Breakfast at the Annalena sucked. We had only one good breakfast, later on, at the end of our trip. The Tuscans know nothing from bread and pastry. They had corn flakes, lousy rolls, canned orange juice, packaged melba toast.

We took a cab to the Synagogue of Florence. We arrived shortly before 10, but they don't open until 10, and the woman inside was cold and uninviting. The building itself is rather magnificent, designed in the 19th Century by Marcello's great-grandfather. It looks a bit like the Blue Hill Avenue Shul.

The Jews had been in Italy long before 1492, but with the Spanish Inquisition, Sephardic Jews began to flock in. There was some trouble from Savanarola, but for the most part, the Jews in Italy lived in safety and became quite assimilated. Marcello, while he recognizes that he is Jewish, does not place much stock in being Jewish, and sees himself as an Italian who happened to have Jewish ancestors and had to suffer for it during the war. More on that later. Inside, after the customary two-story climb to reach the "first floor," there was a sanctuary, ornately guilded, bimah in the middle, ladies in the balcony and not visible. The men have plaques at their places, which are clearly assigned by status. Everyone here knows his place, and wants it reserved for him, even though he never comes. They do have Shabbat morning services. There is a museum of memorabilia of Italian Jewry. Our guide was a young woman named Flavia Cavelli, not Jewish, but studying Judaism at the univeristy.

And then we began to walk. We must have walked five miles each day. God bless Neal, who advised us to get hiking boots. I got a pair of Vasque boots from Sierra Trading Post, with high tops and a thick cushioned sole with an inflexible nylon plate. It was the first time in my life since I had polio at age 7 that I could walk any distance without pain. Florence is quite flat, and everyone rides a bike. It looks scary, but not much worse than Manhattan, where I have biked many times at rush hour. Next time.

We passed the Duomo and Battisteria to end up at the Central Market, a large warehouse building filled with meat markets and fruit and vegetable dealers. It reminded me more of Cleveland than Fanueil Hall. Here, they eat all parts of the animal: there were calves' heads, skinned, lined up in a row, piles of hearts, kidneys, intestines, pancreas, brain, feet, tails, legs, shoulders, ribs. There were cows, lambs, calves, sheep, rabbits, quail, pheasant, chickens, pigs. We stopped in a nearby square for lunch at the outdoor tables of Café Zaza, where we had a lovely lunch of assorted crostini and cheeses, half a liter of red wine, and acqua minerale frizzante.We walked past rows and rows of leather dealers--coats, wallets, handbags--silk merchants--ties, scarfs, t-shirts--thousands of booths, rather like the shuk in Jerusalem. We ended up in the Piazza del Duomo,a breathtaking scene. On the one side is Il Duomo,the great 15th Century cathedral of Florence, capped by the hallmark of Florence, the dome designed by Brunelescchi. To stand under it is staggering. The outside of the building is covered in ornate carvings of unspeakable complexity. It's too much.
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Across the plaza is the Battisteria,the baptistry, whose doors were designed by  Brunelescchi's rival, Ghiberti. These doors, dubbed "The Gates of Paradise" by Michelangelo, consist of twenty-eight gilded panels, each one depicting in bas-relief cartoon form, a scene from the Bible. It's really something.

Battisteria doors--Ghiberti..Binding of Isaac

Moses..Life of King David

There is a psychiatric condition known as "Stendahl Syndrome." In the 18th century, Stendahl visited Florence. Standing in the piazza, he was overcome by the beauty and spirituality of the place, and fell into a raving frenzy, what we would call today a brief reactive psychosis. Eda Vidale, with whom we had lunch the following day, does research on this syndrome. It mirrors the "Jerusalem Syndrome," which occurs in a few pilgrims to the Holy City every year. Standing there in the piazza, you can understand what it's about. But remember, it's spiritual, not religious. This is a city of a thousand churches, but you never see a priest. The churches are more art museums than they are houses of worship. Just as Verdi wrote his Requiem, which is really just one more great opera, on the commission of Manzoni, so the great artists of the Renaissance exercised their magic at the commission of the Church or families like the Medicis.

Behind the Duomo is the Museo del' Opera del' Duomo,a museum devoted to the construction of the Duomo,as well as of the Etruscan masterpieces that preceded it on that spot, dating back to the 7th century. There were wonderful bas reliefs, one by Luca Della Robbia of the Psalm "Praise the Lord with harp, and drum, and trumpets..."

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There was a stunning statue of La Maddalena--Mary Magadalene--by Donatello from the 15th century. It captured the essence of anguished women everywhere in every generation and looked as though it could have been done in the 21st century.

 

That evening, we went to the opera of the Maggio Musicaleat the Teatro Communale,for which I had secured tickets online. We were so excited about going and so disappointed in so many ways. The opera house is realatively new, probably built by Mussolini. It is sparse, lacking in taste and decor, with no character whatsoever. The seats were very comfortable--separate plush armchairs with lots of legroom. The opera was Verdi's Il Trovatore,which is full of one luscious tune after the next. The story line and libretto are absurd, but that's opera. I wonder what those whose native tongue is Italian think when they here those banal lyrics. Zubin Mehta conducted with flair and verve--he is a true Maestro. The voices weren't bad, either, but they were miked!! Microphones in an Italian opera house!! Gran Dio!! Roberto Alagna sang Manrico with style and power. He was good looking, with long hair, tight leather pants, a white shirt, and when he sang Di Quella Pira,concluding with the held high C, chest out, sword extended into the air, women swooned and gay men...oops, there are no gay men--this is Italy. It's clear why he is right up there with the great Italian tenors of our day. Azucena was Larissa Diadkova. Her mezzo voice piereced magnificently through the hall like a knife, but those microphones...was it live, or was it Memorex? Fiorenza Cedolines was an adequate Leonora, and a baritone named Carlo Guelfi (a very Florentine name) was just stupendous as the Count de Luna. The chorus was massive--at least a hundred people. So, when you have 60 men singing the "Anvil Chorus," boy, it's really something. The staging, the acting, the lighting, the direction, the scenery--all were atrocious, done by the noted Pier Luigi Pizzi. Your high school senior play was better. But it was Verdi, and it was one show-stopping tune after the next, and some great ensemble singing. We had the best seats, which cost $65 each, half the price of what they would be at the Met, if you could get them.

Afterwards, we took a taxi home, speaking Italian all the way home with the cabbie, who found us a tiny trattoria at 11:30 PM on the equivalent of Thayer Street, with hundreds of young kids hanging out in the square. The streets of Providence, and all of Tuscany and Umbria for that matter, are safe. No one pinches your ass, and no one makes lewd remarks at women. In short, it's not like Providence, at all.