The class took a trip to the Accademia today. There is nothing there, only one thing, but that one thing was absolutely the most awesome piece of artwork I have ever seen.
The David is perfect and evokes in its observer unspoken feelings of symmetry, beauty, sexuality, and humility.
My classmates and I took turns forming walls around each other so we could sneak snapshots in, which of course are prohibited. My trusty Sony and I did the job, although I would've liked it in a few more meaningful angles. And close up.
Afterward, the girls and I were famished with hunger. We duly complained about the lack of variety in the Italian diet - at least as American tourists know it - but were so desperate we did end up settling for the token plate of pasta and panino. The cafe' was the single worst place I have ever had the misfortune to patronize. The bill was well over €50.00 for 4 diners who each had a few strands of pasta and some pieces of tasteless bread. We've eaten at enough trattorias to know how far your money should go - or far it can go - and we eventually left knowing we had been had and acting very placid about it.
It was compensated for, however, at the Vivoli gelateria. It's, by some accounts, the best gelateria in Florence. I had zabaglione and gianduia, the former heavily laced with alcohol. We also stopped by the Superfresca Standa supermarket to load up on the protein and fiber we've dearly missed. A lot of tonight's conversation revolved around missing the uncomplicated convenience of wide American streets, a fantasy of ingredients in a large salad, the availability of soy and tofu, ironclad return policies, and overall, the ease and comfort of the United States that make European charm and history a novelty at best. I didn't agree with them 100% but I could not help nodding along as they all stared off into space, heaving long sighs and remembering Chinese chicken salad and Must-See TV.
"The only thing I'll miss is gelato," said Melissa. "I wonder why you can't get it in L.A."
"Of course you can," I said, "It's called Il Gelato and it's on Robertson. Go east on Wilshire and then south on Robertson."
Speaking of home, I'm consistently amazed at how tenuous the lines of communication are between my parents. I am always telling one of them something that they should naturally pass on to the other, since they live together and it would save me another phone call to relay a trivial point. But I am always getting the same questions from both at different times, prompting me to believe that they hardly speak to each other at all. This morning I got a phone call from my mother. About two hours later I got a call from my father. "Just wanted to know if you got to talk to your mother yet." Even if it means making two separate calls to Italy, my parents' informational web is porous and flimsy.
My life is a good one. I am more fortunate than I know. I have no reason to be distraught and anxious. I live and see things that are so precious that they are beyond my capacity to tell it. I feel like I am standing on a small hill in a meadow, and iridescent bubbles float around me, each filled with one of life's rare experiences, and I turn myself around and around so that I don't miss even a glimpse inside as they flitter up into a bright blue and nebulous sky.
posted by Lucy Sloan @ 12:51 PM
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