Photos and Videos from Florence, Italy

 Our second day in Florence. Still not sure about the coffee protocol, but now I've figured it out. Florence is not a place where you are encouraged to hang, have conversations or study/work. The coffee is, of course, fantastic, but drink up and move on, OK? I don't mind because I'm in Italy. They can do whatever the hell they want.

 This is what people wear in Italy when they are on vacation. Or even if they are Italian. Slight variations in style, but most people dress as if they are tired and have run out of clothing.

 Or Not

The Arno. This is one of the few places in Florence where I can get a full view of the sky and landscape, be near water. It's a crowded city with narrow winding streets and there is no place that isn't picturesque.

 Shrines. Everywhere. On every corner and on many buildings. Neighborhood protection and an indication of the amount of art that is all over the place. if you like Religious art. Fortunately, I can handle it this time.

 I'm trying to make this street look like something from an Antonioni film. There are three Alimentari, or mini-markets, within sight. They all sell the same stuff. Crackers, Coke, Kleenex. I think something's fishy. I don't know the girls.

 Piazza Santa Croce at night. My apartment is to the left of the church on a noisy ally. Sound carries, but it seems to carry farther and louder in Italy. It quiets down at night and the apartment is soundproofed. Plus, I grew up listening to people yelling at each other on the street so I manage.

Another (manipulated) photo of apartments and hotels and businesses along the Arno. Hard to imagine that in 1966 the river came up to the second floor of these buildings and inundated the city. Big tragedy, lots of lost art. There are marks on the walls in the neighborhoods that show how high the water was, and it was really high. They are a little proud of it.

A page from my notebook, sketched in 15 minutes, that is a very bad interpretation of all the greatest paintings made during the Renaissance. Soon to be a film.

 Apparently there is a prohibition against chickens in churches. I may not be translating properly, however.

 Fiesole. A 20 minute bus ride into the hills around Florence. Lovely countryside and full of Palazzos. It has the feel of 500-year old money, corruption and good taste. I guess they are compatible.

 I think that they are warning us against break dancing, but, again, I may be translating incorrectly.

 Roman ruins in Fiesole. They have done a wonderful job of maintaining the site and at the same time allowing people to explore.

 My favorite place in Florence, so far. Michelangelo designed this library in the Basilica of San Lorenzo. It held all the greatest texts that the Medici collected. Illuminated manuscripts of Dante, Aristotle, Plutarch. I was blown away. Artists and writers and philosophers came here to study the documents. The floor is tiled and the ceiling is made of wood and they reflect each other. It is a perfect balance of form and content and most people are up the road looking at David. David is a cool statue, but this is a shrine to intellect and humanity and I want to live here.

Sally working at the Boboli Gardens. Nice place, bigger than it looks, Florence's back yard.

Italian Garbage Disposal public service film: Dangerous and Noisy. Step back, per favore.

A short film of San Marco Gallery. No guards around and I didn't steal anything. Progress.

Laundry. Sometimes stuff gets your attention and then you doubt your sanity.

I've seen a lot of religious paintings. They are pretty fine, but the subject matter makes me nervous. I interpreted all the themes, sketched them in my notebook within 15 minutes, and juxtaposed them with similar originals.  If I'd been alive during the Renaissance I would have been tortured and put to death and it would have been the right thing to do. I dodged that bullet.

After seeing innumerable paintings and statues in churches and museums, everything begins to look aesthetic and I feel creative while doing the most mundane tasks. I'm probably bored, or burned out. Maybe I'm going insane?

These tombs are in the floor of Santa Croce Cathedral. They've been polished smooth by 600 years of disrespectful pilgrims and worshipers.

I thought I'd let the tour group speak for themselves in the soundtrack. Can you guess their nationality?

The Renaissance, Torture and Catholic Guilt. Part 1

There wasn't even a guard in the Gallery San Marco when I made this video and it inspired me to sneak into more exhibits and film where I'm not allowed.

Giving the Art History thing a try. Early days, but there will be more to come. I was raised Catholic, was slapped around by nuns, began drinking at an early age and I like art. I'm as qualified as anyone to teach an extended course in the History of Italian Art in the Renaissance. Kenneth Clark, Michael Wood and Sister Wendy can bite me.

That’s Where All the Tourists Are

A friend made that statement when I told her we were going to Florence for six weeks in May/June and staying in the Santa Croce area. “That’s where all the tourists are.” She was kind of dismissive, as though I should have known better than to travel when other people travel and stay in a neighborhood where 100 percent of the residents may not have been born there. Or something. It was implied that I would not have an “authentic” experience and I was merely taking a (shudder) vacation, as though getting away from home, staying in a brilliant city that is still the repository of the greatest art in the western world, where people from all over the planet come to learn to cook and to study architecture and history and culture and fashion and design and language. I guess she’s a big expert on travel and tourism, but from what I observe she’s another fucked up person who has a crappy relationship with her cheating boyfriend and she traveled a bit when she was younger and the world was different and, in her opinion, it was better then and now she’s bitter and envious and hates being old and can’t find the right hair color and is considering plastic surgery and when she was in Florence, when she was young and relevant, it wasn’t as crowded. Actually, she was a fucking tourist. I pointed this out.

It’s what I do.

“How the hell did you get to Italy way back then? I mean, you weren’t born there, were you? You were born in Denver, Colorado. If you flew there on an airplane and came back to Denver where all your furniture and clothes and friends are, then you were a goddamn tourist. Tough shit. Tourist, tourist. Get used to it. We’re all tourists the minute we leave our houses. That can be a good thing.

People from Des Moines and Seattle and Canada all want to go to the places where, “The tourists don’t go.” They write about it online, in the travel forums and in their blogs.

“I don’t want to go to the places where all the tourists are.”

My suggestion? Stay the fuck home.

What kind of arrogance does it take for someone to think that they can slip into a popular European city via a major airline, take a cab from the airport to their hotel or apartment, and pass for “locals”? Go ahead, criticize the tourists, but if you weigh 260 pounds and are wearing green shorts and a stupid hat then you are going to be pinned as a tourist and it doesn’t matter what neighborhood you are in.

The “locals”, the residents and citizens, will still treat you well. A lot of them are from the former Soviet Union or the Mideast and they don’t care where you’re from; they’re not making money off of each other. They cash in on tourism and they’ve learned, at least here in Florence, Italy, that if they are civil and treat the vacationers with respect, everyone will have a better time, tips will be heavier and there will be less confusion and animosity. If we can’t all be friends at least we can be friendly.

Yep, there are tourists everywhere here. It’s goddamn May in Italy. There have been tourists here since the Etruscans. A lot of the people who live in Florence are not even from Florence. So are they tourists, visitors, travellers, immigrants, or just guys who sell Gelato to sightseers? It’s nothing to get uptight about.

All the signs and brochures are in Italian and English for a reason. From the airport, to the town and around the block, descriptions of paintings, directions to museums, menus, shops, and advertising are all in English. That makes it easier to see the stuff that is interesting and buy things you like.

At the very reasonable and delicious restaurant Il Pizzaiuolo, the Germans at the table next to us didn’t speak Italian, the waitress didn’t speak German, and so they all spoke English and had a nice dining experience. An American couple came in and the very friendly waitress, sweet, obliging, trying her hardest to understand and be understood, said to them, “English menu or Italian menu?”

The woman, tightly wound, said coldly, “No, no, an Italian menu.”

The waitress answered, “Ah meraviglioso, si parla Italiano e saremo en grado di parlare e non voglio spiegare niente.”

American woman huffed, “Oh no, we don’t speak Italian.”

The waitress smiled knowingly, handed them an English menu and continued to be pleasant and helpful. The couple didn’t fool her, though. They were tourists.

This afternoon a guy passed as we were walking along the Arno and he asked me, “Donde esta Santa Croce?”

I said, "Hey, are you speaking Spanish?"

He laughed. “Yeah, I thought I’d give it a try.”

No one knows for sure and it’s pretty hard to pretend. The man didn’t speak Italian but he spoke Spanish and I know some Spanish and a little Italian and a few words in French and I directed him to Santa Croce in English and we parted amicably. Communication, regardless of how it is accomplished, is what’s important when one is travelling.

I have a friend who speaks French fluently. He lives in Paris, does not consider himself a tourist, but if he asks a question in a restaurant and the waiter speaks to him in English he becomes insulted. His pronunciation of one single word may have indicated that he was from New Jersey. I told him not to be pissed; get used to it. None of us is as integrated as we think. Being a “citizen of the world” means being a tourist most of the time.

I am so tired of the arrogance and elitism and demands of certain types of travellers. Here’s the deal for Americans in Italy:

If you are here, you are a tourist. You can call yourself a “traveller” or a “trekker” or a “student” or a “part-time resident”, but you are just a tourist. If you wear a stupid hat, you are a tourist. If you complain because everything closes down between 4 PM and 7 PM, you are a tourist. If you don’t speak the language, you are a tourist. Enjoy the art, the food, spend money, buy presents, don’t get hurt and stop being so fucking entitled.

All of us are tourists wanting to see as much as we can in a short time and trying to figure out how to get a decent night’s sleep in an uncomfortable bed without worrying too much about tomorrow’s weather.

Festa della Momma

Sunday. Domenica. Slow day, I have a bit of a cold but we got up around 9 o’clock and went for a walk. A few blocks around is an easy two miles, so a walk, a passeggiata, takes time and is always satisfying and full of art and interesting sights. There were signs everywhere advertising “Festa della Momma”, Mother’s Day. It’s become an international celebration, like Halloween, due to the prospects for the sales of holiday-related merchandise. We stopped into a café for a couple of espressos then went next door to a mini-mart, an Alimentari, for a quart of orange juice. I do not know how these guys who run the Alimentari make a living. There are at least three of the stores within twenty yards of each other down the block, two on the left side of the street and one on the right. They are situated so that a customer can enter the first, walk diagonally across the street to the next one and then angle to the third within three minutes. They all sell exactly the same stuff and the same brands. The guys behind the cash registers are medium-sized dark men in their early twenties. The businesses and the staff are totally interchangeable and are cookie cutter replications. I do not get it. My first thought, of course, is, “What is really going on here? Who the hell needs three places on one block to buy a Fanta orange soda or a box of crackers? Heroin? Gambling? Slavery?”

Note to self: find out the Italian words for “juice” and “slave”.

Today is Mother’s Day and I’ve been reading online lamentations disguised as tributes from family and friends and strangers and acquaintances about how much they loved the beautiful departed mothers and how much they miss them, even today, ten, twenty, thirty years after the mom’s death and how much they would give for one more day with her. Occasionally there is a photo attached to the post and I just don’t see the attraction. One out of every ten moms looks pretty good, but I suppose the beauty of the absent mother is definitely in the eye of the dejected beholder yearning for maternal comfort and a possible do-over.

This baffles me. Every mother dies. Dads, too, but generally the old man goes 10 to 15 years before mom. It’s the way of the world, the body or stress; men just don’t live as long. I wouldn’t hazard a guess as to why women outlive men. A lot smarter people than me have worked that one to death. It’s a fact, live with it. If you’re a man, time is running out.

My mom died in August of last year. I was, of course, quite sad; I guess I grieved for a few days. I’m human. I’m not a monster. I have feelings, too. Every week I think about calling her, emailing her, and I have to slap my head and remind myself that she’s dead and gone. Shuffled off the mortal. Singing in the choir (or so she always hoped). I have a five minute reflection, a few seconds of remorse, some irritation, then I go back to whatever I was doing; writing, reading, drinking coffee, watching episodes of Archer or Boardwalk Empire, listening to music, walking, working out, visiting with friends. You know, normal shit that doesn’t waste my time grieving and bemoaning the past and longing for the impossible.

And don’t think that any of this means I didn’t love mom. I did, especially near the end of her life when she was vulnerable and frightened but still strong and smart as hell. When I moved to the mountains of northern New Mexico, far away from California, she was teary and asked if we’d come home for Xmas. We did a few times, before it got too hard and expensive. I stopped celebrating holidays ten years ago. That would have included Mother’s Day, but I wasn’t going to disturb the established paradigm so I always called mom, sent a card, something sentimental to acknowledge the simulated significance of the occasion. It took a long time for me to get Agnes to say, “I love you.”

Whenever I’d call her I made it a point to end our conversations (which averaged six minutes and 20 seconds) with, “I love you, Mom.”

Her responses?

“You take care, honey.”

“OK, thanks for calling.”

“It was nice to hear from you.”

“Give my best to Sally.”

Seven or eight years ago, just before I hung up one Sunday, I said, “Bye mom, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I disconnected before I realized what I’d heard. I ran into the living room and told my wife, “Hey, Sally, my mother said she loved me.”

Sally was amused and thought it was interesting. Maybe I was making too big a deal out of it. Probably. Possibly.

Now, today, for the first time in memory I don’t have to look at my watch and wonder when would be a good time to call and will she be done with lunch, dinner, bocce ball, mass. I don’t have to take other people seriously or pretend that their nostalgia and mawkishness and suffering and loneliness and desire to be rescued from adulthood matter. No longer must I acknowledge every busy body who asks, “Well, are you gonna call your mom today and thank her?”

I will not ever wish anyone else a happy Mother’s Day, either.

Telling my sister or sister-in-law or friends or, for Christ’s sake, my wife to have a happy mother’s day feels completely creepy. It evokes a thin film of incestuous perspiration.

I don’t have to remember to call my mother and wish her a “Happy Mother’s Day.” She always accepted the expression graciously, but I don’t think she was one of those greedy, needy women who had to have attention. Just the opposite. From what I observed, Agnes liked to be left alone. It’s a quality I inherited from her and one of the things for which I’m grateful. She was pretty sharp when it came to bullshit. Thanks Mom.

This is a real quote I found on my Internet news feed this morning posted by a friend:

“Wish you were here, my loving Mother. I know you’re watching. What I'd give for just one more day. Oh God, I miss you so.”

That sad line was repeated too many times.

OK, what would you do with that “one more” day? Lunch? What would you order? My mom really loved fried calamari. How about yours? What was her favorite food? Would you pay? Did she drink? Do you? Do you think you’d have a couple of pops with mom before she had to “go away” again? What would you do afterwards? I guess take a drive. Agnes and I did that, cruise around and look at stuff from the car. My mom liked to go to the coast, out by Point Reyes, but I’ve been there a lot and, on our final day together ever, I would probably try to convince her we should go to a matinee. I like movies, so did she, so we could get some popcorn and kill a few hours. Then it would be five or so. What then?

Too early for dinner, she’s too old for a walk; she wouldn’t take a walk anyway. Never exercised. I could ask her to sit down and tell me, really, seriously, if there is an afterlife, what it’s like, but I’m not doing that, oh no. We had conversations in that vein plenty of times when she was stuck on earth during her “real” life and we both ended up slightly annoyed with each other. So I guess we could watch the news. Agnes liked the news. We might even have a discussion about the latest ignorant backward shit that the Republicans were doing, how fucking mean spirited and racist they were. That was always fun for ten minutes or so. Mom really hated the GOP. Now it’s time for dinner, I’m still full from lunch and am kind of in a hurry to get gone. We go out, eat Italian, probably at La Toscana. I’d have chicken cacciatore and she liked lamb. Of course I’d eat too much, feel wiped out and full, and so would she, and then all she would want to do was to have me drop her off at the spaceship.

 I would act as though I’d like to spend a little more time with her, this extra day, but really, I just want to hit the hay because I probably have an early flight the next morning. We kiss goodbye and I would say, “I love you, Mom.” She’d reply with, “Have a safe trip. Give my best to Sally. I love you, too.” That would be kind of cool. She disappears up the ramp with all the other moms who are being dropped off by all the middle aged sons and daughters who look burned out for sure; overfed, over stimulated, bad backs and sleepy. I’d be sorry to see her go, I guess.

The Return of Mom; the big gift, one last time, and a final opportunity. Is that what people are wishing for? Would that make them feel loved, saved, and complete? Next year would they be able to finally let go, now that they have had that precious “one last day” with mom? You got what you wanted. You OK? Feeling healthy, fit, stable, and sensible? Ready to face reality after that priceless, once in a lifetime, impossible final day? Is it all you expected?

I thought it was a little disappointing.

Mario the Magician

Today I stopped at Finesterrae for coffee and then walked along the Arno to the Ponte Vecchio, crossed the bridge and angled towards the Boboli Gardens. The Ponte Vecchio is one of the concentrated focal points of worldwide tourism in Italy. It’s picturesque and crowded and it is where all of the jewelry stores are located.

This is a tourist town and there are specific things for sale. Florence is famous for its leather goods, antiques and jewelry. The shops are jammed and the salespersons are polyglot and do not miss a chance. I rarely shop and don’t like to buy stuff when I’m traveling. I don’t want to take up too much space in my limited luggage and, of course, I’m sure I’m going to get ripped off. I’m suspicious, untrusting and hyper vigilant; the perfect customer.

For instance, I do not understand jewelry, why it is worn, what it’s worth, and why it is such emotionally and psychologically weighted merchandise. Show your love, memorialize your class, commemorate a sports championship with a ring or necklace, bracelet, brooch, pin, tiara or some other overpriced bauble of doubtful authenticity. I just cannot figure it out and I don’t want to. I’ve had personal experiences with the marketing of valuables and I cannot bring myself to trust those in the trade.

I used to work with a guy who bought and sold gems, rings, and silverware. Clyde had a rare coin store in El Sobrante, California, but the business was only a semi-legal way of suckering in rubes that had recently stolen their grandmother’s antique spoons and wanted to turn them over for quick bucks that could be converted into quick drugs. Clyde was friendly, smiled a lot and happily welcomed his customers into his store. My job was to sit at a desk in the back of the store with a forty-five caliber automatic in my lap, ready to start blasting away, just in case one of the jittery patrons decided that he wasn’t getting a fair price for his neighbor’s silver bracelet. No one got a fair price. Ever. I saw Clyde buy a ring from a Hells Angel one afternoon. Clyde looked at the diamond through a jeweler’s loupe, muttered, nodded and said, “Big flaw in there. Might be cracked, too. I can give you $200 dollars for it.”

The dude wanted more, but since he’d probably robbed someone and had no idea what he was doing, he eventually settled. As soon as the idiot left the store Cliff was on the phone to his brother.

“Stan, do you still have that woman who’s looking for a good diamond?”

“Yeah, she was in today.”

“I’ve got one here. $2,000 and she’ll be very happy. It’s nice. A beauty.”

I watched the transaction, picked up a piece of the profits and we all went out for drinks. Lots of drinks. The drinks were what eventually led me away from that line of work. I was happy not to have to be in a position where I might have to blow some poor biker to hell and ruin my life because he didn’t think he was getting proper value for his mom’s wedding ring.

That’s how I learned about sales, merchandising and trade. I avoid it. I’m not at all interested in buying, selling or even browsing at jewelry or antiques or leather goods in Florence. It bores me and I am convinced that I will be fleeced buy a couple of guys like Clyde and me.

From the Ponte Vecchio Sally and I climbed up into the Boboli Gardens and sat on a shady bench overlooking Firenze on a beautiful calm day. After an hour we meandered through the back streets on the south side of the Arno and worked our way towards our apartment.

On the way we passed by the leather shops. There is leather everywhere in Florence. Way too much leather. Leather coats, shoes, pants, shirts, sox, scarves, zipper masks, vests, hats, wallets, umbrellas, hoodies, bracelets, brooches, trinkets, dolls, garter-belts, bras and panties. For entire blocks you can breathe in the pungent smell of leather. I’m OK with decent leather goods, but I am wary of the guys who stand in front of the shops and say, “American. American. Half-off.”

I’m fairly certain I’ll be cheated and it sounds shady. I’ve done shady.

In one window, however, was a beautiful seafoam green woman’s coat. We were looking at it, admiring it. Sally was taken by the color and we were move along when the salesman, a nice looking Florentine gentleman in a white shirt said, “Come in, come in, I have just what you want. Where are you from? America? I have many American customers.”

Before we knew it, we were standing in the store surrounded by all colors and styles of leather jackets for men and women.

I have an old, cheap leather coat at home. It’s got a hole in the back, caught on the sharp edge of a table in Paris several years ago. I still wear it but I’ve been looking for a replacement. I’m somewhat obsessive when it comes to clothing, books, fountain pens, music, shoes, and most everything else I have to spend money on. I’ve paged through hundreds of Internet sites looking for leather coats. Hundreds. I’ve tried on everything at Dillard’s, Target, Macys, Penney’s, Sears, Corsini and ten or fifteen other stores, and nothing works to my satisfaction. Too tight, too loose, crappy material, cheap lining, wrong pockets, badly made, loose buttons. I have a thousand reasons for not spending money on a new leather coat when I have one at home that looks OK from the front.

This guy in Firenze took one look at me, pulled a garment off the rack and draped it on me. Like it was made for me; it fit perfectly. Like magic. Like prayer. I could not believe it.

“How the hell did you do that? You know my size?”

“I’ve been doing this for 27 years. I know a lot about you.”

I was fucking nonplussed. Dumbstruck.

I mumbled, “It fits well.”

I shrugged my shoulders, waved my arms, craned my neck, turned, twisted and the goddamn coat looked fabulous.

Then the guy said, “You are Italian? Italian-American?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“Yes, you are Calabrese.” He pointed to my face. “You have a Calabrese face, square, hard.” He smiled. “Are you Mafioso?”

Swear to god.

My grandfather emigrated from Scalea in Reggio Calabria in the far south of Italy at the turn of the twentieth century. I have a square face. I laughed and said, “No, no, not Mafioso. Ha, ha. Nope. But you’re absolutely correct on all the other.”

“I told you I know a lot about you. Nice coat.”

As I was admiring myself, wondering how I was being suckered, when the hammer was going to drop, when it would all go haywire, the salesman slipped another jacket off of a hanger and told Sally to try it on.

Perfect. No kidding, absolutely perfect. The man was a magician.

He said, “When Bill Clinton is at the Uffizi, his security guys come here, to me, for all their leather coats. They have to fit perfectly because they carry guns.”

He made a few nice little jokes about love and marriage and how the coats made us look ten years younger.

Right. A born salesman, but a salesman with panache and long experience.

He asked me to send him a postcard to him when we get back to New Mexico. I am to tell him that the card is from Joe, the mustache Mafioso from New Mexico. A Joke. Funny guy, Mario.

Mario looked at me, squinted and said that if I were willing to pay cash he’d give me a very good discount. I love those guys. The moment of truth and a 20 percent savings. I stripped 500 Euros from an ATM at the nearby Piazza della Signoria and when I got back to Mario, Sally was admiring her new leather coat and it was stunning. Mario smiled at her, delighted, patriarchal, confident; the Magus of Leather.

The whole time I was enacting this transaction I was waiting to be robbed. These jackets have to be constructed of plastic and fishing line, they are probably crap and will fall apart by the time I get back to the apartment.

Mario kept pointing to the label, assuring us that the garments were made in Italy, not in China or Pakistan. I looked at the stitching, the lining, how well the buttons were sewn on. Impeccable. Mario was genuinely proud of his product and I realized that, here in Italy, he was a member of an age-old profession. Mario wasn’t some out-of-work mortgage broker or a kid on a summer job. His life, his career was making sure that people were happy with their purchases and that they happily purchased from him. He had trained himself in all the jargon, the bullshit and sales pitches, but he was a pro, knowledgeable and accommodating. He had a reputation and he liked selling great clothing to appreciative clients.

I bought both jackets. I can’t wait for the weather to become colder next fall so that I can wear mine. Sally looks cute and sexy and hip in her coat, like Chrissy Hynde from The Pretenders. The store is named Estro, and it is on Via Dei Neri, 61, a block or so west of Piazza Santa Croce.

Ask for Mario the Magician. Tell him Joe, the mustache Mafioso from New Mexico sent you.

And I did not believe the part about Bill Clinton. That couldn’t be true.

The Trouble With The Annunciation

Our culture promotes the veneration of children and tells us that everyone deserves babies, as many as they want, it’s each person’s right to be a parent. The lovers of infants and toddlers and offspring treat us, who don’t want kids, with suspicion.

I’m probably able to spend a few weeks in Italy because I have no children or anyone who “needs” me. I’m glad about that. I’m not “good” with kids any more than I’m a “good” gardener or keeper of dogs and other pets. I don’t default to compassion and kindness. The chromosome of caretaking or parenting has been either left out or corrupted somewhere along my lifeline. I don’t know anything about children; how to raise them, teach them, encourage them. Those are skills that are beyond me and are best left to others.

I have never bailed a kid out of jail, put him in re-hab, or taken care of grandchildren while a daughter “gets herself together”.

I admit that I’ve often counseled my young friends, “If you have children, your only job is to make them feel great about themselves. If you don’t have children then don’t have children. You’ll thank me.” How do I know this? Instinct? Selfishness?

When I was in Florence 15 years ago the population of the world was 6 billion people and it was busy. Now, the earth is creaking under the burden of 7.1 billion and climbing and all the newcomers are trying to get into the Uffizi gallery this year. As a student of population and its irritants, I suspected that this increase in the multitudes would affect me, so I bought memberships to the Amici Degli Uffizi (Friends of the Uffizi), which, for 100 Euros, offers a way for us to avoid the long lines and hours making small talk with strangers from all over the world.

We tried out our Uffizi cards yesterday, Saturday, and they worked seamlessly. We were inside within 10 minutes. We still had to climb all those stairs in the stuffy old office building, trekking up narrow steep stairways. Being jostled by the crowds was a drag but I didn’t have to wait in line for three hours and it was worth the euros to join the Amici Degli Uffizi and know that we can return to the museum whenever we want.

The Uffizi has recognized the risks associated with old buildings and mobs of people who are easily confused and mostly lost, so only 900 people at a time are allowed into the museum. Our destination was the Botticelli room and there were 200 fans inside. I counted. Most visitors are milling around as fast as they can, stopping only when something familiar or colorful catches their eye. They quickly have to get through this collection and on to something else because they only have two weeks in this complicated and rich and difficult ancient European city.

Botticelli’s “Annunciazione”, The Annunciation, was the painting that seized my attention on our first visit to the Uffizi Gallery. It is an amazing, beautiful work and has all of the trademarks of the artist; sophisticated color, thoughtful arrangement, impeccable execution, clean lines and of course, fabulously attractive faces.

I looked over the heads of 200 people, stood my ground until they passed by and drifted towards something more popular, The Birth of Venus or St. Sebastian’s execution. I found a bench, sat for a while and looked at the painting. The angel Gabriel is crouched very low to the ground in front of Mary, almost groveling, and it makes him subservient to the shocked but still dignified Madonna. He isn’t dominating and demanding and browbeating the young “virgin”. He looks a bit embarrassed, reticent, and she appears dismissive and annoyed. She is turning from her studies to learn the alarming message.

“Mi scusi, Miss?”

“Si? What do you want?”

“Well, I have some big news for you. Good news.”

“How did you get in here? News? What do you mean? Are you pazzo? Crazy?”

“No, I’m not crazy. But you, young lady, are pregnant.”

“What? Get the hell outta here.”

“No really, you are going to have the best baby ever. Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus Christ. Holy crap!”

And so on. Big shock and disbelief. It is one of the most important moments in Christianity: virgin birth, sacrifice, purity, celebration of the Messiah, crucifixion, turn the other cheek, the Holy Family, lamb of God and the flock of sheep and most of the other rudiments of Christianity started at this moment of confusion and surprise.

I’m curious if this is this where all the babble about children and the sacred embryo, lovely childbirth and the beauty of pregnancy got started? Don’t get me wrong, I truly love my nieces and nephews and their kids. They are already here. I’ll probably love their children’s children. What can I do but enjoy them?

But I wonder if this is where the overzealous celebration of young motherhood began which has carried into current times? Is this the beginning of the concept that every young woman who gets with child is a saint, a Madonna and every wise assed, randy, loose limbed fertilizing dropout she sleeps with gets to be a proud pop for a few months before he hooks up with a new Madonna, disappears, gets arrested or has second thoughts and stops sending the check? Is this the origin of the myth of the sacred fetus? Could this be the event in Christian mythology that is responsible for all the fucking tourists and visitors who are impeding my observation of that incredible, beautiful, important, dangerous nightmare that is the seminal image of the misguided principles that support the billions of people who are ruining the environment, taking up all the parking places, who are in my way, crowding me, a sweating babbling claustrophobia-inducing iPhone, iPad, map and audio guide-clutching mob who are collapsing under their own weight?

Goddamn Botticelli. Goddamn him to hell.

So?

 

I’m taking a writing class at the local university and someone let a poet in. I can never tell if student poetry is any good or not. This particular poet started her poem with the first line:

“So, I was standing next to my ex-boyfriend’s coffin.”

Who the goddamn hell came up with the idea of beginning a statement, story or poem with the word “So”? All day I hear this crap. Is some celebrity weasel or sportstard doing this? Is it now acceptable and will it become a colloquial expectation? It’s an indication of an uncoordinated mind or a confused and insincere speaker. Basic poetry is supposed to be the judicious use of language and it shouldn’t be totally stupid and confusing.

I hear “so” misused a lot lately; in movies, coffee shops. Even at the grocery store. “So, did you find everything you need?”

Well, fuck no. How could that be? All you have is meat and vegetables and shit. You don’t have peace of mind and worldwide literacy. And why did you start that sentence with “So”? Are you trying to convince me that we have an ongoing relationship? Because that will never happen.

“So” is a connection between ideas, right? A linking of chronologically related events or a presentation of evidence culminating, we hope, in an answer. B follows A so (then) C. It often serves as a helpful organizer of thoughts.

Unless some dimwit begins a sentence with it. Then it sounds like a bullshit trick to get attention or to bamboozle me into thinking I missed something important.

There is a way to tell a story without trying to fool an audience into thinking we know more and are more interesting than we really are.

Sad news, I guess, but very few of us are fascinating or significant and the use of dumb-assed incoherent terminology to persuade others to pay attention doesn’t make the narrator smart or exciting. Just the opposite.

If the first word in your lead sentence is “so” it means that I get to stop listening because there is nothing important to follow. A chimpanzee has learned to talk and I am the fuck out of here. If you are needy and inarticulate you have lots of company, but you’re saving me precious time.

So, thanks.