The next morning my alarm went off right on time, 7:30 AM. I looked at it, thought, “Forget that,” and rolled over to sleep another hour. When I finally did wake up, I jumped in the shower, grabbed my map, and attempted to find the Accademia. I knew there was going to be a line, but I didn’t expect it to wrap down one street, around a little piazza, and then halfway down the street perpendicular to the Accademia. Good thing I have time to kill.
I waited in line, my Ipod accompanying me, for about an hour and a half. Not too bad, since I was expecting a 2-3 hour wait. An American family was in front of me, each parent taking turns to chauffeur their son and daughter around the nearby streets to avoid boredom, while the other held their place in line.
Another thing that sucks about traveling alone: YOU always have to hold your place in line.
The Accademia is known for housing the famous statue of David and also boasts Michelangelo’s unfinished “Prisoners” statues, along with other paintings and statues of less importance (apparently). I walked in, bought a ticket, and proceeded to look at a room full of paintings. I wish I knew more about art. I can appreciate the picture and how old it is, but a more extensive knowledge may have made things a little more interesting. After you leave the first room, you turn a corner into a huge hallway. This hallway contains the “Prisoners” statues, lining both sides of the corridor. But what draws the most attention is what is at the end of the hallway.
Gigantic, standing regally in a huge atrium under a flood of lights, and breathtaking beyond words is the statue of David. It was hard for me to pay the “Prisoners” statues their due of my attention, because I was drawn to the statue of David. It was poor planning on the Accademia’s part if they wanted the “Prisoners” to be seriously looked at or appreciated. Quite honestly, David throws a dark shadow over that long corridor leading up to him.
After giving each “Prisoner”, oh, 3 seconds of my attention (I mean, they are unfinished. They don’t deserve much more…), I walked in a trance to David.
He was much bigger than I imagined. And he had EYES?
I’ve seen this statue in tiny pictures in art and history books. For some reason, I imagined the David statue as about 12 feet tall with those blank eyeballs characteristic of Greek and Roman busts.
No. This statue was HUGE. I can’t put a height on it, but he stood well above my measly 12 feet. And he actually had eyeballs. No blank creepy stare from Mr. David, reminiscent of the time when artists couldn’t sculpt pupils. He had a determined look in his eyes. The detail was amazing. The leather sling nearly hidden in his hand, the curls on top of his head, his 8-pack of abs (why are marble statues always ripped?), and his, well, you know. I am still amazed how Michelangelo can create such beauty and detail out of stone. It takes a truly talented artist to do that. The best thing I can do with stone is skip one across a river…
After walking around David a couple of times, I still hadn’t gotten enough of his magnificence. But, other people needed to get close and there was a room full of neglected marble statues just to the left. I decided to go in there to check things out. Nothing too fancy, but I’m sure there is more significance than what I could understand. I should have taken an art class.
The most amazing thing to me was how the sculptors could make marble look like pillows. They looked so soft, as the naked women seductively lay upon them. I wanted to lay my head on them, but it probably wouldn’t be as comfortable as it appears, and this tiny rope blocked my getting too close. Like it would stop someone who really wanted to touch the statues. I guess it’s the symbolism that counts.
After I had finished I took one last look at David and left the Accademia. For me, with paintings and other sculptures, I can see them once and be satisfied. But with David, I would willingly pay money to see him again. He was that amazing. I wish I could adequately explain how magnificent that statue really is, but words simply can’t do it justice. And they won’t let you take pictures. Bummer.
After I left the Accademia I decided to go inside the Duomo, instead of just up the dome. Plus, it was free, so why not? As I entered the large piazza, the wind picked up. I was wearing ¾-sleeves and a jacket, and I was still cold. This was not in the forecast on weather.com!
Entering the cathedral was a nice relief from the crazy wind. The inside was incredible. Florence’s cathedral is the 4th largest cathedral in the world, and I can easily say it is the most beautiful cathedral I have seen to date. Stained glass windows surrounded the atrium, and a large altar stood out of reach at the front of the cathedral. I walked around looking at each stained glass window, and admired the impressive architecture. It’s crazy to think that this cathedral has been here since the 1800s. It’s still as beautiful as ever.
I left, hungry for lunch, but not willing to spend 8 Euro on a small sandwich and drink. So, I hop on over to Ben & Jerry’s for a milkshake. I know it’s not the healthiest lunch. But it was cheap. And American. I sat inside enjoying my milkshake, and watched the guy sitting against the wall across from me. He had thick black eyeliner, was writing in a book, and seemed to be talking to himself. He would now and then laugh to himself, only not welcoming. It was a creepy laugh.
Starving artist? I think not. Crazy man planning the end of the world? That’s more like it.
Luckily, he left before I did, so I could enjoy the rest of my milkshake in peace as I planned the rest of my afternoon. I would walk to the other side of town and find that restaurant I was looking for last night. Then I would go shopping for a new carry-on bag. I’m tired of having to either shove my clothes and toiletries between my backpack and my computer bag, but my 2 pink suitcases are almost too big to have to lug around everywhere for a 3- or 4-day trip. I wanted something smaller, less bulky, but not as annoying as carrying a too-full backpack and computer bag. After that, I would go to the Piazza Michelangelo. Apparently it was a hike but offered a breathtaking view of the entire city. With a slurp, I attempted to suck up every last bit of ice cream that I could, then I set off for my afternoon.
I walked, more closely following my map this time, and managed to successfully find the restaurant! Hopefully I’ll be able to find it in the dark tonight. I walked around the streets, trying to find my way back to the cathedral. As long as I could get back there, I knew I could find my way back to the hostel. The next thing I know, this guy was running up to me.
Oh no. Not another.
He spoke something to me in Italian. And I told him I didn’t speak Italian. “French?” He asked. “Nope,” I said. “English.”
He knew English. Go figure. It seems like most people in this town know English. It IS tourist-central.
He accompanied me around the streets. I couldn’t get rid of this guy. He asked me my name, what I was doing in Florence, where I was going. The same questions that most people seem to ask me. I purposely gave him the “I’m-not-comfortable-around-you-and-would-rather-you-not-talk-to-me” vibe, and for once my creeper seemed to get it. He said his name was Achmed, which made me think of Jeff Dunham and Achmed the Dead Terrorist. I laughed a little to myself. When I told him that I was looking for the market, he told me he would show me the right direction to go and then get something to eat.
Okay, this I could handle.
As we were walking he kept asking me questions, and I answered as shortly as I could. He told me I had a good figure and touched the small of my back. I said thanks and picked up my pace. That’s when I think he got the picture, because from that point on he just walked beside me and we didn’t say much. He pointed me in the direction of the market, and said he was going to get something to eat. I don’t know if he was hinting at me coming with him or not, but I said “Thanks! Bye!” and started towards the market. He said “Ciao, bella…,” and when I looked over my shoulder he was headed the other way.
That’s 1 creeper for each day. I wonder what tomorrow will bring…
I couldn’t find what I wanted in the market, although I did find some super cute scarves for 3 Euro. I’ll have to come back tomorrow. I remember a shop close to a gelateria on the other side of the city. This gelateria happened to be the best one in Florence, according to Kristen. Plus, I could use some gelato, so I decided to find the tiny gelateria on my way to find new luggage.
I successfully found the gelateria, and got a mint flavor and some fruity-creamy one. It was between two pink/white swirled flavors, one being a darker pink than the other. When I couldn’t make up my mind, I asked the employee which one he preferred, and told him to put whichever one that was in my cup. It ended up being cherry and cream. Not my favorite, considering I’m not a huge cherry fan. But the mint was delectable. So I saved it for last.
I also managed to find the luggage shop. The doorway had a rope across the front of it, and there were no entrances. Apparently you had to ask to come in? There was an employee standing right next to the door, and I thought he saw me. But he never invited me in, so I walked down to the window, looked at some of the luggage pieces, and went back. To stand there again.
He finally looked up and asked if I wanted to come in. I said yes, and he said he had seen me but didn’t know if I was actually interested in purchasing. Once he undid the rope and I had walked in, he closed the rope again. One at a time, I guess? This is kind of weird. He’s not threatening by any means, but he is a little odd. I’ll just get my luggage and get out of here.
When I was about to start looking around he said, “Just don’t touch anything. If you need help, I can get something down for you.” Wow. He is really picky about his merchandise. I waltzed around the store, looking for a duffel bag of some sort. Danielle had gotten her cute carry-on at the Florence market for 20 Euro. That was about how much I was willing to spend.
The creepy, little store-owner kept his distance, but he was obviously following me to make sure I didn’t touch his precious luggage sets and duffel bags. Goodness gracious.
I found a really pretty bag, with a brown and black pattern. The owner noticed my interest and showed me that it had wheels and a handle that could be hidden at the bottom of the bag. It was also carry-on size. Perfect for RyanAir’s requirements. And it was on sale for 18 Euro. Just what I was looking for.
I told him I would take it, and he grabbed it off the floor and put it in a bag for me. I told him thanks for all his help, and he looked really proud and said he loved what he did. I could definitely tell. A lady was standing behind the flimsy little rope, looking annoyed that she couldn’t come in, as he wrapped my luggage and gave me my change. I thought to myself, “This guy probably loses a lot of customers thanks to his one person only rule. Oh well. You do get service all to yourself, I guess.”
I headed back to my hostel to drop off my new luggage and jump on the Internet. I was tired, and needed to rest before my hike up the hill to Piazza Michelangelo.
After sufficient time spent on Facebook and catching up on Greek, I grabbed my belongings and headed out to the Piazza Michelangelo. I heard that it was a 30 minute walk, so if I timed things right, I could walk up there, have about 15 minutes to enjoy the scenery, walk back down and go straight to the restaurant.
All day the weather had been overcast, but as I left my hostel it had become sunny again. It was a trek to the Piazza Michelangelo, that’s for sure. And more like a 45-minute walk from where I was staying. That is factoring in getting behind a large group of meandering students, and pausing to watch a couple local boys play soccer down by the river, of course.
After crossing the river, following small signs marking the trail to the Piazza, climbing a hill, and about 200 steps, I made it to the top. I walked through a parking lot and past a couple of bars. And the view was amazing. The hike and fact that I was sweating and out of breath was worth it, because I got to see THIS.
I stood at the top taking a break, and wished I could find someone to take a picture of me. A couple of English speaking students were close to me, but right as I turned to ask one of them to take a picture of me, they walked the other way. So I just stood there. Next to me was a young high school couple, lovingly entwined in each other’s arms as they stood above the city of Florence.
I thought, “Aww, how cute.” Then, “Man, I wish I had a boy to share this with.” Then, “Okay, Anna. Just man up and ask them to take a picture of you.”
So I did, and the guy did a marvelous job of lining me up with the church in the background, all staying within the Rule of Thirds. Oh my gosh. My broadcasting classes even follow me to Italy. I can’t seem to get away.
I said thank you, and took a couple more pictures, then decided to start my descent back to the heart of Florence. I walked past a bar and looked over. The barman was stupidly grinning my direction (something I’ve gotten used to) and waved my direction. When I smiled and waved back, he looked like the happiest man in the world.
I do what I can.
When I made it to the bottom, I wasn’t as hungry as I had anticipated, so I walked towards to Ponte Vecchio. The Ponte Vecchio was the only bridge left standing after the Allied WWII bombing of Florence, because they saw it as too important to destroy. Thank goodness they didn’t!
I walked down the bridge, each side lining me with rows of gold and jewels. The old wooden building housing the jewelers are built into the bridge, and sit balancing above the river. As old as this bridge is, I’d be afraid that my shop would break off and fall into the water, taking all the gold with it. But, it’s been standing for years now, and seems determined to stay that way.
My map from the hostel had a list of things to do while in Florence. One of them was “Buy something in gold from Ponte Vecchio.” Looking at the price tags in those windows, it didn’t take me long to figure out that crossing that off my list wasn’t exactly feasible this time around. Maybe the next time I’m in Florence and I’m fabulously wealthy. Yeah, next time…
By the time I had finished admiring the bridge of gold, my stomach made a quiet rumble, telling me that it was time to find our dear little restaurant. I was already on that side of town, so it was pretty easy to find the restaurant. My Rick Steve’s Italy tour book lists this trattoria as one of the best in Florence, offering a tourist menu for a small price. I looked at the menu outside, and it certainly did.
I went inside, and a cute blonde waitress sat me right next to the door. There was only 1 other couple and a single lady in the restaurant when I arrived. I thought this place, though out of the way, was supposed to be popular?
I ordered things off the tourist menu, and the cute little waitress and the owner, Gino himself, brought each course out to me. As I ate my meal, the restaurant filled up quickly. I guess people just eat later. Most of the people spoke English. There was a couple talking about their trip to Venice, another one from the Netherlands, and a family in the corner, visiting their son who was studying abroad in Florence.
I enjoyed my meal and people-watching, and waited about 45 minutes for my check. In any restaurant in America, I would be beyond annoyed that it took that long for my check to arrive. But I’m in Italy, where apparently this is the norm, and I really didn’t have that much going on that night.
When I finally got my check and paid, I stood up to leave the restaurant. As I was opening, I said “Grazie! Buena sera!” Gino looked up from behind the counter and shouted “Ciao, bella!” from across the tiny trattoria.
Again with the “Ciao, bella?” It must be a Florence thing, and I’m starting to like it.
I found my way home without getting lost, and crawled into bed. Tomorrow I would see the Uffizi Gallery. Apparently, without a reservation, it is a 2-3 hour wait. I have time to spare, so I’ll just go without the reservation. Hopefully it isn’t THAT terrible. Little did I know, a 2-3 hour wait is terrible when you are by yourself. But I didn’t know that, so I slept peacefully, dreaming of being followed by hunky Italian men all shouting “Ciao, bella!” at me. :)
