Firenze (Which somehow translates into English as "Florence")

6-24

City names change depending on the language you are speaking.  Why?  I understand if the spelling changes to accommodate a different language, but completely changing the word seems counterproductive, even a well-intended plot to keep tourists out.  

Today we are in Florence/Firenze at the lovely home of Renzo and Adrianna Renzi.  Our afternoon meal was very similar to dinner from the previous night in 2 distinct ways.  The first was my repeated mistake of neglecting to associate the stack of dishes in front of me with the impending arrival of one course riding on the heels of another.    Thus I neglected to say “Basta” (enough) while pasta was being served into my bowl, and upon finishing it I was more than satisfied.  Then came the beans, pork, rabbit (it tastes like chicken, I promise) all of which was stewed to perfection. Following that was a chilled wafer filled with chocolate that puts Kit Kat to shame.        

Apparently, eating in an Italian family is a sport.  I compete with reservation, for I have not been executing hard physical labor for hours on end, but I may only be able to resist for so long.  Renzo has surpassed my mom in the not-so-subtle art of force-feeding the young men at the table; he does so with such a gracious authority I fear I could be “fired” from the family for insubordination.  This is training to be an Italian.

The second similarity was the universality of music as a topic of conversation.  Families gather, as do strangers, and discuss the weather, the food, the people present in body and in spirit (families more so), and once these topics are exhausted, an art-loving family can always turn to music, and being a musician I can always, by merely being present and referred to as “the musician,” elicit a stream of impassioned references to famous conductors and composers, and listen to someone discuss the music they love.  Renzo put on Horowitz playing Mozart’s allegro and adagio in Bb, then the rondo in D, before switching to Wagner.  I believe he said Horowitz married Toscanini’s daughter.  Several times he asked me to sing; I truly am no match for his artistic sensibilities as a singer, for very rarely and only in dire circumstances have I been requested to sing solo, but relatives are usually forgiving, and after requesting that a vacancy be made in my abdomen (very difficult when you just appeased Rezo’s entreaty to polish off the salami) I inhaled and squeaked out a few Italian from my repertoire.

Renzo and Adriana’s home is one floor of a three-story condo complex that looks like it used to be one large mansion.  It is accessed through a gate, leading to a street that stretches straight into the heart of the city, or at least one of its vital organs, the train station.  It is hard to say how long the street is, for my sense was skewed by the frustration of lugging a medium-sized suitcase up the hill, and the sidewalk, with its deep potholes and frequent curbsides, gave the little wheels more than they bargained for.  I don’t mind a little exercise, but it would be no small inconvenience if the suitcase lost its ability to roll at this stage of the trip.  Does Hummer make suitcases?

The house is essentially a small Italian museum, with books from the 14^th century, including an old handbook for the pope and another with pages made from lambskin that were then stamped with pictures and text.  There were also a number of small pre-Christian statues and fragments, as well as Etruscan pottery, and a wooden angel that was restored by a museum expert.  The history of Milan on one of the higher, inaccessible bookshelves must have been 16 volumes, the Italian encyclopedia twice that.  Artwork covered the walls in the hallways, leading to a maze of small rooms that I frequently got lost in.

The adventure of the day was when we left their house to walk to a piazza that overlooked Florence.  Armed with cameras and purses, and one umbrella, we journeyed down the sidewalk, taking note of some grey clouds above but not considering the potential omen contained in them.  When the light rain started, we had already walked for about 30 minutes, and our initial reaction was to huddle under a tree and remain optimistic about our situation, as the clouds were surely moving in a direction favorable to our plans.  In sequence, the following occurred: The rain became heavier, Jenna opened her umbrella which barely covered the four of us, the lighting flashed nearer, Jenna scouted to see how close we were to our destination, the covering found in our tree was deemed temporary and swiftly entering its final stages of usefulness, the sky unleashed its watery torrents, we made a few quick dashes for more secure covering, and in the process of doing so we secured our fate.  The battle for dryness had been forfeited.  We waved our soaked flag of surrender and, after handing the umbrella and valuables to mom, made our way back to home base, mostly jovial at the sheer ridiculousness of our circumstance.  It reminded me of some type of orientation event at college, the dreaded icebreakers.  Not that we were entirely dysfunctional when we set out, but it is always refreshing to be in a non-critical crisis to see how everyone responds differently and freed from social inhibitions.  My response was to find a reason to run back to the house alone, but that would have been of little use, since Renzo and Adriana were not likely to allow soaked people into their car, and given my poor inner navigational system it was unlikely that I would have ever made it back to the correct address.  Nonetheless, the idea of leaving the group to run alone, even in a moment of non-critical crisis, felt heroic and self-sacrificing, not to mention efficient and task-oriented, and a brief respite from making further decisions on behalf of the group.  I decided to walk with my sisters, soaked, as mom trailed behind with our valuables under the umbrella, and by the time we arrived back at the Renzi’s, we were drenched, shivering, and carefree.