Last night, Catherine and I decided to go for a run alongside the Ponte Vecchio. I wanted to do this for a few reasons: 1. running is always a chance to clear your head, 2. it would make me feel more like a local, more like this is my city, and 3. I'll exercise whenever I get the chance.
I couldn't have imagined what it is like to run along the Ponte Vecchio. It is an experience in the truest sense of the word - experience (n): a particular instance of personally encountering or undergoing something. This was definitely a chance to undergo something. First, it gave me a different perspective on the views I've seen. Running towards this view (pictured above), with the sun coming through the clouds and reflecting off the water and a ethereal image of buildings lit up in front of me, gave the sense that we were running for something rather than to something. There were times I wanted to stop and take pictures and times I realised the futility of doing so; nothing could capture the moment, the feeling, of what I was undergoing. And in truth, even the pictures I did take do not compare to the sensation of it all being right in front of me, within reach. As I ran, I thought about how little we have in the U.S. that compares to this. Even the cobblestoned ground I ran had been around for hundreds of years before our country was even discovered. The buildings were chaotically still standing, their roofs' dark in some spots and light in others, some areas missing paint or tile or shingles; but they were, miraculously, still standing. What do we have to compare to that? Our buildings at the most are a few hundreds of years old. Most (not all!) buildings in our cities are modernized, with stainless steel or metal or glass. They are clean and put-together, but they do not have the imperfect beauty of time gone by.
As I ran, I passed countless individuals sitting, just sitting, on the railings alongside the river. It reminded me of what our Italian Literature teacher talked about last week: how in the past, people would bring books with them for those stagnant moments during the day in which you had nothing else to keep you occupied. Now, those moments are filled with iPhones, with Facebook and Youtube and Instagram, with pictures of other people and other places, with irrelevant facts and random information. I am so glad that my run forced me not to do these things. I can't bring an iPhone around with me anyway (only free to use in my apartment), and I am so grateful. These people in Italy (perhaps simply because they are tourists, but perhaps because they are not), are so interested in the moment, in what and who is right in front of them. How can you not be? An iPhone is a ridiculous alternative to the sights of the Ponte Vecchio at night when you are running faster and longer because you wouldn't trade the sight in your horizon for anything. It looks alien in a place full of such enormous history, a place that had mastered politics and civic responsibility and the arts and language long before we'd set foot on American soil for the first time. And perhaps it is alien not just because an iPhone is modern and Italy is historic; perhaps it is also alien because it is unnecessary in a place already full of the possibility of personally encountering or undergoing something as long as you are open to it.
After our run and after dinner, the four of us (my three roommates and I) decided to go find a new gelato place. We'd been told to go to Gelateria dei Neri, so we set off in pursuit of it. It was the most difficult thing in the world to find (even with GPS we circled the streets for half an hour before giving in and asking people for directions... we found it pretty easily after that). But the gelato was incredible. All the flavours are written in Italian, so I never quite know what to order, but that's partially the fun of it. A rule of mine: I never order the same flavour twice. There are just so many flavours to try in my time here and I don't want to get stuck in the routine of one, only to find out there is a better one I'd been ignoring! So last night I ordered one with almonds and cashews, and it tasted exactly like cake batter with nuts. It was called croccantino. I might break my rule for that one. I also tried a yogurt-flavored one, which was a terrible decision because it tasted exactly like yogurt from the supermarket, but I'm glad I know this now. We all sat on the stoop outside to eat. Halfway through, I said to Catherine, "what's your judgment level if I get another?" I was only partially kidding. She laughed and said, "I want another too." So we decided, why not? We hadn't gotten gelato all week which means I was very behind in my pursuit to try every flavour. So we went inside and ordered two more flavours. I asked the woman behind the counter which tasted most like the cake-batter flavour, and she said they had the same flavour except in chocolate. So I got that, although I usually don't like chocolate, and then I got a cream-flavor in case I hated the chocolate. We sat back on our perch outside beside the street. Turns out, the chocolate in Italy is completely worth trying. It was like expensive ghirardelli chocolate, melted and then frozen into gelato. After our gelato excursion, we were all insatiably hungry for something salty. We found our apartment easily enough, and suddenly the pizza place right across the street (where the cast of the Jersey Shore worked, apparently) was beckoning to us. We'd all probably had plenty of food for the night, but we couldn't resist going in on a margherita pizza together. So we did.
We slept in until noon today, which tells me we are all desperate for sleep. It's hard to come by around here, especially with classes starting at 9 and so many options of things to do late into the night. After we woke up we decided to go climb the Duomo, because we were given passes yesterday that would only last 24 hours. Also, why in the world would we not climb the Duomo when given the chance? So we waited in line for 45 minutes and then began the narrow and steep 463-staired climb to the top. It was claustrophobic and hot, especially with so many strangers behind and in front of you, but it was incredible once we reached a landing that gave us such a close view of the fresco painting on the inside of the dome.
Incredible to imagine what it must have been like to paint such a thing. It had a beautiful portrayal of heaven and hell, although I couldn't help but think that heaven did not look as beautiful as hell looked terrifying; perhaps the intention was less "heaven is amazing" as it was "hell is horrible." I also think hell as a concept is an easier thing to portray through painting then heaven. Because how do you capture something as unimaginably pure and perfect as heaven?
We kept climbing more narrow stairs, needing to walk sideways to fit on the stairway. It was so narrow, but when we emerged into the opening at the top of the duomo it was entirely worth the climb. You could see everything from above; you could see the smallest details like the shirt someone was wearing as he crossed the street or what restaurants were below. But it was also a vast and endless view of a city that stretches as far into the horizon as we could see. It's crazy how similar and symmetrical everything looks from above. Most buildings have the same rough top texture and color, as well as the same colours to their walls (yellow-brown). A few patches of trees stuck out in various locations, but most of the city simply looked jam-packed with buildings, like monopoly pieces piling on top of one another. Streets began curving more as the city went out towards the mountains. We've learned that as Florence became a bigger city with more trade, a better political system, and a more stable economic system, they had to start curving their roads to expand out into the mountains simply because they did not have enough space for everyone.
It was so beautiful that I just sat and looked for a while. Like a world I was both a part of and separate from; standing above it made it seem sort of unreal, in a way, like we were passive viewers rather than active participants of the city. I could have watched the city for hours. The streets disappeared from view up so high, and without being able to see people or cars, it looked like a view of a city long abandoned and yet, somehow, able to stand as firmly as it had hundreds of years ago. Like it would have been exactly the same if all the people of the city deserted it.
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