Day 47, Barcelona to Malaga

One thing I just love about Spain: Time. There doesn't seem to be any. Or if there is, nobody's keeping track. When I checked in at my hostel, the guy in charge gave me a big fat notebook of fun things to do. ¨Read it at your leisure, of course,¨ he said. ¨This is Spain.¨ And indeed. For all the rambling and promenading, nobody seems to be in a big hurry. Of course, I don't have a job, so I'm not feeling any pressure, but it's definitely different here. I got up this morning at 8:45, made it out the door by a leisurely 9:30, and by 10 am, lots of places around me are still struggling to take down chairs and start serving coffee.

I like a place where I am an over-achiever, in terms of the wake-up procedure. Since grad school, left to my own devices with no alarm clock, I will routinely sleep 10 hours a night, for days on end. I used to have a job where I was at work, smiling, and conversing with middle schoolers by 6:45 or 7 am. I did this for years, on probably 6 or 7 hours of sleep a night. I'm assuming my current pattern will eventually balance out, and I'll be replenished, and start waking up at reasonable hours. But for now, a toast to the Spanish, for encouraging me to sleep in.

Best $12 I have spent in a long time: The Miro Museum. It's on Montujuic, in Barcelona's steep, ritzy Jewish quarter, and it's a beautiful walk up there. It's so steep, in fact, the city has thoughtfully provided dozens of outdoor escalators to get people up to all of these museums and parks up there. My favorite thing about the museum visit was all of the groups of preschoolers. I counted 4 or 5 separate classes, the cutest of them all dressed in red. They hopped and ambled up the stairs and some of them wandered in circles while their patient museum educator was talking (thinking of you, Jessica R!) but most of them were enthralled. And that's why I love Miro so much- accessible even to tiny people, but so multi-layered and complex that adults can stand in front of a piece for hours, pondering love and longing and loss and the fragility of existence and tenderness and war and patriotism and peace...and on and on.

The sculptures were stunning, I thought- spare and simple but really, really potent. The big idea I took from my sculpture class last semester is that scuplture is a lot, I mean a lot, harder than it looks, in terms of proportion and balance and movement and joinery. Miro's are wonderful. There was one called ¨Monument in the Middle of the Ocean to the Glory of the Wind.¨ There was another one, ¨Homme i Dona en la Nuit,¨ with two slightly different barstools, one upturned, with a crescent moon. One of the paintings I loved was something like, ¨Numbers and Letters Attracted by a Spark,¨ and dozens of other beautiful titles. I had 3 stops to make today before leaving for Malaga, but I didn´t make it past the museum.

After that, one last walk around the Barri Goti, during which I got lost one last time. (I´ve been playing the game here in which I always go toward the darkest, narrowest, crookedest streets, on the hunch that that will take me deeper in and lead me to the interesting things. Twice, from different places, it's taken me directly to my hostel, without looking at signs.) Kind of a long journey to Malaga, although it shouldn´t have been; getting to the airport involved a 20 minute walk, a subway, a city train, and a 10 minute bus ride to the terminal. I was prepared to do an elaborate procedure in Malaga to get to the train station, check my big luggage, find a bus, and walk from the city center to my hostel, but in the dark and the rain, I said, screw it. Cab. So worth it.

Tonight, one of the best meals yet, especially in Spain. My hostel has a bar in the foyer, and one of the desk guys (improbably named Fabio, of all things) had cooked dinner. They take turns. Some sort of Spanish soup with greens and veggies, and a giant plate of baked tomato-potato-veggie deliciousness. Oh, and two homemade sangrias. Tomorrow, the real reason for my trip to Spain: the Alhambra. Update soon.

Day 46? That can´t be right...Barthalona.

In Barthalona. My friend Greg thaid it like that for fun, and now I can't thtop. Try it, it's dangerous...but really, I love the way they say it here. Bar-che-lo-na, with a ¨che¨ like in ¨cello.¨ Sitting now in Parc Guell, and it's a sunny and breezy 60 degrees this morning in Spain.

I have stumbled onto another really nice place to stay, in the Barri Gotic, the old gothic core of the city. It's a bit like Stone Town, actually, with a maze of narrow streets, and all the landmarks disappearing when the storefronts close. I got here yesterday and had my first almost-disaster of planning. The directions to my hostel were really, really explicit- which is good because, from the street, it's completely invisible. So, in fact, is the street itself. There's a row of graffiti-covered garage-style doors, and a small number "4" and a bell that says, "Marcela 3A." The door itself is cut into one of these larger doors, so it's hidden, too. I ring the bell and...nada. I ring it several times....nada again, and I am standing in pickpocket central, with all of my luggage. I don't care if they take all my clothes at this point- it's all just laundry, really- but I will fight tooth and nail for my Turkish boots and Zanzibar presents and Italian groceries.

I re-group. I drag my luggage to the first place I can find to sit down. I have a sandwich and a coke and decide, if I can't get into my hostel, to just find an new one nearby and eat the cost. It doesn't come to that. I drag my luggage back down the winding streets to the hidden street and the secret door, and by great good luck, this South African guy named Clinton is there to let me in. Clinton is my new best friend, because there is no elevator, and he cheerfully carried my biggest bag up three flights. I was just going to abandon it for three days, it's ridiculous, but he was still smiling when he got to the top and just said, ¨"That's quite the heavy one, isn't it!" Bless him. And he showed me my room, which is fun and really funky, and he takes out a map. He writes all over it- the place with the 75 cent champagne, and the place with the cool fountains, and the subway stop and the two towers I need to look for to get there, and the best tapas place.

He shows me something else I didn't know on the map. Barcelona used to be three villages, and you can see them still on the city map with lots of small and winding streets. They were knitted together at some point in an expansion called "l'Eixample," with a grid in between to unify the whole city. It's really easy to tell when you've stepped out of one of the villages into the grid. Here, the buildings are pulled way back from the corners at all of the intersections in gentle curves, and the area in the intersections looks more like the shape of a roundabout. Most streets have huge medians, which are either for pedestrians or huge bike lanes.

The most famous street here, La Rambla (or Las Ramblas, if you string a few of them together) is for promenading. In fact, this city seems to have a different take on the public realm than Italy did. Here it's all about movement. Promenading is a big deal, and the public spaces I've seen are either these long, wide pedestrian districts, or full-on parks. There are little expanses here and there, plaças, but they're not really gathering spots. In the pedestrian areas, there are cafes with tables, but no benches to speak of for the general public. You're meant to keep moving. The word "Rambla" has something to do with the movement of water, but it sounds like ramble, and that's what people are doing. There are different Ramblas scattered about the city, in addition to the main one. Another "movement" word- there's also a street nearby called the "Passeig de Gracia," which I love.

My thoughts on Las Ramblas: I´m sorry. I don't like it. But it has nothing to do with Las Ramblas itself- it's one of the great streets of the world, and I know this because it's in my Great Streets book. The problem: it's infested, just infested, with those fake statue people. For those of you who don't know this personal quirk of mine, THESE PEOPLE CREEP ME OUT. They creep me out like clown dolls. I pass them and I feel awkward, and then embarrassed for them, and I wonder why they feel like standing still entitles them to any of my money? There are some clever ones around here. There's a creepy soldier in camouflage holding a rifle, which is even scarier; there are some headless bodies with floating hats and spectacles; some eerie all-in-black-lace ghost women. Right now in the park I'm watching a caveman put on makeup for his ¨homo barcelonus" diorama. He's been doing this for 20 minutes. But again I say, they are not street performers, they are just standing still. When I walk past them, I always have the look on my face that Will Ferrell has in Elf, when he's testing the Jack-in-the-Boxes. Creepy. So, Las Ramblas on a Sunday means dodging these people every 15 or 20 feet, and trying to snake through the crowds gathered all round them, waiting for them to ...what?? What is it they think they're going to do??

In other news: pickpockets in Barcelona. They are legendary. I have found them, in the form of Gaudi ticket sales people. They separated me from 10 € today to get into Sagrada Familia, but didn't tell me in advance that, due to construction, I would be able to tour all the open spots in less than 2 minutes. You're not allowed to use the stairs, but they will sell you a ticket for an elevator ride. Mean mean mean. I wanted to love it, but between the jackhammers and scaffolding and crane action, you really can't see much of anything in there. Some of the details, like the beautiful doors and the strange sculptures, are worth a close look. Some of it looks like...a drizzle castle.

Pickpocketed again at Casa Mila, but that one's only 6 € and totally worth it. Again, strange. After Parc Guell, and Sagrada Familia, and now Casa Mila, I'm starting to wonder about this man. I love Gaudi in theory: I love Art Nouveau; I love his color theory; I love that he tried to work outside the box and push the envelope. Up close, though, it's all so snaky and reptilian and spinal. It's supposed to be organic, but it's a little unsettling. On to Casa Batilo, my last Gaudi stop of the day. The thieving scoundrels and hoarders of culture at the gate want 18 €. For reference, the Uffizi is 10; the Louvre is 9, a ticket to the pyramids is like $6, at ticket to the Acropolis, or the Roman Forum, is like 7€. Leaving Italy I had a come-to-Jesus meeting with myself over the travel budget, so I decided to skip that last one. Criminal. Gaudi is everywhere here, though, and so is Art Nouveau, and it adds a really nice atmosphere to the city. So I won't complain about them trying to capitalize on it. Much.

Tonight: budget picnic, delicious actually, in front of the cathedral. I found the perfect antidote to the fake statue people: three of my favorite street performers of all time. They actually had a dance-hall piano out there, and a banjo and a trumpet. The lead singer looked like Kurt Cobain but sounded like Louis Armstrong. They sang "Makin' Whoopie" in front of the Barcelona Cathedral. A perfect moment.

And now: off in search of the 75 cent champagne place.

Last day in Italy

Rejoining the urban design and public realm treatise I started way back in Italy:

The whole public realm thing is even more clear in Siena than it is in Florence. Since it's a gothic city, and essentially a fortress, the streets are pleasantly narrow, and the buildings are all fairly tall. Walking through the streets you get a real sense of shelter, of protection, of compression- and most of all, community. You're not in a car, you're face to face with your neighbors and shopkeepers and elected officials and family and tourists, all the time, and everyone rises to the occasion and behaves accordingly. In a place like this, you can feel the ¨We're all in this together¨ spirit. If the enclosure of the street starts to feel a bit much, you just duck down one of the slanting arched passageways into the Piazzo del Campo, which is a sudden vast and sunny expanse. Here, the behavior changes dramatically, The openness and wide, slanting piazza seems to make people a little giddy. Tiny people start spinning or jumping, teenagers do teenager things, and everyone else just plops down to enjoy it all, either at a cafe table or onto the brick piazza itself. There are eleven streets leading off this piazza- but they're pretty well hidden and tucked away. The buildings surrounding the piazza make a varied, but consistent, wall around it all, so it's a really nice street room. A huge one.

And so, to wrap up this whole urban design tangent, we need more of this, everywhere. Raleigh's working on it, and making some good progress. More pedestrian, thoughtfully considered, dynamic spaces, wehre people in the community interact, face-to-face. It's much harder to participate in civic life, and feel like a part of the fabric of the community, when you have to spend your days moving from enclosed house to enclosed car to enclosed office, and back. I'm all for more truly public places for people to gather- informally, to have a drink on the sidewalk, or riotously, like a carnivale parade, or politically, whether it's a health care reform rally or a Tea Party fest. We all know which side of this I'm on, I just went off on Sarah Palin again, but one of the great things about a democracy is that everyone has a voice. You don't like something? Speak up. State your case. It keeps us balanced. And where does all of this healthy activity take place? The public realm. It needs expanding.

Back, then, for one more night in Florence, and tomorrow to Spain. One week in Italy: not nearly enough. But I'm leaving with some lovely, lovely* sights tucked away in my memory, and a shopping bag full of Italian groceries, which I will share when I get home.

*I am throwing the double ¨lovely¨ in for Arrie. She and Jess, two of my favorite Raliegh-ites, have been following my trip on a map this whole time, and commenting on my progress. When Arrie mentioned they need to do some catching up on both the blog and the map, I suggested they just make it a drinking game, and take a drink everytime I say ¨lovely,¨or change cities or something, and then guzzle for a bike crash or a failed Italian love affair (not sure which is more scarring in the long run.) If you´re in the same catch-up boat, I invite you to do the same. Lovely lovely lovely.

Day 44. Oh my gracious merciful heavens. Siena.

Siena: I was not prepared to be so smitten. I know, you've heard ths before- Istanbul, and Zanzibar, but now it's Siena. I am fickle, but traveling from one fabulous place to the next, it's unavoidable.

So- Lonely Planet says people tend to fall hard either for Florence or Siena. Florence's glory days were the Renaissance, and Siena's were the Gothic era, so the atmosphere is really different in each. Who knew, I am a Gothic girl. But not the gloomy, brooding kind. Italian Gothic has about as much in common with weighty, French, "Hunchback of Notre Dame" Gothic as, well, Italy does with France: not all that much. In either case, Gothic is all about the wall, and breaking it down, adn all about the engineering feats of creating giant vaulted interiour spaces. In Italy's case, it comes across with a certain lightheartedness and joy- again, like Italy itself.

The Duomo here: all white stone inscribed with stripes of dark grey pietra serena, with pastel candy-colored stone doing all sorts of beautiful and unexpected things. The carvings around the baptistry, for example, are pinks and sages and creams, pulled and twisted like taffy and arranged in ribbons of color. The crypt shows you just how massive it all is, with enormous piers for structure underground, but inside the Duomo itself, it's etheral. Some of my favorite art of the trp is inside one of the chapels- frescoes all around, showing what has to be some of the earliest examples of flawless use of linear perspective here. (Quite nice after all the early religious art.)

And now an urban design tangent: the Italians understand the Public Realm. They've understood it for thousands of years, dating back to the forum; they udnerstood it during the middle ages when the created these enclosed and dynamic gathering spaces, they understood it during the Renaissance, with the attention given to all the lovely Florentine piazzas. They understand that you need a place to put your carousel, and a place for your teenagers to lounge, and a place for your street festival, and soapbox orator, and coffee drinkers. You even need a place for your megalomaniac religious fanatics like Savonarola to burn books and host the "bonfire of the vanities," because any reasonable populace will pretty quickly come to their senses, and that same fanatic will meet with the same exact fate, in the same place, a year later. (That one's for you, Sarah Palin: people who endorse censorship in a nation of reasonable people always come to a bad end.) This whole public realm situation is pretty important, actually, since so many of our ideas about democracy came from the Roman Republic and its views on the responsibilities of a citizen; our ideas bout individuality, and the importance of participation in civic life can be traced to the the enlightenment and Renaissance Florence, when "we" became "I" for the first time in history. We talked about all of this in Western Architecture, and its suddenly all very clear. It's especially clear why I want to spend hours a day enjoying these public spaces, because they're rare at home, at least the lively ones.

To be continued, fighting yet another ticking clock and another foreign keyboard. Can't wait to get home and proofread and spell check...

Day 43. Very Expensive Train Ride. And, Siena

If I do not write it down, it did not happen. I did not fail to read the fine print on my train ticket, insisting that I validate this ticket, although I did not need to validate the last one I had, which came from the SAME MACHINE, before boarding the train. (Isn't that what the nice men walking through the train punching tickets do, really?) I did not walk past a small ashtray-sized validator, surrounded by teenagers, while I was trying to discern whether I was train 1, or 1A. I did not just pay a 40 € fine for this omission. I further did not miss my transfer during the distraction of paying said fine, meaning that I did not actually just purchase yet another ticket for this 40 mile trip. (This does not include the ticket I bought yesterday, with the machine that ate my 20, which, as it happens, was only good for yesterday.) I did not, in fact, just spend 75 €, for a 6.20€ ticket.

As my Australian friend Patrick would say, the only way to be an old hand, is to be an old hand. You can avoid some rookie mistakes with a little research, but for the most part, friends, it's live and learn.

None of this has ruined my day. I am in Siena, in the mother of all piazzas- the Piazza del Campo, where Il Palio takes place. I am already in love with this city, and all I have managed to do is walk directly to the Piazza for a late lunch (vino Toscano, and ravioli with butter and sage.) I know Siena has much, much more to offer, but I'm having a hard time prying myself from this beautiful, lively spot. I have to find my hotel, but I'm surveying the number of piazza cafes and trying to work out a reasonable rotation, so I can hang out in them all.

Day 42, assorted thoughts

Having a small fit of pique, in Florence. It's all mild, really- went to the train station to get tomorrow's ticket to Siena; my credit card won't work, which means a $20 international phone call to sort out. Switch to the machine that takes cash, which tells me after I have deposited my 20 €, that it does not intend to give me change. And despite this being quite a civilized place, it is by far the most difficult in terms of internet access. I stop at two places, both of which insist on seeing the passport I have locked in my hotel room. Mille grazie. I will now have to go back to the place across the bridge I found yesterday, with the loudest snuffling pug dog you have ever heard.

The only thing for a fit of pique, in Florence, is to sit in a lovely piazza and drink wine. This comes with a little surprise assortment of snacks. Today it's olives, and some sort of cheese-pepper crackers, and a little dish of snack mix. So, forgetting the last hour, some snippets from Florence:


On Rooms With a View:

I really do have one. It's a budget hotel, but it's on the piazza with the Duomo. How did they pull this off? It seems to be a crumbling corner of a glorious old plazzo. I suspect this because of the fresco on my ceiling, which is beautiful- and cut exactly in half, by the new wall subdividing this space into two guest rooms. I want to go knock on my neighbor's door, just to see the other half. Also, there's the smallest, oldest, scariest elevator I've ever seen, which takes ylou 3 flights up with a lot of banging and creaking. I wouldn't mind the walk, except that there are no lights in the stairewll, so even in the daytime you have to feel ahead with your toes on the landings before you commit to a step. All of this just adds to the charm. Upstairs it's cozy and cheerful.

On David:

I went to the Galleria dell'Accademia today, to see Michelangelo's David. (I stopped at the beautiful Ospedale degli Innocenti on the way, for those who are interested.) I've mentioned that statues, most of the time, are not a very moving art form for me. This one, of course, is different. I stood there, staring, from every angle, for something like 20 minutes. There's something about that left foot, bearing no weight, making it look like he's just about to step off of the pedestal. The hands, other than being just a little bit on the disturbingly large side, are practically moving. He is so alive that at one point, I actually turned my head to see what he was looking at, before I realized what I was doing. I'm not the first to say it's a masterpiece, but that doesn't make it any less true.

On Food, Mostly Beverages:

Every city has challenged my budget with a different surprise. In Cairo, it was camels; in Istanbul, it was boots; in Athens, it was taxis. Here- it's beverages. I can't seem to go more than a couple of hours without hanging out in a piazza, which means cafes, or vinos, or birras, or at least mineral water. It's just part of the cost of living here- this whole pedestrian city is designed around piazzas. There are tiny ones tucked in between buildings, giant ones full of fountains, and long thin ones full of market stalls. So it's begging you, really, to sit down and enjoy yourself, and linger over your drink to people-watch. And the food...these people have a tight relationship with prosciutto, which I fully endorse. And olives, which I've come to love. Their sweets are just barely sweet, which is perfect. Except for the gelato, which is in its own category. I had some in Rome, which I have to say, I found uninspiring. I'm not a big ice cream eater anyway. But, determined to conquer this culinary obstacle, I tried some again last night. I bought a cone of caramel, outside the Duomo. The guy behind the counter packed my cone full, then took a tiny little spoon and carefully placed some diced caramel cubes on top. Creamy, but light and airy, with chewy little bits of candy. Wow.

On Playing Hookey:

The closer I get to the end of my trip, the less I feel like being inside. It's so odd- I love art history, and experiencing architecture, and this is one of THE world's best places for both of those things- but all I want to do is walk. Walk, and sit in piazzas drinking coffee and wine. I think that's ok. this trip is about experience, not academics. I have been studying, and learning, and sitting inside, for quite some time now. And so: I am skipping the Uffizi. There. I said it. In Virginia's list of Florentine suggestions, she mentions of the Uffizi, "It can start to feel epic towards the end..." And she is right. It contains treasures, and would enrich me as a human being, and expand my understanding of art and culture. But I am not in the mood for Epic. The Vatican Museum sapped my energy, for Epic. I have seen the Uffizi, years ago, and it was memorable, and it was Epic. And so I'm skipping it. It feels like skipping class: I appreciated every minute of grad school, and almost never skipped. All the more decadent, and therefore fantastic, when you do- an afternoon movie the week before a studio review; a nap when you should be in the carpentry shop; watching Glee with friends when you should be working on your portfolio; all of these, on occasion, a wonderful thing. Just like skipping the Uffizi, to hang out in piazzas and drink wine...

On Amore, Idiocy in the Face Of:

Oh, this one pains me to write.

Last night I was sitting in the Piazza Signoria, having a glass of wine. (This is a recurring theme.) A young man walks by, says, "Buona Sera," to the people at the corner table, and then "Buona Sera," as he walks past me. I respond in flawless Italian, "Buona Sera!" and he says, "Ah, Americana." So my Italian is not remotely flawless. We chat for a minute about Florence. He is charming. He looks a little like a young Colin Firth. And we all know how much I love a young Colin Firth. I totally chickened out when he said, "You need-a some-a company, eh?" It has become a total reflex, to politely dodge people trying to sell me carpets, or ply me with mystery drinks, or offer to be my Egyptian husband. So without thinking I smile and offer a lame excuse, thank you but no thank you, and he is not pushy so he says good night and walks away.

And then I realize what I have done, and am completely and utterly dismayed. So now I am left sitting in the piazza with wine and time to reflect, and what I am reflecting upon is this: when a charming and handsome young Italian man, Colin Firth with an accent, strolls by and asks if you need-a some company, YOU SAY YES, you fool, what are you, just AFRAID OF HAPPINESS? Damn. This is is an even worse decision than, say, committing to a six-hour bike ride in Dar. I had a fight with myself on the way home. There was cursing. "Sure, join me for a glass of wine," would have done nicely. "Absolutely, pull up a chair," would have been fine. And I remind myself, you have to be careful about your Travel Face. You use it when you have to, to keep from being beseiged in markets and, well, anywhere in Egypt. But your Travel Face isn't who you are, and it shouldn't be used out of habit, because there goes Colin Firth. Again I say, damn.

Day 41: Florence.

Sitting in a trattoria by the central market, recommended by my friend Virginia. It is fabulous, no surprise. I am having wine with lunch because, why the hell not? I am in Italy, and I don't have a job to report to. Florence: lovely, as expected. My room is about 50 m from the Duomo, on the piazza. When I got here, I immediately hung my head out the window, all excited about the view. I wondered, why isn't every single other person in these piazza rooms also hanging out the windows? And then I realized, oh yes, they're all out enjoying Florence. So I headed out to do the same.

I really hadn't done any research before I came to Italy, knowing that there was plenty to see and I had no particular agenda. All the more fun: I pull out my map,and am surprised to find that I am about a block from the Laurentian Library. I go there directly: it is purported to be one of the strangest, most perverse pieces of architecture of its age, by Michelangelo. And it is. The famous almost-liquid stairs, pouring out of the library above, are practically moving, and they do puddle at the bottom. It's a really small space, very vertical, which makes the dynamics all the more strange. It's know for taking the classical language and twisting it until things feel wobbly; for example, the columns should rest on something substantial, like a huge base or at least the ground. Here, they just stop 2/3 of the way down, and these little scrolls are set into the wall underneath. Mentally, you feel like it's all about to topple. Even more fun, the scrolls actually crash into each other in the corners, like they're an afterthought and just mashed together- but this is Michelangelo, and he is messing with you. A genius in a lot of areas, Michaelangelo didn't start his career in architecture until he was 40, a fact I happen to really like. One more note on the surreal space: its's an icky, grey-ish green color. The stone itself feels chalky and cold and more like clay than marble. The reflections of light in the space are a bit seasick- it's so odd, for someone who was a master of color theory. So, so interesting

After the library, and aimless stroll, but I immediately run smack into a sign for Dante's house. Brief flashback: when I was here years ago during fall break, on a semester abroad, there were 4 of us stomping around the streets with our backpacks. It was pouring down rain, and I remember being sick and no help whatsoever in finding a place, but we finally found a room on our 6th or 8th try. We dropped off our bags and opened the window, and the clouds parted and in my memory there is even a rainbow....and we looked down below us, onto Dante's house. So today I knew I had to go in. It's better from the outside, actually: the museum made no sense at all, and was mostly a collection of coats of arms, unrelated to Dante. But it's a beautiful little spot.

And so: Ponte Vecchio, and piazzas, and the Central Market, and a perfect meal. Finishing my coffee, we'll see what I stumble across next...

And then later:
After my giant meal: went into the Duomo, just to marvel. The outside is so, so much more ornate than I remembered. The inside is much more simple, but with a staggering scale. From there, I wandered south through the Nuovo Mercato, then (again on my friend Virginia’s advice), made the long climb up to the Piazzola Michaelangelo, on the other side of the Ponte Vecchio, to watch the sunset. It’s really not that long, but very steep. And oh so worth it- from the terrace at the top, you can look back down over Florence, the river, and the tidy row of bridges, at the sunset. It’s also the first time I could see the gentle mountains surrounding the city- this is hill country, after all. Florence is nestled down in this bowl of foothills- it’s as if it filled in every possible inch of flat land, but balked at actually making the climb upwards, and just stopped. (This sounds perfectly reasonable to me, if it had anything like as much lunch as I just did.) At sunset, of course, it’s all lit up with sunlight reflecting off the water.

If Rome is a watercolor, though, Florence is an oil painting. Everything here is more solid, heavier, deeper shades; the light is different, although it’s not very far north, really. Maybe it’s just the Gravitas. This is the heart of the Renaissance, the Medicis, intellectual discovery, literature, and rational thought as we understand it.