Say Hello to David

What does one do in Florence? You can8217;t do Florence. Perhaps, you walk, see, hear, reflect or even pray. Four hundred years of Renaissance glory demands a lifetime. Michelangelo took three years to sculpt David. The tourist keeps an hour for it. Mark, the young Canadian who ran the youth hostel in Rome, had told me: 8216;8216;I was in Florence a year ago. Two days. Say my hello to David.8217;8217;

Florence is not for the do crowd. The city in the Tuscany valley humbles you with its riches. It sings the glory of man, of creation. Michelangelo and Machiavelli, Dante and Boccaccio, Galileo and Ghiberti 8212; Florence was European Renaissance at its best. Uffizzi and Academia showcase the finest European art. Florentine cathedrals spoke about not just the glory of God but the gift of the Man as well. The piazzas, for centuries, have remained open to the sun, entertaining the layman and the learned.

What Dante wrote in defense of Italian against Latin could be said about Florence as well. 8220;This shall be the new light, the new sun, which rises when the worn-out one shall set, and shall give light to them who are in shadow and darkness because of the old sun, which did not enlighten them.8221; Thus was Florence to the Europe of the dark ages. The irony was, the very same Florence exiled Dante after he aligned with the wrong faction in a battle for the city8217;s political power. He died lamenting about the pain of 8220;eating another man8217;s bread and using another man8217;s stair to go to bed8221;. Soon after his death, Florence was fighting Ravenna, where he died in exile, for the poet8217;s bones. Divine comedy.

A plaque next to a small chapel in one of the innumerable bylanes, says Dante waited here to see his beloved Beatrice come to the chapel. Florence still has people who walk down the lanes to chapels. Despite the zooming Vespas, it remains a city for pedestrians. Over the centuries, various rulers left their mark on the cityscape. The organised disarray helps. Every street leads to a surprise. We took the wrong turn on route to Uffizzi, the premier gallery which houses the Leonardos, Botticellis and Raffaels, and ended up in front of the Duomo, the magnificent cathedral whose dome lords over the skyline. A second time, we reach Piazza Della Signoria and gaped at Perseus, Cellini8217;s masterpiece in bronze, and the Neptune fountain.

Language here, if one doesn8217;t know Italian, will be primarily made up of signs. The exception was a group of AIDS activists who talked about their experiences in India before seeking a contribution. Italy is strongly political, graffiti an important form of communication.

The only sure-footed foreign tourists here are the Japanese who walk silently in long lines, the leader with a small flag on a stick. You meet them everywhere: at the galleries, in the piazzas, at the cathedrals, preferring to see art and architecture through cameras than with eyes.

Duomo stuns from the outside, magnificent in white. Its facade and dome are marvels of Renaissance engineering. Brunelleschi, who was an artist as well as engineer, made his name building the great dome. Brunelleschi8217;s touch is found in every beautiful structure in Florence. San Lorenzo, Santa Croce 8212; the cathedrals and palaces showcase the best of this Renaissance engineer.

At the Uffizi, you can spend days. The 16th century palace 8220;along the river, almost floating the air8221; was once the administrative and judicial seat of the Medici, the dukes of Tuscany. Besides it stands the Ponte Vecchio, the bridge over Arno. Uffizi overwhelms you with the grand canvases of Botticelli 8212; Primavera, Birth of Spring, Madonna of the magnificat8230;, Michelangelo8217;s holy family, Leonardo8217;s Annunciation8230; A few minutes8217; walk, the Academia with David is waiting.

David is masculine beauty chiselled in marble. He stands aloof, unmindful of the crowd admiring him, sketching him. I notice the taut nerves in David8217;s hands. I think of the huge Hanuman in Suchindram. I tell Michelangelo of the sculptures in Suchindram and the Madurai Meenakshi temples. I tell him the artists are unknown, they never claimed authorship. He seems to understand.

Outside Uffizi, Arno flows gently, a few canoes upsetting the rhythm. Frederico asks me to buy one of sketches. In his 40s, he comes here every day, sits and sketches. The Duomo, the many bridges of Venice8230; a few are sold, a few he takes back home. I buy a water colour of Ponte Vecchio. Later, I go up the bridge to do window shopping at the gold stores lined up over the bridge. The finest Italian designs are on view. My purse is light. I move on.

The Tuscan sun is compassionate in winter. It gives a greenish yellow hue to the city. It compares well with the deep blue sky. Along the Arno, people have their cappuccino in the sun in leisure. Tuscan cuisine is not for the man in a hurry. One lunch hour, we discovered Trattoria Anita. The place was crowded and they were amused to see us. Soon we knew why. The waiters and the customers, they all knew each other. We were the only outsiders in that small ristoronto. We did not wonder if the food was authentic Tuscan fare. Among the many dishes listed in the sheet of paper handed to us as menu had one only word we understood: pasta. A three course meal with pasta al tonno tuna, Arrosto misto mixed meat of beef and game and patate alla callabrese salad spaced out with red wine was the finest experience of Tuscan cuisine.

Across Arno, Piazza Michelangelo dominates the view. Half-an-hour walk along a winding road, Florence is a spread of blue and green. A copy of David is placed here. Michelangelo keeping a watch over his city. We watch the winter sun go behind the white Tuscan ranges. The lights go off in Uffizi. The wind starts blowing, the chill sets in. I miss home.