Wet in Venice: an unexpected gift in Italy

by Suzanne Stroot on

In October 2002, Bush and Cheney were gearing up to invade Iraq and I was encountering my first experiences as a not-so-welcome American in Europe. My whole trip had been carefully scripted, at least as far as where I’d sleep at night, but I’d left open the question of where to stay in Venice, the city I would fly home from. As I sat in the small office off the kitchen of the Tuscan farmhouse I’d been staying in, calling more and more places, the proprietress noticed I was hearing a lot of no’s. She took the phone, saying that she had a friend in Venice with an extra room who could probably use the money. “She’s had cancer, and I’d like to do her a favor,” she explained, already dialing. I was desperate, so the intervention was welcome.

Armed with a little slip of paper on which my Tuscan hostess had spelled out the unusually named Virginia’s address and phone number, I was off.

As it turned out, Virginia lived on a wide cobblestone square in the heart of Venice. Pulling my roller bag across the stones, the racket announcing my arrival, I could see that from this location I would be able to walk everywhere. Weeks earlier, on the flight to Italy, I’d met an elderly man who’d studied Venice, specifically its mosaic floors, his entire adult life. His face had filled with delight as he composed a list of the floors and places I must visit.

I pulled up to a stone building with a big glossy black door presenting a sturdy face to the square. I was buzzed into a foyer, with a notably nice floor, and walked up the steps to Virginia’s flat.Virginia opened the door onto a cozy and modern home. Shelves full of books lined the living area, with the flat tops of the shelves reserved for plants. Behind the plants were windows, opened at a slant. These were too high for me to look out of, but the plants must have had a nice view. There was a sofa, a coffee table with current magazines and a large farm table for dining. Beyond this was the tiniest kitchen I’ve ever seen — about three feet wide and four feet deep. Everything in it, including the refrigerator, was commensurately small. An eye-level window looked out on potted geraniums and other apartments.

My room was just off the main one, with the only bath to my right and her bedroom down a small hall to the left. The futon was already made up for me, with a little reading lamp on a low table nearby. There was just enough room for my suitcase on the floor alongside my bed. And there were more tall windows. Even standing on the futon I wouldn’t be able to see out. I could hear the sounds of the canal below though — water sloshing, gently slapping the building, and voices too, of children playing.

“Alberto will be home this evening,” Virginia said. Oh, there’s a husband, I thought, okay.

My hostess was about fifty-five years old. As I thanked her for making my room so comfortable, I searched her face for signs of illness. She seemed all right, even if her color was a little off.

She showed me how to heat water for instant coffee in the morning and placed a canister of “biscuits,” very plain cookies, on the table for my morning breakfast.

And so my first afternoon in Venice began. I made my way down narrow alleys, up and down steps, pausing to look into shop windows, and I felt like I’d been there before. Not déjà vu, but deja merchandise. This was the exact same stuff I’d seen in my grandparents’ home as a child, things they’d picked up on their travels here: gilt trays of gold, red, and green, blown glass birds, “paintings” made of tiny stones. Suddenly those things that had seemed precious and unique, some of which I now owned, seemed like very expensive knick-knacks, souvenirs Venice had been foisting off on tourists for decades.

As I walked along the canals, lined with picturesque businesses and homes, watching the water lap against the buildings, I noticed that mildew was growing up the sides of some. The place was soggy at its roots, decaying, but putting up a good front. I visited Saint Mark’s Square, had my picture taken amidst the pigeons that have overrun the place, and paused for a rest.

“Could this be?” I wondered. “I really don’t like Venice?” This was an unacceptable conclusion to reach, especially so quickly. I walked along the Grand Canal and looked at the anchored yachts with their matching helicopters. The Canal view was lovely, but I was unmoved. I walked further and further but a feeling that this was a fake place, like Las Vegas or Disneyland, was growing. I decided to review the list provided me by the lover of floors. I would faithfully follow it the next day.

When I returned to the flat, I met Alberto — an environmental engineer working on plans for a massive project that it was hoped would someday provide a shield that would rise and fall with the tides, protecting Venice from periodic flooding.

That night a mosquito was trapped in my room. I turned on the light and went through the routine of trying to see and smash it. And though I washed my hands after visiting the bathroom, they smelled like prosciutto back in my room — Alberto’s favorite, smeared on the bathroom doorknob.

The next day I ate cookies for breakfast, and then — why not? — gelato for lunch. This would become a daily habit. Since it was Alberto and Virginia’s place and Virginia seemed to stay at home, I felt obligated to vacate the flat all day. No afternoon rest, just walking and walking, all day. Fueled by sugar and a determination to like this damp place, I located an English-language bookstore and zeroed in on this title: “The Stones of Florence and Venice Observed,” by Mary McCarthy. “Ah,” I thought, “this will help me.”

Little did I know that Ms. McCarthy hadn’t bought Venice either, though it had lots to sell in her day and apparently had for centuries. I read that it was basically a place created by vendors — a playground destination made purposefully pretty in order to lure people in to buy expensive trinkets and entertainment, including the courtesanal kind. It really had been a forerunner of Las Vegas. I felt vindicated, but not happy.

I pursued the list. Two of the places suggested by the floor-lover improved my feelings about Venice, in part because they were relatively dry. One was the Scuola Grande dei Carmini, one of the guilds dating from the thirteenth century where artisans had learned, perfected and practiced their crafts. The other was the Peggy Guggenheim Collection museum. Its pebbled walkways, trees and gardens were as important to me as its works by Calder. It was one of the few places in Venice where I saw a profusion of plants growing in earth.

That night I was invited to join a dinner party. Virginia and Alberto jostled each other in the kitchen, preparing clams. Alberto was a very large man — tall and top heavy. Though he occupied a lot of space, he had a surprisingly high, sweet and melodic voice, and he giggled often, which made me able to forgive him for the prosciutto-slimed doorknobs.

Their friends arrived and we sat down to eat. This was splendid — candlelight, fresh pasta with clam sauce, red Italian table wine, real Venetians… Only I was on the menu too. Virginia set the tone with a passionate statement about the war the US was about to begin, and the intense suffering we would cause. Only much later would I learn that the Senate had passed a resolution that very day authorizing war. Everyone stared at me, expecting answers. They were as brainwashed as I once was that average Americans could actually deter someone like Bush and those behind him from their agenda. I stumbled through a highly unprepared statement: “I agree with you — I can’t stand Bush’s policies…”

But it was clear that Virginia had experienced the hardships of war’s aftermath as a child. She was furious, my clams were gritty, and it was a relief to escape to my little room. On this night I could not only hear the water outside, I could smell it. Sumpy. This place was sopping wet and rotting. And my only friend, the mosquito, had unfortunately not chosen to abandon me.

The next morning, Virginia was kind again, and gave me a ticket to a piano concert at San Giorgio Maggiore church. She also leant me her thigh-high rubber boots so I could slog through St. Mark’s Square at high tide. It was amusing to traverse the square thus clad, but as I did so, I realized I was weary of so much water.

I awoke the next day feeling very ill. I had a high fever, and was weak. No walkabout today. The next day, I felt worse. I huddled in my little room, hearing the water splish-splash, smelling it, feeling terrible, too wiped out to read, with nothing to do but sleep, take my temperature, and worry. It must have been the fever, because I don’t recall ever crying before over being sick. But I cried, and tried to hide this fact when Virginia knocked on the door and brought me tea. She could see I was disheartened, and I felt a sympathy from her I now attribute to her experience of being sick — sick with cancer, sick with the discouragement that illness brought. She quietly left and I cried some more, convinced I would die there and be buried on San Michele, the soggy graveyard island I’d seen on my way to Murano.

Later that day Virginia returned. She’d been out, she’d bought a bone, and she’d made broth for me. I needed to eat, she said, so I could get strong enough for my flight home, the day after next.

The next day, in spite of the morose place I’d descended to, I did feel a bit better. Virginia brought me more bone broth and a few crackers this time. And jewelry. She wanted me to have a necklace of hers: it was made up of twenty-four intertwined strands of tiny glass beads, the beads mostly blues and reds. The beads were similar to what we call “Indian beads” but finer, smaller and deeply colorful. She told me they were very special beads, endemic to Venice, and that she was only telling me this so that I’d know they were special. The necklace had a gold clasp. She also gave me a delicate chain bracelet with black oblong beads because she’d noticed I tended to wear dainty jewelry.

I slid my suitcase nearer, quickly dug out my little jewelry bag and produced a necklace for her — round onyx balls encased in silver, hanging from a thick silver chain. The look of joy on her face still makes me happy.

A year or two later, I received an email from Alberto. Virginia was dead. Having survived several bouts with cancer, over a period lasting more than a decade, she’d finally succumbed.

It took me many years to start wearing that necklace. Now it is one of my favorite things. I think of her when I put it on, and the bone broth she made, and how she helped me become well.

Suzanne Stroot cut her travel teeth watching thousands of childhood miles stream by the backseat window of a Plymouth station wagon. Though she likes the vantage point of traveling as an adult far more, she wouldn’t trade those early experiences for anything. Suzanne is now a writer based in Northern California.

[Photos: Flickr | Kent Mercurio; Kiernan Lynam; gnuckx; sirgini; gnuckx]

Agatha Christie’s English Riviera

by Lillian Africano on


For one solid week – September 12-18, Torquay celebrated the 120th anniversary of Agatha Christie’s birth. As a lifelong Christie fan, I was looking forward to every minute of the promised “murder, mystery and mayhem,” which all turned out to be the kind of innocent fun of a bygone time.

In this quiet, almost pastoral part of England, there are many remnants of years past, as well as reminders that the world’s best-selling novelist is also the best-loved daughter of the English Riviera.

The anniversary festival opened with an old-fashioned fete, featuring costumed stall-holders, a jazz band belting out period music and the Agatha Christie Dancers, who did the Charleston with energy and style. Actor Martin Gaisford as Hercule Poirot, Christie’s most famous detective, mingled with the crowds, posing for pictures and answering questions from fans. Though David Suchet has been the “official” film Poirot for 19 years, Gaisford is a convincing lookalike, with a formidable mustache that is just as Christie described it in the Belgian detective’s debut novel, “The Mysterious Affair in Styles.”

Christie’s grandson, Mathew Pritchard also appeared at the fete, telling stories about his celebrated grandmother-and assuring fans that Agatha Christie, with millions of books in print, along with DVDs, comics, games and downloadable products, is still a star in this digital age. (Pritchard recently signed a 10-year deal with publisher Harper Collins for worldwide distribution of Christie’s books.)

Also making an appearance at the fete were the two Chinese winners of an Agatha Christie competition, along with several Chinese journalists. The prize was a trip to the festival, personally escorted by Matthew Pritchard.

A 23-year-old member of the group who identified himself as “James,” told me the first film he had ever seen after China opened up to Western culture was “Death on the Nile.” The second was “Evil Under the Sun.” After that he went on to read Chrisite’s books. “I was just amazed by Agatha Christie,” he said, “she writes a good story, with simple language, good dialogue and good puzzles.” He went on to predict that Christie’s fan base “will be great in China.”

My Christie pilgrimage included a remarkably fresh performance of “Witness for the Prosecution” by the Agatha Christie Theatre Company and a visit to the Agatha Christie Gallery of the Torquay Museum, where I discovered a long list of actors who had played Poirot, starting with Charles Laughton’s 1928 West End performance. (My least favorite was Albert Finney, who turned in a near-cartoonish performance in the 1974 Hollywood version of “Murder on the Orient Express.”)

The museum is part of the Agatha Christie Mile, a meandering route that traces landmarks in the life of the Queen of Crime: the Princess Pier, where she roller-skated, Beacon Cove, where she swam (and once nearly drowned) and 800-year-old Torre Abbey, where head gardener Ali Marshall has created a year-round garden of all the poisonous plants used by Christie in her 80 novels.

Dame Agatha had pharmaceutical training as a young woman, so poison was her preferred murder weapon, and she famously wrote: “Poison has a certain appeal…it has not the crudeness of the revolver or the blunt instrument.” Ali Marshall shares Christie’s enthusiasm for poisons found in nature, and her own guide to the plants is prominently displayed in the garden. I learned that cyanide is found in peach kernels and that hyoscyamine (or henbane) is not an easy plant to find-Marshall sourced hers from witchcraft sites.

A highlight of my visit to the English Riviera was the tour of Greenway, the 400-year old holiday home Christie purchased in 1938 for £6,000. To reach the house, which is located on the River Dart, I took the vintage Greenway bus (reservations necessary); the house is also accessible by ferry and by car (advance parking reservations necessary).

Greenway was gifted to the National Trust by Christie’s family, and after a £5.4 million restoration, it was opened to the public in 2009. Stuffed as it is with weird and wacky and wonderful things, the Georgian house is warm and welcoming and very much alive, as if Dame Agatha herself might still be in residence.

A pile of gardening hats belong to her son-in-law rests on a table in the entrance hall, along with a (really) vintage mobile phone that looks as if it weighs 10 pounds. Her personal collections: papier mache, pottery, ceramics, pictures, books and more, fill the rooms, which are light and airy, creating a 1930s setting with a modern (1950s) overlay of amenities. In each room are scrapbooks filled with Christie’s writings, records of parties and entertainments, dinner menus, as well as the sweet trivia that filled the days at Greenway, which she described as “the loveliest place in the world.”

Dame Agatha’s presence is felt throughout the home, especially when a recording of her voice is played, in which she talks about her career in a matter-of-fact way, saying she made notes on plots as they occurred to her-but then had to find time to do the writing.

Near the end of my tour, I had lunch in Christie’s own kitchen, dining on chicken that was cooked in a vintage Aga, followed by a luscious bread pudding. (Lunch is priced at a modest £15 for two courses.)

Before leaving Greenway, I checked out the section of the house that had been turned into a five-bedroom rental apartment that sleeps 10 (rent is about £2700 a week in high season, much less in winter). The furniture here is from the Christie collection and the kitchen is pure 1950s, making this a dream spot for fans who are also lovers of all things retro.

The most elegant event of the week was the September 15 birthday party held at the Grand Hotel, where Christie honeymooned with first husband Archie. Actress Jane Asher, known also as a celebrity baker, created the recipe for the “Delicious Death” cake from ingredients mentioned in “Appointment with Death.”

The guest of honor at the gala was Julia McKenzie, the newest Miss Marple. McKenzie greeted guests, posed for pictures and spoke of her trepidation at being given an iconic role, particularly after the late Joan Hickson established herself as the one-and-only Miss Marple. “But,” she says, “I like to play the story line, rather than over-thinking it,” depicting Miss Marple as “a person you’d like as a friend, someone you’d trust.”

And then, with a twinkle in her eye and a hint of mischief in her smile, she asks: “But would you invite her anywhere? There’s always a murder wherever she happens to be.”

The party ended with a bang, but there were no murders, just an eye-popping display of fireworks on the beach below the hotel.

The death of paganism: how the Roman Empire converted to Christianity

by Sean McLachlan on


In the year 300 AD, Christianity was a minority religion in the Roman Empire, practiced by perhaps ten percent of the population. In good years it was discriminated against; in bad years it was persecuted. By 400 AD, a century later, it had become the official religion practiced by pretty much everyone. Evidence of this remarkable transformation can still be seen in Rome’s monuments.

Teachers in Sunday schools like to tell a story about how it happened.

In the year 312 there ruled a Roman Emperor named Maxentius who had taken power illegally. He hated Christians and persecuted them. The proper heir to the throne, Constantine, marched on Rome to save the Empire. Before the two forces met in battle, Constantine saw a vision of a cross in the sky and the words “Conquer under this”. Constantine and his army converted to Christianity and painted the cross on their shields. The next day they defeated the pagans and brought Christianity to Rome.

This story is almost entirely wrong, yet it has resonated down the centuries through books, paintings, and films to become part of the Christian legend.

The truth is more complex. Maxentius and Constantine were both sons of emperors and thus equally legitimate. Maxentius did not persecute Christians, and the story of Constantine seeing a cross in the sky doesn’t appear in the texts until years after the battle. Constantine did defeat Maxentius and marched into Rome in triumph, bearing his rival’s severed head as a trophy. After the usual celebrations and gladiator spectacles, he built the Arch of Constantine, which has no Christian symbolism but does depict sacrifices to four pagan gods. In later years he built a number of grandiose churches, including the original St. Peter’s, but didn’t get baptized until his deathbed. Paganism remained legal throughout his reign.

Constantine gave one great boon to the Christians–he legalized their religion. From then on it rapidly gained more followers and began edging out the pagan cults. Soon it was the pagans being persecuted. Rioting monks trashed temples and killed pagan philosophers like Hypatia. In 382 the Altar of Victory was removed from its centuries-old home in the Senate. In 391 paganism was outlawed and temples shut all over the Empire. The old cults hung on for a few generations in rural areas, but Christianity was now the dominant power.

Traces of this incredible transformation are visible in Rome. At the Basilica di San Clemente a 12th century church is built atop a much earlier church. This earlier building was the home of a Roman noble, a secret Christian who invited fellow Christians into his home to worship, a common practice in the days when Christianity was illegal. Underneath his home lies a subterranean temple to the pagan god Mithras.

Entering the medieval church you see the usual grandiose paintings and sculptures. The real interest comes when you descend the stairs into the dank, dark cellar. There you can see the original church much as it was. Descend further and you get back to the days of the pagan Roman Empire. Three rooms survive. One may have been a mint. Another, with a few paintings surviving, was a training room for acolytes in the Mithraic faith. The third is the temple, or mithraeum, for Mithras himself.

%Gallery-102749%Mithras was Christianity’s main rival. As a mystery religion with its deepest teachings revealed only to the initiated, we don’t know much about its inner workings. What we do know shows many similarities between Mithraism and Christianity, such as the belief that Mithras was born on December 25 to a virgin, and died and was resurrected in order to save mankind. The similarities were so numerous that early Christian writers said that the older religion was invented by the Devil as a cheap imitation of Christianity before Jesus was even born!

The mithraeum is a long, rectangular room with benches to either side. Members would sit on these benches and share a communal meal that included bread and wine. At the end of the room stood a plaque showing Mithras in a little-understood ritual of killing a bull. Mithraism was popular, but didn’t have the widespread appeal of Christianity. First off, only men were allowed into the cult. Also, most of the teachings were secret, and while that had a certain mystique, it also turned off many who didn’t want to go through a long period of study and initiation. Despite this more than a dozen mithraea survive in Rome and there were probably hundreds during its heyday.

The transition from pagan to Christian isn’t always as obvious as in San Clemente. Sometimes you can see it in the art, such as the image above, a 4th century mosaic from Santa Pudenziana. Here Christ sits enthroned in a pose identical to many statues of the pagan god Jupiter. Saints Peter and Paul sit to either side dressed as Roman senators. The early Christians saw nothing wrong with this. They wanted to win the hearts and minds of the people, and a bit of reworked pagan symbolism was a good way to do that.

At times the Christians reused old buildings or parts of old buildings. San Maria Maggiore, a third century basilica, was originally a secular building before being converted into a house of worship. This is one of the most stunning churches in Rome, with fifth-century mosaics showing Biblical scenes and a ceiling gilded during the Renaissance with the first gold brought back from the New World. So many Roman sites are only foundations with perhaps a few columns standing, but here you can actually stand inside a Roman building.

Christianity would have never caught on so quickly if it didn’t have the Empire’s infrastructure to spread its message. These were the days when trying to cross a border could easily get you killed, and the Empire provided a large, secure area in which to move about. The Catholic Church understood their debt to Rome and wanted to take on its aura of glory and power. Rome went became the capital of the new faith and its art and architecture was incorporated into churches worldwide. The Church was still trying take on a bit of the old Roman magic as late as the 17th century, when the Pope ordered the giant bronze doors from the old Roman Senate installed in the entrance to St. John Lateran.

The name Roman Catholic Church is no accident.

Don’t miss the rest of my Vacation with the Dead: exploring Rome’s sinister side.

Coming up next: Saints’ relics in Rome!

Ancient cave art discovered in Somaliland

by Sean McLachlan on


Somaliland is little-known as an adventure travel destination. The breakaway region of northern Somalia isn’t even recognized as a nation, but traveling in Somaliland I found it to be a fascinating and friendly country. Its biggest draw for visitors is the well-preserved cave art at Laas Geel, shown above.

Now Somaliland has even more ancient attractions with the announcement that archaeologist Dr. Sada Mire has discovered rock art at almost a hundred more sites in Somaliland. The Somali-born archaeologist says the paintings date to various periods from two to five thousand years ago. Images include animals, the moon in various phases, and a remarkable four-thousand-year-old depiction of a mounted hunter.

Ten of the sites are so outstanding that they’ll be candidates for UNESCO’s World Heritage Sites list. Her findings will appear in the next issue of Current World Archaeology.

I met Dr. Mire last year in London, and while she was anxious to promote archaeological tourism to her country, she warned that a lack of funding and education meant ancient sites such as Laas Geel were under threat. Perhaps her spectacular finds will encourage UNESCO and other organizations to take an interest in Somaliland and help foster a sustainable tourism that will be protect and showcase the caves.

In Italy: The Florence meanderings

by Justin Delaney on

Florence is so much more than a city. The past of this small community on the banks of the Arno is forever intertwined with invention and progress. The Renaissance began here, advancing all forms of intellectual inquiry and creation. The Medici, essentially the world’s first modern bankers, built a Florentine empire with a strong patronage for the arts. Once the center of the banking and art world, it now exists simply as a quiet city in the Tuscan hills. Florence has come down gracefully from its apogee unapologetic and ready to just be. It forges on ahead with shops full of artisans; architecture that has shaped our conception of beauty, and an art scene that may never be eclipsed. The Florence experience serves a welcome respite from the supercenter and highway lifestyle. Florence is more than a city. It is an ideal from which every other beautiful city should be measured.

Once you have arrived in Florence, the beauty can be overwhelming. I do not have a cure for Stendhal Syndrome, but I do have some experiences for you to enjoy while exploring this old town.

Bistecca

My first night in Florence, I sauntered by a dimly lit restaurant on my way back from the gym. In this restaurant, called Perseus, gigantic cuts of meat hung gracefully from the ceiling. That settled it. I had to go. And go I did. Bistecca Alla Fiorentina is a gigantic mass of beef similar to a multi-story T-bone weighing at least a kilo (2.2 lbs). They cut the beef extremely thick and cook it over burning wood coals. Black and crusty on the outside, scarlet in the center, this robust cut is a true carnivorous delight. The meat is so tender; you could eat it with a fork and spoon. The type of beef used is from the prized Chianina Cow, the largest breed of bovine in the world. It is also one of the oldest. These cows have roamed the hills of central Italy since the age of the Roman Empire.

Bistecca Alla Fiorentina is a famous Tuscan indulgence, and is quite easy to find around Florence. To be sure you are getting the real thing, find a local place that appears to be busy. I happened upon Perseus, and they slapped me silly with their decadent beef, fresh baked bread, and nutritious greens. I left that place with a smile and not a care in the world. A good cut of Bistecca starts at around 45 Euros, but don’t expect to finish it alone.

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Drink the Local Stuff

The countryside surrounding Florence boasts some of Italy’s finest vineyards. Chianti flows like the Arno River in this part of the world, and the straw-flasked bottles are an ubiquitous sight along the streets of Florence. A great place to sample wine is at an enoteca. These are wine shops that cater to all classes and tastes. Some are small street booths to stop for a quick glass while the upscale ones serve elegant meals with their wine offerings. No Florentine experience is complete without nosing into one of these establishments for some nectar from Chianti.

Enoteche range from the basic Casa de Vino, to the opulent Cantinetta Antinori. For a truly wonderful experience, take a tour of the Tuscan countryside and check out the surrounding vineyards. Some great vineyards to visit are Le Cantine di Greve, Castello di Meleto, and Castello di Brolio. Italy and Wine offers great wine tours of Tuscany.

Visit with David

David looks like, at any given moment, he could break free of his pedestal and take off down the hall of the Galleria dell’ Accademia. Michelangelo created a true masterpiece. Nothing really prepares you for its chiseled perfection and gargantuan size. This statue has been considered a masterpiece for over 500 years, and standing there in front of it only confirms this well-worn denotation. His alive eyes insinuate a level of intimacy beyond the customary experience with a fine work of art. He seems to follow you around the room.

Michelangelo’s David is housed in the Galleria dell’ Accademia north of the Duomo. If you are visiting during peak season, then purchase tickets ahead of time online to avoid wasting time in line. Entry is €6.50, and fees are added with online purchase. Open 8:15am-6:50pm Tuesday through Sunday. A replica is available in Piazza Della Signoria, but you need to see the real deal.



Brunelleschi’s Ambitious Dome

The Duomo began its life in 1296 by artist Filippo Brunelleschi and was finished by Filippo Brunelleschi in 1436 Emilio de Fabris in 1886. It is still, today, the largest brick and mortar dome in the world. To complete this herculean feat of engineering, Brunelleschi reverse engineered many lost Roman masonry techniques used in old structures such as the Pantheon in Rome. He also invented several new machines to complete this impossible commission made possible by Medici wealth and renaissance intuition.

The Duomo dominates the Florence skyline, and is thus quite easy to locate. The climb to the top is almost 500 steps up narrow stairwells filled with tourists. I know that part sounds awful, but the views of Florence and surrounding Tuscany from the top is well worth the torment. For a fantastic view of the Duomo, climb the adjacent Campanile, which is much quieter. Cost to climb the Duomo is €8, but free if you just want to enter the cathedral. Hours vary by day – Monday-Wednesday, and Friday 10:00am-3:30pm; Thursday and Saturday 10:00am-4:45pm; Sunday, 1:30pm-4:45pm. And to make things even more confusing, on the first Saturday of the month, the Duomo is open from 10:00am-3:30pm. The Campanile is €6, and is open daily from 8:30am-7:30pm.

Shop for a Fine Vintage

Florence boasts Guccio Gucci, Emilio Pucci, Roberto Cavalli, and Salvatore Ferragamo as native sons. As the list goes, so must the shopping. And while these names come with stratospheric price tags more likely to inspire shock than awe, Florence is also filled with some seriously amazing second hand boutiques. These small shops peddle vintage Gucci, Pucci, Valentino, Prada, and more. The finest vintage shop in Florence is quite possibly Elio Ferraro. Check out the website for sure.

Guccio Gucci started the House of Gucci as a craftsman supplying leather goods to the equine set of Tuscany. Florentine leatherworkers have established themselves as some of the greatest in the world, and Gucci’s wide spread success illustrates this point sufficiently. A fine way to bring home some fine Florentine leather craftsmanship without dropping hundreds of Euros is to purchase gloves. My black and red leather cashmere lined gloves are one of my favorite possessions. They cost me about €50, and are softer than a whisper.

The Secret Vasari Corridor

During World War II, the Germans blitzkrieged much of Florence. They bombed all of the bridges crossing the Arno River, except Ponte Vecchio. Rumor has it; Hitler found it too beautiful to destroy. This is an unlikely tidbit of local lore, but not as unlikely as Ponte Vecchio’s secret passageway. The Medici commissioned a secret passage leading from the Uffizi Palazzo Vecchio, over Ponte Vecchio, and to their home at Pitti Palace on the other side of the Arno. This was done so that they did not have to be bothered walking among commoners. The passageway is called the Vasari Corridor. It begins on the top floor of the Uffizi at a nondescript wooden door, passing covertly over the rooftops of the city.

Getting access to the Vasari Corridor used to be near impossible without bribes or connections, but now you can book a bundled Uffizi/Vasari tour here for around €100. The corridor is set to close down for 3 years at the end of 2010. Walking Ponte Vecchio with the commoners at the street level is also beautiful. The bridge is filled with old world jewelry shops. Ponte Vecchio is a popular and romantic sunset spot.

The Dead in Santa Croce

The Basilica di Santa Croce houses 16 different chapels, and is considered the largest Franciscan church in the world. The grounds are filled with frescos, sculptures, and most impressively – a fine collection of worthy tombs. Like a Hall of Fame for notable Italians, many individuals of great renown are buried here: Michelangelo, Galileo, Machiavelli, Dante, and Rossini. The aesthetics do not disappoint either. The Basilica has several quiet courtyards to solemnly admire. If you happen to visit in early February, then check out the artisan chocolate festival in Piazza Santa Croce right out front. They give out prodigious amounts of free samples.

Santa Croce is located in the Santa Croce neighborhood next to the Biblioteca Nazionale. Doors open at 9:30am and close at 5:30pm, except on Sunday, when they open at 1:00pm and close at 5:30pm. Cost is €5. The 2011 Artisan Chocolate Festival has not yet been announced, but will likely be the first weekend of February. Cost to enter the chocolate festival is free.



Boboli Gardens

Spending an afternoon admiring the ornately appointed lawns behind Pitti Palace will put the Medici wealth into perspective. They began as wool traders and eventually came to form the most respected bank in Europe. They used their wealth and influence to build up Florence as a banking and art center for Europe. They sent family members to the papacy, invented double-entry bookkeeping(debits and credits!), and in many ways, initiated the Renaissance. They had fantastic taste and the Boboli Gardens were their backyard. Be sure to check it out.

The Boboli Gardens open at 8:15am daily, though closing time varies by season. They close at 7:30 in the Summer, 6:30 in the Spring, 5:30 in the Fall, and 4:30 in the Winter. Entry to the garden is through Pitti Palace on the south side of the Arno and costs €6. Pitti Palace boasts 7 different galleries, and was the original home of the Medici. The Palatine gallery houses the Renaissance stuff, and they also have a silver museum, carriage museum, royal apartment museum, a costume gallery, porcelain museum, and a museum of modern art.

The Uffizi Gallery

The Galleria Delgi Uffizi is the top art museum in Florence. Once the base of operations for the vast Medici empire, Uffizi translates to offices. The Uffizi has an extremely simple U shaped layout, and floating from room to room is effortless and awe-inspiring. From Botticelli’s Birth of Venus to Da Vinci’s Annunciation, the Uffizi impresses with over 1500 master Renaissance works. The frescoed corridors lined with statues lend a divine aesthetic to the experience.

During high season, the line for the Uffizi can take upwards of 3 or 4 hours. To expedite this process and ensure that you are not wasting precious Florence time in line, book your tickets in advance here. If you go in the winter, then you can get away with just showing up. The Galleria degli Uffizi is open Tuesday to Sunday from 8:15am to 6:50pm. Cost is a low €6.50, though booking online adds a few Euros to the fee.

Eat, eat, eat, and eat

I used to eat at this Chinese restaurant as a kid. I always wondered how their food was so freaking good. I would just shovel the stuff in until my instincts waved a white flag. Later, I found out that every entree was showered in monosodium glutamate – the bastard child of salt and science. I understand that now. The food in Florence also defies my notions of how good something should be. Everything tastes so fresh that I almost feel insulted by the banalities I drag out of the supercenter back home. Salads seem to grow straight out of the plate. Tomatoes burst with flavor and are “real,” not aberrations genetically tinkered to ripen as they jostle down the interstate. Whereas the secret to good 80’s Chinsese food was msg, the secret to great Italian food is closeness to the source, and of course, love. Everything feels as though it has been loved to fruition rather than simply cooked. From chocolate to pecorino to truffles to basil to gelato, everything tastes, as it should – perfect.

The Tuscan Countryside

While most of Florence can be explored on foot, taking to rural Tuscany requires some sort of wheels underfoot. Some great options for exploring the surrounding countryside include tours on bicycles, cars, or even by Vespa. A great car tour company, The 500 Club, rents out classic Fiats for you to drive in an arranged convoy. Tuscany Bike Tours offers a great bicycle tour of the Chianti region. If you want to take to the Italian countryside by Vespa, then check out Tuscany by Vespa.

To reach Florence from the United States, Alitalia offers a code share with Delta from New York, and Lufthansa flies from Boston and San Francisco. None of these flights are nonstop. From London, you can fly on Ryanair for under $30 nonstop to Pisa, and take a short train ride to the heart of Florence for about $16. It is difficult to find an inexpensive flight directly to Florence in Europe, but budget airlines easyjet and Ryanair serve nearby Pisa International Airport. Florence is just an hour and half express train away from Rome, so you can also fly to Rome and take the train to Florence for around $60.