The Bird Harvest
Location: Florence, Italy
Local Glass Shards: Understandably Pointy
This is a pretty good one. We're moving up in the world, now into the heart of Italy, where civilization once breast fed from a sunshiny, pesto-covered teat. I have high hopes.
November 13
I rise in the morning and am happy to throw off the oppressive shackles of Hotel Giovanina, veritably skipping toward the train station. I grab a couple of sandwiches at the station's Chef Express cafe, then hop my train, which is customarily late.
You know, after a few days in Italy, one begins to long for an on-time train with such vehemence that I actually began to wonder if Mussolini was really all that bad. After all, a guy who can efficiently get me from A to B can be forgiven a lot of other civil atrocities. Mmm... delicious panini... what were we talking about?
The trip to Florence is an uneventful three hours, mainly spent sleeping and reading. When we arrive, I am horrified to find that the train did not in fact go to the correct train station, which is a mere fifty meters from my hostel. Rather, I am at a station so far across town that it does not even appear on my handy-dandy Lonely Planet map. And I have to pee. Really bad. Fortunately, my skills in solving such problems have increased dramatically of late, so I am able to hop a nearby bus that takes me quite quickly to the correct station, from which my hostel is a hop, skip, and a jump (harder than you think when you've got forty pounds strapped to your back).
The hostel is very nice and very small, run by a tiny Italian woman named Clara, at the same time full of attitude and domestically congenial. I still have yet to get a decent bead on her, and I am sure that if I were an existential poet she would provide much banal material for my words, my tortured words.
There's not a whole lot of daylight left, but I hop on over to The Duomo, which is about ten minutes away on foot. The Duomo - or, as I like to call it, THE DWO... MO! - is a freakish monument of... ahem... Biblical proportions. Seen from a distance it's ludicrousity becomes obvious, as it towers above everything around it, such that gazing upon it's tongue-colored roof from afar resembles nothing more than surveying Bowzer's Castle, World 4-7, on the World Map. As cathedrals go it is not ornate or gilded or carved (save for the facade, which I'm sure has induced more seizures over the years than the entire second season of Dragonball Z). It's just friggin' huge. There is a kind of stately grace about it, though, the enormous expanse of marble flooring unobstructed by anything even as simple as pews, vaulted ceiling soaring overhead atop columns as big around as most college dormrooms. The inside of the dome is a sight both impressive and poignant, as even from the floor several hundred feet below, one can see massive cracks weaving their way across the brilliant frescoes. When I walk into the place, it's understated grandeur is enough that my skin actually crawls, and I have to do a little Michael Flatley dances the robot move to settle myself.
By the time I walk out, nightfall is approaching and I make my way back to the hostel to relax, stopping at a grocery store for some well-deserved sustenance. Back there I meet several neat people, including an aging Dutch woman named Yolanda, a rabbity little New Englander named Joni, and a vegetarian Kiwi girl named Elsa who may or may not be a proper hippy (and from whom I glean a good uber-laugh when she describes her father's employment as a sort of tax collector for kiwi fruit companies). We have quite pleasant conversation (they being quite amused by my manner and several of my habits, among them my fondness for peanut butter bananas and my insistence on going running around the city before bed), but before long we're all out like multinational lights.
November 14
Clara has a very unusual habit. Every morning at 9:00 sharp she walks into the room, flings back the curtains, opens the window, and shouts, "Buongiorno!" to everybody there, then proceeds bring in trays full of sumptous breakfast goodies, including scrambled eggs, yogurt, cereal, and fresh-baked breakfast cake. Presented with this, all of us are unsure whether to thank her for the food or brutally murder her and dismember her sinful body. A wake-up call for backpackers is never well-received, but breakfast goes a long way toward distracting us. The food is filling and delicious, and I find that sitting around that table, trading conversation back and forth with people from all around the world while sipping juice and eating salty eggs is one of the most civilized times I've had in months.
Joni and I join forces for the day since our agendas are pretty much equivilent, and we set off into the city. We swing by to see David, but decide upon seeing the crazy-long line to come back to it later, when the gray-haired wobblies are tuckered out and retreated indoors. Thus we head west, past the Palazzo Vecchio and Galeria Uffizi to the Ponte Vecchio, the only Florentine bridge to escape destruction at the hands of the Nazis (without understanding the particular history behind that, I can only surmise that the Nazis were so crazy they actually bombarded their allies).
The Ponte Vecchio is pretty hot, loaded down with bunches of shops and such, so much that it almost looks like just another street of the town rather than a bridge. Things are built out on struts from the bridge proper, so most of the buildings seem perpetually on the edge of plunging into the abyss. Above the street-level part is the large passageway the Medicis had built some time ago for their own private use, leading me to believe that every American bridge should have attached a separate Jones Passage. Why this has not already occured in preparation for my grandeur is beyond reason. That bit of corridor does prove once and for all, however, that having crap-loads of money can get you pretty much anything. Not content to have a palace? Ok, have two. Not happy with two? Ok, here's a private bridge connecting them. You greedy little cockheads.
Across the bridge we take a wrong turn or two, then finally find a good passage up into the hills, where we have been slyly informed there is a kickin' view of the city. At this point I do need to credit Joni. She was an excellent walking around companion, with the right spirit of adventure and enough of a sense of humor to listen to me nattering for a day without using me to demontstrate her knowledge of the five point palm exploding heart technique, and from time to time she actually joined in the hearty, irreverent banner. All props.
Now, our spirit of adventure guided us up a rather large hill, past Fort Belevedere (yes, there were butler jokes made), and eventually down a street walled on both sides, over which we could see olive groves and villas. Seeing as how the sidewalks were about six inches wide, it was a little dangerous whenever cars came rocketing around the blind curves, but otherwise very beautiful and decidedly Tuscan. At one point, peering over a wall into an olive grove, we discovered that, rather than barbed wire, the locals had imbedded into the masonry at the top of the wall shards of broken glass. How hardcore is that? It may not be as effecting as wire at stopping intruders (or it may be, who knows?), but I respect the creativity and artistic panache it takes to stick shards of broken wine bottles into the top of a fortification.
After about an hour we surmise that somewhere we took a wrong turn. Fortunately, the damage was minimal since we finally came to an intersecting road that took us around to where we wanted to go. We had simply taken the long way, which, given the scenery, I can hardly count as a negative. From here the views over Florence proper just kept getting better and better, from an embankment over some houses to a church on a hill. It was incredible. Florence really is a gorgeous city, and I can understand why people would be willing to give four feet of their lower intestine for a villa in Tuscany.
Now on the verge of stavation, we descend back into the city by way of Michaelangelo's Plaza and a whole lot of stairs. Before we can cross the river, we are approached by an American girl who asks if we, too, are American. I hypothesize (incorrectly, I later find) that she suspects us of Yankeehood because I was in the middle of the chorus of "America: Fuck Yeah" when she passed us. Her name is Jo, she is lost and looking for where we just came from. We give her directions and I give her my map (which I don't really need at this point anyway). We also extend an invitation to come drinking with us tonight if she likes, and she accepts. She is staying at a nearby hostel and will drop by ours later.
Joni and I head for David, on the way grabbing some cheap pizzas at a local cafe. By this time the line at the Galeria dell'Accademia is nonexistent, and we jump right in.
David is awesome. My appreciation of fine art basically extends as far as I can make fun of it, but even my very untrained eye can see that this is a magnificent piece of work. I stand and just gape at it for several minutes, checking it our from every angle. Well done, Mike, it's a good one. There is some making fun, of course, most notably in a conversation between Joni and I resulting in the thesis that Michaelangelo should have carved David's taint. Yikes.
Heading back to the hostel, we settle in for a siesta for a bit, and I grab some more simple fare for dinner from my fridge stash. In the lounge I find Elsa and a newly arrived British girl named Laura. In no time at all Jo arrives and our fivesome for the night is complete. Laura and Jo make extremely good company as well, both boisterous and crazy and full of comedy-quoting goodness. I'm sad that we won't get to hang out much after tonight and tomorrow, but what can you do?
We settle quickly into wine drinking, venturing forth once for fresh bottles and sandwiches from local crappy restaurants. There's a great wine deal down the street (3 bottles for 10 Euros) and before long we are quite sloshed. Laura knows some people in town who are out at a bar, and we stumble to join them, drinking wine from the bottle as we move across town and even pausing for a few minutes to pound back wine on the steps of the Duomo in all our sacreligious glory. Or is this sacramental wine? While wandering, I have a number of priceless performances involving the copy of David outside the Palazzo Vecchio, including playing "This Little Piggy" with his toes.
At the bar we join up with several (I never got a specific count) new people, mostly from Britain but with one notable German who offered some insightful tips on Berlin that simultaneously educated me about the city's history and its nightlife. That's talent. The place is dark and classy and very neat, and it's only after another bottle of wine that I see fit to head out. Jo and Joni left earlier, sadly, but Elsa, Laura, and I head back happily toasted, stopping along the way to get more pizza for them.
On the way home we're waylaid by a group of men presumably also returning from a night of drinking. They may have been Arabic or they may have been Mexican; in my inebriated state the best I could ascertain was their status as ethnic. One of them, seeing Elsa and determining even through his drunken haze that she is young and female, advances upon her and begins stroking her cheek, much as he would a dog he wanted to buy. Elsa is understandably creeped out and, being their patron dude for the evening, I step in and shoo away the offending bastardo. He is not happy about it, and with vigorous gestures offers me non-English threats about how he is going to beat my ass. I stand my ground, however, and am even a little disappointed that he didn't decide to start something, as I'm fairly certain I could have ended his miserable life with ease, and opportunities to fight to defend a woman's honor are far too rare.
Adventurer: Out.
November 15
If my missionary practice of giving various things the finger for the benefit of a camera could be considered fruit, than Italy would be a vast orchard, from which I might reap my most terrible harvest. So far in country I have hit more famous things than I had in all the rest of Europe: The Duomo, Basilica San Marco, The Bridge of Sighs, the Pala d'Oro, David, the Ponte Vecchio, and more. Not only that, but Rome promises to be an even more virile defiler of virtue. My company of late has proved fascinated by my ersatz quest, and I find that each mighty success lifts my spirits and those of my companions more and more.
Clara, on request, has included bacon in today's breakfast, and it is delicious, if a bit salty. A new companion arrived during the night, a Midwesterner named Devin. I'm feeling a bit sick to my stomach, which I deem a hangover symptom, despite my normal consistency in avoiding such plebian ailments.
Laura and I head over to the Palazzo Vecchio and poke around for a few minutes, making a near-successful attempt to get up into the staterooms there without paying. They caught us only after I'd gotten a good look around the main room, though, so I count it at least a partial victory. It was cool, but nothing of particular note.
After we leave there, we head next door to the Galeria Uffizi, where the famed "Birth of Venus" and other artworks lie. I had intended to go in there, but the $12 entrance fee dissauded me. I didn't care much about the gallery in the first place, and hell, I gotta eat. Laura, being wealthier than me, heads in while I tool around on my own. There are a number of statues outside the gallery, and I manage to consecutively flip off several Italians of historical importance in a matter of minutes. I head to another basilica, but it too has a steep entry fee, so I do without. By this time, my stomach has started to feel worse, so I head back to the hostel and lie down with a book.
Later on, Yolanda invites me out for a coffee and I accompany her, grabbing a kebab on the way for lunch. Bad idea. It sets my belly in a foul way and I can barely concentrate on anything until I can get back to the hostel and lie down again. I remain that way for pretty much the rest of the day. My roomies, fortunately, want to eat in tonight, so we grab some stuff at the supermarket and eat sandwiches in the common room. The conversation is quite lively, mainly centering around the more horrifying stories in Chuck Palahniuk's collection, "Haunted." I go to bed still feeling very queasy, now convinced that hangovers have nothing to do with it. Hopefully I'll be all right tomorrow for my trip to Rome.
Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 9
Stupid Tourist Moments: 62
Monuments Flipped Off: 52
Free Food Ganked: 11
Free Booze Ganked: 30
america! fuck yeah!
coming again to save the motherfucking day, yeah!
-from "Team America: World Police"
Local Glass Shards: Understandably Pointy
This is a pretty good one. We're moving up in the world, now into the heart of Italy, where civilization once breast fed from a sunshiny, pesto-covered teat. I have high hopes.November 13
I rise in the morning and am happy to throw off the oppressive shackles of Hotel Giovanina, veritably skipping toward the train station. I grab a couple of sandwiches at the station's Chef Express cafe, then hop my train, which is customarily late.
You know, after a few days in Italy, one begins to long for an on-time train with such vehemence that I actually began to wonder if Mussolini was really all that bad. After all, a guy who can efficiently get me from A to B can be forgiven a lot of other civil atrocities. Mmm... delicious panini... what were we talking about?
The trip to Florence is an uneventful three hours, mainly spent sleeping and reading. When we arrive, I am horrified to find that the train did not in fact go to the correct train station, which is a mere fifty meters from my hostel. Rather, I am at a station so far across town that it does not even appear on my handy-dandy Lonely Planet map. And I have to pee. Really bad. Fortunately, my skills in solving such problems have increased dramatically of late, so I am able to hop a nearby bus that takes me quite quickly to the correct station, from which my hostel is a hop, skip, and a jump (harder than you think when you've got forty pounds strapped to your back).
The hostel is very nice and very small, run by a tiny Italian woman named Clara, at the same time full of attitude and domestically congenial. I still have yet to get a decent bead on her, and I am sure that if I were an existential poet she would provide much banal material for my words, my tortured words.
There's not a whole lot of daylight left, but I hop on over to The Duomo, which is about ten minutes away on foot. The Duomo - or, as I like to call it, THE DWO... MO! - is a freakish monument of... ahem... Biblical proportions. Seen from a distance it's ludicrousity becomes obvious, as it towers above everything around it, such that gazing upon it's tongue-colored roof from afar resembles nothing more than surveying Bowzer's Castle, World 4-7, on the World Map. As cathedrals go it is not ornate or gilded or carved (save for the facade, which I'm sure has induced more seizures over the years than the entire second season of Dragonball Z). It's just friggin' huge. There is a kind of stately grace about it, though, the enormous expanse of marble flooring unobstructed by anything even as simple as pews, vaulted ceiling soaring overhead atop columns as big around as most college dormrooms. The inside of the dome is a sight both impressive and poignant, as even from the floor several hundred feet below, one can see massive cracks weaving their way across the brilliant frescoes. When I walk into the place, it's understated grandeur is enough that my skin actually crawls, and I have to do a little Michael Flatley dances the robot move to settle myself.
By the time I walk out, nightfall is approaching and I make my way back to the hostel to relax, stopping at a grocery store for some well-deserved sustenance. Back there I meet several neat people, including an aging Dutch woman named Yolanda, a rabbity little New Englander named Joni, and a vegetarian Kiwi girl named Elsa who may or may not be a proper hippy (and from whom I glean a good uber-laugh when she describes her father's employment as a sort of tax collector for kiwi fruit companies). We have quite pleasant conversation (they being quite amused by my manner and several of my habits, among them my fondness for peanut butter bananas and my insistence on going running around the city before bed), but before long we're all out like multinational lights.
November 14
Clara has a very unusual habit. Every morning at 9:00 sharp she walks into the room, flings back the curtains, opens the window, and shouts, "Buongiorno!" to everybody there, then proceeds bring in trays full of sumptous breakfast goodies, including scrambled eggs, yogurt, cereal, and fresh-baked breakfast cake. Presented with this, all of us are unsure whether to thank her for the food or brutally murder her and dismember her sinful body. A wake-up call for backpackers is never well-received, but breakfast goes a long way toward distracting us. The food is filling and delicious, and I find that sitting around that table, trading conversation back and forth with people from all around the world while sipping juice and eating salty eggs is one of the most civilized times I've had in months.
Joni and I join forces for the day since our agendas are pretty much equivilent, and we set off into the city. We swing by to see David, but decide upon seeing the crazy-long line to come back to it later, when the gray-haired wobblies are tuckered out and retreated indoors. Thus we head west, past the Palazzo Vecchio and Galeria Uffizi to the Ponte Vecchio, the only Florentine bridge to escape destruction at the hands of the Nazis (without understanding the particular history behind that, I can only surmise that the Nazis were so crazy they actually bombarded their allies).
The Ponte Vecchio is pretty hot, loaded down with bunches of shops and such, so much that it almost looks like just another street of the town rather than a bridge. Things are built out on struts from the bridge proper, so most of the buildings seem perpetually on the edge of plunging into the abyss. Above the street-level part is the large passageway the Medicis had built some time ago for their own private use, leading me to believe that every American bridge should have attached a separate Jones Passage. Why this has not already occured in preparation for my grandeur is beyond reason. That bit of corridor does prove once and for all, however, that having crap-loads of money can get you pretty much anything. Not content to have a palace? Ok, have two. Not happy with two? Ok, here's a private bridge connecting them. You greedy little cockheads.
Across the bridge we take a wrong turn or two, then finally find a good passage up into the hills, where we have been slyly informed there is a kickin' view of the city. At this point I do need to credit Joni. She was an excellent walking around companion, with the right spirit of adventure and enough of a sense of humor to listen to me nattering for a day without using me to demontstrate her knowledge of the five point palm exploding heart technique, and from time to time she actually joined in the hearty, irreverent banner. All props.
Now, our spirit of adventure guided us up a rather large hill, past Fort Belevedere (yes, there were butler jokes made), and eventually down a street walled on both sides, over which we could see olive groves and villas. Seeing as how the sidewalks were about six inches wide, it was a little dangerous whenever cars came rocketing around the blind curves, but otherwise very beautiful and decidedly Tuscan. At one point, peering over a wall into an olive grove, we discovered that, rather than barbed wire, the locals had imbedded into the masonry at the top of the wall shards of broken glass. How hardcore is that? It may not be as effecting as wire at stopping intruders (or it may be, who knows?), but I respect the creativity and artistic panache it takes to stick shards of broken wine bottles into the top of a fortification.
After about an hour we surmise that somewhere we took a wrong turn. Fortunately, the damage was minimal since we finally came to an intersecting road that took us around to where we wanted to go. We had simply taken the long way, which, given the scenery, I can hardly count as a negative. From here the views over Florence proper just kept getting better and better, from an embankment over some houses to a church on a hill. It was incredible. Florence really is a gorgeous city, and I can understand why people would be willing to give four feet of their lower intestine for a villa in Tuscany.Now on the verge of stavation, we descend back into the city by way of Michaelangelo's Plaza and a whole lot of stairs. Before we can cross the river, we are approached by an American girl who asks if we, too, are American. I hypothesize (incorrectly, I later find) that she suspects us of Yankeehood because I was in the middle of the chorus of "America: Fuck Yeah" when she passed us. Her name is Jo, she is lost and looking for where we just came from. We give her directions and I give her my map (which I don't really need at this point anyway). We also extend an invitation to come drinking with us tonight if she likes, and she accepts. She is staying at a nearby hostel and will drop by ours later.
Joni and I head for David, on the way grabbing some cheap pizzas at a local cafe. By this time the line at the Galeria dell'Accademia is nonexistent, and we jump right in.
David is awesome. My appreciation of fine art basically extends as far as I can make fun of it, but even my very untrained eye can see that this is a magnificent piece of work. I stand and just gape at it for several minutes, checking it our from every angle. Well done, Mike, it's a good one. There is some making fun, of course, most notably in a conversation between Joni and I resulting in the thesis that Michaelangelo should have carved David's taint. Yikes.
Heading back to the hostel, we settle in for a siesta for a bit, and I grab some more simple fare for dinner from my fridge stash. In the lounge I find Elsa and a newly arrived British girl named Laura. In no time at all Jo arrives and our fivesome for the night is complete. Laura and Jo make extremely good company as well, both boisterous and crazy and full of comedy-quoting goodness. I'm sad that we won't get to hang out much after tonight and tomorrow, but what can you do?
We settle quickly into wine drinking, venturing forth once for fresh bottles and sandwiches from local crappy restaurants. There's a great wine deal down the street (3 bottles for 10 Euros) and before long we are quite sloshed. Laura knows some people in town who are out at a bar, and we stumble to join them, drinking wine from the bottle as we move across town and even pausing for a few minutes to pound back wine on the steps of the Duomo in all our sacreligious glory. Or is this sacramental wine? While wandering, I have a number of priceless performances involving the copy of David outside the Palazzo Vecchio, including playing "This Little Piggy" with his toes.
At the bar we join up with several (I never got a specific count) new people, mostly from Britain but with one notable German who offered some insightful tips on Berlin that simultaneously educated me about the city's history and its nightlife. That's talent. The place is dark and classy and very neat, and it's only after another bottle of wine that I see fit to head out. Jo and Joni left earlier, sadly, but Elsa, Laura, and I head back happily toasted, stopping along the way to get more pizza for them.
On the way home we're waylaid by a group of men presumably also returning from a night of drinking. They may have been Arabic or they may have been Mexican; in my inebriated state the best I could ascertain was their status as ethnic. One of them, seeing Elsa and determining even through his drunken haze that she is young and female, advances upon her and begins stroking her cheek, much as he would a dog he wanted to buy. Elsa is understandably creeped out and, being their patron dude for the evening, I step in and shoo away the offending bastardo. He is not happy about it, and with vigorous gestures offers me non-English threats about how he is going to beat my ass. I stand my ground, however, and am even a little disappointed that he didn't decide to start something, as I'm fairly certain I could have ended his miserable life with ease, and opportunities to fight to defend a woman's honor are far too rare.
Adventurer: Out.
November 15
If my missionary practice of giving various things the finger for the benefit of a camera could be considered fruit, than Italy would be a vast orchard, from which I might reap my most terrible harvest. So far in country I have hit more famous things than I had in all the rest of Europe: The Duomo, Basilica San Marco, The Bridge of Sighs, the Pala d'Oro, David, the Ponte Vecchio, and more. Not only that, but Rome promises to be an even more virile defiler of virtue. My company of late has proved fascinated by my ersatz quest, and I find that each mighty success lifts my spirits and those of my companions more and more.
Clara, on request, has included bacon in today's breakfast, and it is delicious, if a bit salty. A new companion arrived during the night, a Midwesterner named Devin. I'm feeling a bit sick to my stomach, which I deem a hangover symptom, despite my normal consistency in avoiding such plebian ailments.
Laura and I head over to the Palazzo Vecchio and poke around for a few minutes, making a near-successful attempt to get up into the staterooms there without paying. They caught us only after I'd gotten a good look around the main room, though, so I count it at least a partial victory. It was cool, but nothing of particular note.
After we leave there, we head next door to the Galeria Uffizi, where the famed "Birth of Venus" and other artworks lie. I had intended to go in there, but the $12 entrance fee dissauded me. I didn't care much about the gallery in the first place, and hell, I gotta eat. Laura, being wealthier than me, heads in while I tool around on my own. There are a number of statues outside the gallery, and I manage to consecutively flip off several Italians of historical importance in a matter of minutes. I head to another basilica, but it too has a steep entry fee, so I do without. By this time, my stomach has started to feel worse, so I head back to the hostel and lie down with a book.
Later on, Yolanda invites me out for a coffee and I accompany her, grabbing a kebab on the way for lunch. Bad idea. It sets my belly in a foul way and I can barely concentrate on anything until I can get back to the hostel and lie down again. I remain that way for pretty much the rest of the day. My roomies, fortunately, want to eat in tonight, so we grab some stuff at the supermarket and eat sandwiches in the common room. The conversation is quite lively, mainly centering around the more horrifying stories in Chuck Palahniuk's collection, "Haunted." I go to bed still feeling very queasy, now convinced that hangovers have nothing to do with it. Hopefully I'll be all right tomorrow for my trip to Rome.
Progress Thus Far:
Countries Visited: 9
Stupid Tourist Moments: 62
Monuments Flipped Off: 52
Free Food Ganked: 11
Free Booze Ganked: 30
america! fuck yeah!
coming again to save the motherfucking day, yeah!
-from "Team America: World Police"
posted by Will Jones at 10:30 AM
1 Comments:
Get thee to a gelateria!
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