Colin and I climbed the tower and took photographs until our cameras ran out of disk space.
What struck me and has remained with me ever since is how this little tourist mecca made so many people happy. Without exception wave after wave of visitors disgorged into the piazza with the same jaded, travel-weary look, but when they saw the tower, their faces lit up.
The Leaning Tower of Pisa gives people so much pleasure. Although considerable money and thought has gone into trying to correct its famous lean over a period of some eight centuries, the fact that it tilts shows something of man’s inability to always get it perfect, and I think that’s a lovely reminder to us all.
OF THE many things I love about Europe’s small cities, my favorite is that they place all transportation terminals near the town. Exhibit A is Pisa’s airport. In North America you have to drive at least an hour and a half to get to a major airport that always seems to be located in some godforsaken industrial hinterland where the terminal then has apparent free rein to stretch and expand and generally throw its weight around like a teenager going through puberty.
Not Pisa. It was the most stress-free visit to an airport I’ve experienced. It was a quick ten-minute drive from the not-so Grand Hotel—we probably could have walked it if we had to—and soon we were driving into the delightfully named Aeroporto Galileo Galilei, which practically begs you to break into a round of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” I later learned that the train stops at the airport before continuing to downtown Pisa. Well, what a concept. It makes me apoplectic to think of the unnecessarily complicated and bloated designs of North American airports.
Well-marked signs guided us to a passenger drop-off area, where we showered Colin with farewell hugs and kisses.
“Thanks so much for coming,” I said. “Sorry about . . . ”
“No, let’s forget it,” he smiled. “It was a lot of fun. I’m glad I came.”
That’s how the Brits are: You can have a near-nuclear row with them one day, and the next they are saying what a grand time they had. I never did find out what had been bugging him when he first arrived, but by the time he left things between us had settled back to normal. We had not shared a room—my mother disapproves of conjugal relations between unmarried people—and this was a sore point for me. I did not raise this with her, and Colin accepted the room arrangements without question, but I was peeved at my own lack of gumption—I’m in my fifties, for God’s sake!—and how I continue to kowtow to my mother’s preferences rather than to my own.
Mom and I carried on to Florence, about an hour away from Pisa unless you get snarled in the morning rush-hour traffic, which we did.
“What’s Freezie?” Mom asked as we inched along the highway.
“Firenze,” I corrected her. “Firenze is Italian for Florence.”
“Well, it looks like Freezie,” she said determinedly.
We were both looking forward to Florence, having heard so much about this treasure trove of art and architecture. Mom and I agreed we would need at least three days to soak it all in.
Naturally our first order of business was to find a hotel.
We breached the law that forbids cars in the centro storico and came to a stop in front of the Piazza della Repubblica. I put the car in park and took off on foot to find accommodation in one of the handful of pensiones whose signs were visible from the square.
The first was full, so I ran back to confer with Mom. Then I sprinted off to resume the search. This is an exercise that lacks the adventurous appeal it has at, say, age thirty.
I scaled the Hotel Olimpia, which was located on an upper f loor, in an old-fashioned cagelike lift, the kind you see in movies from the 1940s. There was nothing fancy or charming about this establishment, but the desk clerk was very polite and showed me a large corner room with huge windows facing the piazza. I felt it would be perfect for Mom and me.
“It is good you check in now,” he said in broken English. “There are security cameras everywhere. They watch and record all cars that come into the center of town. You would have got a ticket, but now that you have a hotel reservation, which I can verify to them, they will withdraw the ticket.”
The clerk said he would call an attendant, who would take our car to be parked in some unknown lot or sold for parts on the black market—I wasn’t quite sure which.
I returned to the car puffed with pride at having scored a room.
“What about the Savoy?” said Mom. “It’s just over there.”
“We won’t be able to afford it,” I said prudently, undoing her seat belt.
“Why not?” she cried.
“This hotel will be fine,” I assured her.
“What if I don’t like it?” she whined.
I struggled on the sidewalk with umpteen bags and suitcases, plus the red walker, plus my recalcitrant mother. I handed the car keys to a glum, grease-smeared man. When he left I realized I had forgotten to ask him if he was indeed the person the hotel had called. What the hell, I thought, as I struggled to grip the handle of another suitcase with three already attached to various parts of my body.
I managed to squeeze both us and our luggage into the tiny lift, and out of it when it arrived at the hotel level.
“This is our room?” said Mom when I opened the door to our room.
“Yes, isn’t it great? Corner room, high ceilings. Look at all those tall windows; they all open onto the square. We can people-watch!”
“This looks like a slum,” she countered.
It was not a slum. The room was open and airy and sure, it could have used the services of an interior decorator to haul it from the ’50s to the present, but it was no worse than the room in which we had stayed in Taormina. I was in no mood to get into a fight, so I changed the subject.
“Are you up for some sightseeing?” I said with feigned brightness.
“Don’t change the subject,” she said. “I don’t like this.”
“Well, it’s too late now. We’ve signed in, and the car has been taken away.”
“Then ask for it back.”
“Mom, be reasonable. This will be fine. Let’s go out.”
We left the hotel and made our way slowly down the Via Roma. We passed several plaques denoting b&bs. At every one Mom urged me to check it out. She even asked me to check the Savoy, which was fully booked.
“We already have a place,” I reiterated.
“But we’re not happy with it,” she shot back.
“We?”
“Oh, Jane, admit it; you don’t like it, either. It’s the worst hotel we’ve stayed in.”
“How is it the worst?” I said. “It’s on one level, it has enough room for you and your walker to do wheelies together, it’s bright, it’s close to the elevator and the dining room. It’s central. For the three days we’ll be spending here, it will be fine,” I said. “Besides, do you know the hassle it would be to change hotels now? I’d have to lug all our gear by myself down the street.”
“That’s OK,” she said. “I’ll help.”
I gave her a look of disbelief. Who was she kidding? She could barely walk, let alone drag luggage.
“No!” I said firmly. Then, in yet another attempt to distract her, “Isn’t that a church?”
I drew her by the hand across the Piazza del Duomo toward the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore.
“I don’t like it, Jane,” she insisted. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you, and the answer is still No! We are staying where we are,” I hissed to her as we passed beneath a poster of the Madonna and Child.
There were scads of people about and no sign indicating where the entrance was except an enormous line-up that curled around the side of the cathedral. I knew Mom would not tolerate that. I helped her mount the stairs, which she did with great difficulty, and we walked toward the cathedral’s small wooden door where a cluster of people had begun to file in.
I pushed Mom ahead with a nod to the man at the door and a “Mia madre è dis
abile.”
Our eyes adjusted to the dark coolness of the interior of Santa Maria del Fiore.
“Now, let’s talk about that room,” said Mom. “You know I’m not happy with it. I want it changed.”
I wandered away from her to keep my temper in check.
The interior of the cathedral was a vacuous space, completely devoid of character, certainly far more austere than its marble facade. In fact the most compelling attraction was the sight of tourists walking around with their digital cameras poised, trying to find something, anything, worth shooting. Even the high altar was a letdown, though, to be fair, the dome was beautifully painted and the inlaid marble floor was exquisite.
After a respectful period of time—and frankly, five minutes in there seemed an eternity—I indicated to Mom that I had had enough. We were about to exit when I saw a small sign off to one side that explained that all the artwork—paintings, statues, treasures—had been removed from the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore and transferred down the road to the Museo dell’Opera di Santa Maria del Fiore.
Well, that just made me angry. I can certainly appreciate that there is a responsibility to exhibit the vast richness and surfeit of Florentines’ religious art rather than having it languish in some basement storehouse (and I’ll grant you that there are pieces that have suffered from disintegration over the years and would be better maintained off-site in a place like the Museo dell’Opera), but to entirely eviscerate a cathedral and relocate its contents down the road is to partake of a kind of desecration—is there such a word as “articide”?—that defies comprehension.
We left the cathedral and plodded toward the Museo dell’Opera di Santa Maria del Fiore. There was no lineup, but there was a ticket person only too happy to take six euros from each of us. We did, however, receive a brochure in return and learned from it that the building had been in constant use as a construction office for the cathedral ever since the first stone was laid in 1296. It had also served as a studio to many Renaissance masters over the centuries. Donatello painted here, Brunelleschi toiled over the plans for the cathedral’s dome and its facade here, and Michelangelo carved his David in the courtyard.
It was strange to see pieces out of context with their original purpose or their original place in the cathedral. For instance, the cantorie (singing galleries), created by Luca della Robbia and Donatello in the 1430s are lovely to look at, but they make no sense hanging on a white wall when they were sculpted to fit over the doors to the two sacristies of the Cathedral.
My first thought when my eyes alighted on a life-size wooden statue of Mary Magdalene was, “Well, now they’ve really done it; they’ve brought modern art into the joint.” But as I edged closer, I learned from a description attached to it that it was not new; it was sculpted by Donatello in 1455. Artists throughout the centuries have portrayed Mary Magdalene as a voluptuous woman clothed in billowing taffeta and a hint of ironic innocence. This is nothing like that. It is the most heartbreaking statue I have ever gazed upon: a gaunt, ragged, sunken-eyed, emotionally and physically spent Mary Magdalene clinging to her faith with bony hands pressed together in desperate prayer.
WE LEFT the museum and shuffled back along the Via Roma toward the Piazza della Repubblica, where we stopped at an awning-covered café for refreshment.
While waiting to be served, we struck up a conversation with a young woman at the next table. She was from New Orleans and introduced herself as Deborah—heavyset, raven haired, and scarlet lipped. She had just been laid off from her job in the hospitality business, she said, and being at loose ends she figured, “Hey, I might as well visit Florence.”
She was spunky and straightforward, a refreshing change after weeks of the more formal Italians.
“Well, if you’re in the hospitality business you must adore the food here,” I said, bracing myself for her glowing assessment.
She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. “Well, the wine I’m drinking right now tastes bitter, and I’m guessing that’s because the bottle’s been open for some time. Trust me, I worked in food and beverage for twenty years—I know. And this lasagna? Chef Boyardee must be in the kitchen. I do better Bolognese than these guys. Granted, I’ve only been in Italy a week, but so far the food has been seriously mediocre. The Italians have done a good marketing job on their mythical haute cucina—ha! I just thought of that! Clever, huh?”
I began to wonder whether a support group existed for all the people who had visited Italy and found the food so utterly lacking. (I feel compelled at this point to add an aside:
I returned to southern Italy with Colin a year and a half later— it was September—and we had some spectacular meals. All were in restaurants not easily accessible to those with a physical disability.)
Tea had revived Mom, and when we returned to our hotel room, she continued her rant about our accommodation.
“It’s only for three nights,” I insisted again. “You’re always telling me to ‘roll with the punches,’ but it seems that only applies when the punches are acceptable to you.”
I looked at the scuffed dark wood furniture, the worn but clean brown bedspread, the deflated-looking pillows, the bare tiled floors. There was no t v and no radio, but who cares about those things on holiday? Sure, the room’s walls were a dull beige, but it was clean, and as I had pointed out to her earlier, the location was great.
“This is a dump,” she countered. “And the bathroom—it has a step-up, you might have noticed. You know how bad I am on steps—and it’s small and badly laid out. What sort of place allows a toilet to share the same space as the shower?
I can hardly get in that bathroom, let alone use it. Plus, the water pressure is almost nil, and the toilet barely flushes.”
She was right, of course. I was going to add that the hotel’s Internet connection constantly crashed, but I didn’t feel this was the time.
“But look, we’re right in the center of the city; our windows open up on to the square!” I enthused.
“What’s so great about that?” she said, marching determinedly toward the window. “It will be noisy, and who wants to look at all those people anyway? No, I don’t like this one bit. You did not consider my needs when you picked this place. I think we’ve had enough of Florence. Let’s leave.”
“What? We just got here! Look, I think you need a nap”—a very long nap, I was tempted to add. “Why don’t you have a lie-down, and I’ll go out and look around?”
“Yes, you do that; and find us a new place to stay.”
Jesus Christ. Do seniors get pms?
One thing was certain: I was not leaving Florence without a visit to the Uffizi.
I left the hotel and followed a small road to the Piazza della Signoria, where the place was positively abuzz with humanity in all its glorious chaos. There were colossal statues everywhere, including a replica of Michelangelo’s David. I strode confidently over to admire it, only to discover how ridiculously uncomfortable it is to be gazing up at a man’s testicles and at a penis so tiny—has anyone else noticed this?—for a young man with such large hands and feet. Perhaps Michelangelo was running out of marble.
Around the perimeter of the piazza, cafés were clogged with people enjoying a late-afternoon aperitif and watching the passing parade. There did not appear to be a lineup at the Uffizi—hurrah!—but it was not until I reached its front doors that I understood why. It was Monday, and the Uffizi was closed on Mondays. I was disappointed, but as I walked back to the hotel, an idea popped into my head.
“I found the most amazing place,” I said to Mom as I entered our hotel room. “You have to see it. It’s not far, and there are cafés around and we can have dinner there.”
She looked unsure of this idea—after all, I was the one who had chosen the hotel—but she grudgingly got herself ready.
Off we went. Mom and her ever-present red walker rumbled over the uneven cobblestones. At least the red walker looked more excited about the excursion than Mom. When the
street finally ended and opened onto the Piazza della Signoria, I watched for her reaction.
Nothing.
“Isn’t this incredible?” I enthused.
“I need to sit down,” she said. “How about dinner?”
I looked down at the walker to see if I could elicit a more favorable reaction, but it always stayed loyal to its mistress.
We settled into a ringside table at the first café we came to and ordered outrageously priced g&ts and dinner. Our waiter tried to slip an extra item onto our bill, but I was now wise to the practice.
Mom and I were enjoying the last drops of our coffee when two Italian men sat down at a table next to us. One of them began chatting with me. His name was Raphael, and he owned a leather shop in town. When he learned that I was from Canada, he mentioned that he had family in Toronto. We had a pleasant chat, and then Raphael gave me his business card and said he would be only too happy to help me pick out a nice leather coat. I had heard that Florence was the place to buy a leather coat, but I wasn’t in the market for one.
“That seemed like a shifty deal,” Mom said, eyeing me.
“You didn’t make plans to go out with him later, did you?”
“Are you mad? Of course not! What do you think I am?”
“Well, you never know,” she said. “He seemed rather persistent.”
AT SEVEN o’clock the next morning I hit the cobblestones and made tracks for the Uffizi. The air was cool, and the sun was rising through light clouds. The cobblestones had been cleansed of their daily grime by an overnight drizzle and were still damp. All was silent except for my footsteps echoing off the buildings. Morning is my favorite time of day. I love hearing and seeing a town wake up, and I am fascinated by the people who stoke the day and get the activity started.
At the Uffizi I took my place in the thick lineup, about four abreast, that had already begun to form, curling like a swollen python beneath the museum’s long U-shaped colonnaded porch.
Incontinent on the Continent Page 23
