two months.

Weekend of Relaxation

The touch screen box contraption in front of me lit up with numerous options, but none of the small windows read, “Buy a ticket.” Instead all of the print on the apparatus was written in Italian, so I stared hopelessly dumbfounded at the fast ticket machine as locals and tourist alike bustled past me carrying varying forms of luggage. Seeing the look of confusion permanently glued to my face, my traveling companion, a New Yorker and subway riding expert named Nicole, scurried over to manipulate the magic box. She typed in a mystical unlock pattern, and suddenly the English translations appeared on the screen. After a few more taps and an exchange of my credit card information, I was rewarded with a round trip train ticket to Viareggio.
The train ride was about an hour and thirty minutes, and we spent the entire journey with our eyes on the wondrous Tuscany country side that was beyond the grimy window. Vast expanses of classic stucco houses with rustic tiled roofs filled the picture frame. The houses were off set by the gradient grass hills covered in browning terraces. Every now and then a conscientious Italian farmer or a grazing heard of cattle would add character to the picturesque landscape. The sea of burnt sienna, emerald, parchment, and brick went swimming past as the locomotive speed for the next railway stop.
After short stops in Lucca and other small Tuscan towns, Viareggio appeared on the royal blue sign with white lettering that indicated we had arrived at the train station. With excitement, my friends and I collected our beach bags and jumped onto the concrete platform as soon as the sliding metal doors opened. The inside of the station was a blur of caffes lined with gelato, croissants, italian sandwiches, and newspaper stands as we rushed outside toward the beach.
Passing through the glass train station doors was like entering into a circus tent. Palm trees flanked the cobble stone street that was home to candy colored shops and apartments, and amicable locals dressed in patterned clothes smiled and nodded in greeting. The sent of sea salt air caught in our nostrils as we walked down the street admiring the view. In the center of the vertical street was a sandstone church that towered above the rest of the taffy flavored buildings. The church was decorated with a modest white cross, small exterior statues, and a pastel colored fresco high above the door. Moving on from the church was a brick clock tower that rang out in chimes every fifteen minutes; a block from the clock tower that the horizontal board walk began.
More shops and palm tress made up the board walk and there were even a few small children’s rides. Hungry, we entered one of the pizza restaurants that was oozing with the smell of freshly baked dough. Lynette, a Texas girl who spoke the most Italian in the group, asked, “Quanto costa questo?” The shop keeper, a rounded Italian man with a trusting smile, hefted a slice onto a scale and pointed at the numbers that appeared on the cash register. “Uno, trenta euro.” he replied. A bargain! We quickly paid in coins and took our pizza slices to-go.
We walked the twenty feet to the dark sand and ate our pizza slices. The sand, which scalded our feet, was littered with vibrant tents, beach chairs, and towels as grey majestic mountains loomed in the distance. Locals soaked in UV rays to brown already tan bodies or played volleyball on designated parts of the shore. My two companions and I scouted out a clear spot near the sun bathed tide. We set up our small camp of patterned beach towels and sat down to take in the relaxed atmosphere and watch the sail boats drifting in the distance.