#florence 2014

[elisaminimeneghini]

ENUS MARIANI WILL DO FX, UB AND BB AT THE GRAND PRIX TOMORROW!!! I'M GONNA CRY FOR TEN YEARS!!!

[fiocchiandflowers]

Russia Russia Russiaaaa!!!

set di 47 minuti in questa final six :')

[serepellizzari]

My meetings with Stana Katic (4 times in 3 days) and Brett Dalton (2 times in 1 day) in Florence!!!!! I can't still believe it.... ❤️❤️❤️❤️

[wlw-for-life]

(x)

She take some time to do selfies with fans <3. You must love her <3

[wlw-for-life]

That hair #thud #crying 

[sophistikated-travel]

Florence 2014: Entry 4, Palazzo Medici

Our final attraction planned for the day was Palazzo Medici, the palace where my ancestors used to reside. My late grandfather, who was even more obsessed with our heritage than I am (if you can imagine that), apparently had a heyday the last time he was in Florence.

“He was really soaking it up,” my Mom recounted of her Italian travels with her father-in-law. “He went into the Medici Palace flashing his ID and told all the workers he was giving them the day off.”

We found the large stone building on a rainy street corner, and I soon came to discover that the inside of it was much more impressive than the outside. However, the decision to make it so was considered with thoughtful intent:

“When the Medici family returned to Florence after their short-lived exile in the early 15th century, they kept a low profile and executed their power behind the scenes. This is reflected in the plain exterior of this building, and is said to be the reason why Cosimo de' Medici rejected Brunelleschi's earlier proposal.” (X)

We made our way along the entrance, passed through an echoing marble hall, and looked up to see the chiseled stone faces of my ancestors lining the ceiling. The hall led to the inner courtyard, a spacious area framed by pillars and arches of a lovely and intricate design, as well as many striking statues and sculptures. Among these was the marble statue, “Orpheus Placating Cerberus With His Song” by Baccio Bandinelli (circa 1515), which stands on an elegant pedestal adorned with Medici emblems and coats of arms. The piece was commissioned by Giovanni di Lorenzo de' Medici, who went on to become Pope Leo X. Yes, I have several popes in the family.

We spent some time circling the courtyard while admiring the various works of art within, then passed through the wide arched opening directly behind Orpheus’s statue. The passage led to another conjoined courtyard. However, while the previous area was partly under roof and was also covered entirely by stone floor, the second courtyard was much more vast and open, with fragrant flowers, fruit trees, and other greenery present wherever my eyes fell. Little mosaic paths were laid into the emerald lawns, and several statues and fountains gave the place added personality. I was told this area was where the Medici children used to play.

My group meandered back through the first courtyard and found a set of doors leading back into the palace. We explored halls and stairways, every stand and every wall full with artwork, each piece effulgent and fresh as the day it was born. Some of the more prestigious Medici portraits stretched the entire height of the lengthy walls – I had to stand back a considerable distance in order to get the entire frame in a camera shot. Despite difficulties however, I was able to capture images of Medici from every century. (Observing the evolution of hairstyles and fashion was entertaining in and of itself.)

Soon we started exploring individual rooms including ballrooms, bedrooms, studies and parlors. Each was a masterpiece all on its own. The first we entered was the chapel, a small room with walls that were completely covered in gorgeous Renaissance frescos done by Benozzo Gozzoli. Painted into the eastern wall, “The Procession of the Magi,” were brothers Lorenzo de Medici (also known as Lorenzo il Magnifico) and Guiliano de Medici (the handsome “golden boy”). The artist Gozzoli’s self-portrait is even hidden amidst the figures in the piece. In a small nook of the chapel sat the beautiful altar, nestled between more colorful frescoed walls. The golden ceilings above were ornately detailed with sharp, shiny frames, and a delicately patterned mosaic floor lay underfoot. 

We left the gorgeous little room and moved on to “La Galleria di Luca Giordano,” also known simply as, “The Golden Room.” This room was by far the most exquisite in the entire palace. The vast, elongated parlor was so bright and reflective with gold that upon entering I felt as though I had landed on the sun. All along the walls were floor-to-ceiling paintings done by Luca Giordano, each framed with – you guessed it – smooth, shimmering gold. However, my favorite of the paintings by far was the ceiling fresco that stretched overhead, the entire length of the room: “The Apotheosis of the Medici.” Depicted were images of the royal family, sitting elegantly in the clouds among mythological gods and other figures including Venus, Mars, and Jupiter. The huge, stunning painting offered so many unique details to gaze upon, and Adam even pointed out a particularly elusive element: a merry little cherub holding a severed head.

“That’s a pretty morbid thing to sneak in,” Adam said, disturbed. “What even – why?”

“Probably a Medici enemy,” I replied. “Someone messed with the wrong family.”

We sat in the Golden Room for quite a while just to admire its beauty, then finally began exploring other dimensions of the palace. We passed painting after painting, and bust after bust of my family members. Everywhere I turned there was a new feast for the eyes – stunning tapestries, crystal chandeliers the size of cars, chaise lounges, velvety sofas and other furniture fit for royalty. We explored gaping, echoing ballrooms and peered into glass cabinets full of stunning dinnerware other trinkets made of sterling silver and precious stones. The place was seemingly endless, and by the time we finally completed our tour, we had to sit down to regain our strength.

After finding a few benches outside of the Palace, my mother was the one to bring up the topic of my family crest, which we had seen probably a hundred times during our tour of the Medici Palace. There are several different variations of the crest, but almost all of them depict some number of small, red spheres. This fact led me to inquire of my mother whether the little balls were a reference to literal testicles. You may be shocked, but I promise this is a valid question. Bear with me – you’re about to gain by far the most interesting information regarding the famed “Godfathers of the Renaissance.”

It is a popular rumor that the men of the Medici family all possessed three testicles, due to a rare condition called “polyorchidism.” Now, upon extensive research, I was unable to confirm whether this rumor was mere myth or proven fact. However, it is a confirmed fact that all of the men in my family do indeed possess the famed three-tee scrote. Obviously, I myself am not the one to confirm these speculations. It’s a serious conversation that’s been had countless times around dinner tables during holidays and family reunions, and every single Medico man (and every Medico woman) promises that it’s true. Even when interrogated about my own father, Mom swears up and down that, upon inspection, she was able to confirm the presence of a third ball. (Not something I like to think about in great detail, so I try to engage in such conversations on a strictly medical basis. Sometimes I'm successful. Sometimes I'm not.)

In any case, it’s safe to say that one of two things is going on here. Either my entire family is in on an elaborate prank which they have delivered with most convincing verbiage and facial expression, or the Medici rumors are true: the Godfathers of the Renaissance and their descendants are all sufferers of polyorchidism.

Ballsacks aside, the thoughtful representation of distinct red spheres present on the Medici family crest surely must have some meaning. It’s up to you to decide just how thoughtful you think their placement was.

We’re moving along slowly, but day three is coming up next. Until then, arrivederci!

[sophistikated-travel]

Florence 2014: Entry 3, Into the City Center Part 2

As I stood atop the highest point in Florence, I gazed out over the circular balcony, admiring the city. Even in overcast weather, the landscape was awe-inspiring. Many other interesting sights were visible from this height, including a number of bell towers, the winding Arno River, and Florence’s castle-esque town hall – Palazzo Vecchio.

The four people in my group took turns posing for pictures as we continued to discuss some of the historical nuances of Brunelleschi’s dome.

After he had gotten the go-ahead to begin his work on the dome, Brunelleschi began to tackle the conundrums that his design faced.

“The first problem to be solved was purely technical: No known lifting mechanisms were capable of raising and maneuvering the enormously heavy materials he had to work with, including sandstone beams, so far off the ground. Here Brunelleschi the clockmaker and tinkerer outdid himself. He invented a three-speed hoist with an intricate system of gears, pulleys, screws, and driveshafts, powered by a single yoke of oxen turning a wooden tiller. It used a special rope 600 feet long and weighing over a thousand pounds—custom-made by shipwrights in Pisa—and featured a groundbreaking clutch system that could reverse direction without having to turn the oxen around. Later Brunelleschi made other innovative lifting machines, including the castello, a 65-foot-tall crane with a series of counterweights and hand screws to move loads laterally once they’d been raised to the right height. Brunelleschi’s lifts were so far ahead of their time that they weren’t rivaled until the industrial revolution, though they did fascinate generations of artists and inventors, including a certain Leonardo from the nearby Tuscan town of Vinci, whose sketchbooks tell us how they were made.” (X)

Realizing this immense and complicated structure was quite a tall order for 15th century technology. However, thanks to Brunelleschi’s novel inventions (and the tireless work of exploited oxen), the materials and tools required to complete the dome were made accessible to the workers who used them.  Even at such unbelievable heights, the dome was made possible, but only with a few more tweaks to its construction process.

“Brunelleschi didn’t want his workers to go back down for their lunch breaks,” my learned mother told the rest of the group. “He thought they’d use it as an excuse to call it a day, or would become too exhausted to work anymore from climbing up and down so many stairs. So he started sending their food and wine up to them during lunch hour.”

“Wine?” I spluttered. “They were getting boozed all the way up here? That sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

Mom smirked. “Brunelleschi didn’t tell them this, but he was watering it down. A lot.”

I was amused, both at Brunelleschi’s trickery, as well as the Italians’ dangerously insistent addiction to wine. (It had never occurred to them to – I don’t know – avoid drinking at a time like this?) I was also fairly certain that at least some of the workers still fell to their deaths, whether due to minimal amounts of diluted alcohol or simply because such a thing was statistically bound to happen at some point. Mom confirmed that this was probably true.

Despite the many difficulties (and possible drunken deaths) imposed by the construction of Brunelleschi’s dome, it soon saw the day of its completion. Finally, the eccentric architect was able to prove his naysayers wrong, as his unrivalled, majestic structure towered over them, 4-million bricks strong, claiming the title of highest point in Florence. However, the people of the town were so dazzled at the finished product that they easily accepted his taunts of, “I told you so.”

“On March 25, 1436, the Feast of the Annunciation, Pope Eugenius IV and an assembly of cardinals and bishops consecrated the finished cathedral, to the tolling of bells and cheering of proud Florentines. A decade later another illustrious group laid the cornerstone of the lantern, the decorative marble structure that Brunelleschi designed to crown his masterpiece.” (X)

The lantern was where we now stood, a regal symbol of Florence, the very crown of Middle Italy. As we prepared for our descent of the legendary dome, I pondered the brilliant man who had given birth to it, and his own commemorations that elevated him to the level of regality, even sainthood, upon his death.

“At his funeral he lay dressed in white linen on a bier ringed by candles, staring sightlessly into the dome he had built brick by brick, as the candle smoke and the notes of the funeral dirge spiraled into the void. He was buried in the crypt of the cathedral; a memorial plaque nearby celebrated his “divine intellect.” These were high honors. Before Brunelleschi’s time, very few people, among them a saint, were allowed burial in the crypt, and architects were mostly considered humble craftsmen. With genius, leadership, and grit, Filippo Brunelleschi raised true artists to the rank of sublime creators, worthy of eternal praise in the company of the saints, an image that would dominate the Renaissance.” (X)

Needless to say, our descent of the dome was much quicker than our tedious climb to the top of it. Before I knew it, I was on precious ground at last.

Just outside the cathedral, we saw another Renaissance masterpiece: Florence’s baptistery doors. The beautiful golden doors were sculpted by goldsmith Lorenzo Ghiberti, but were referred to as “The Gates of Paradise” by Michelangelo, a name that incidentally stuck over the years. The ten panels of golden sculpture depicting Old Testament bible stories took Ghiberti 27 years to complete.

After taking a few pictures of the doors, our group moved on to explore more of our immediate surroundings. However, I quickly began to understand just how unpleasantly touristy the city center was. Every few steps there was another vendor trying to sell us something, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if 95% of the horde in the spanning cobblestone streets were not Italian. The majority of the people around us were holding cameras or maps, and every few seconds a loud American accent accosted my ears. 

Nyeah, nyeah, nyeah. Teek a peekchure. Ow mai gawd, Britney. Nyeah, nyeah, nyeah.

Being a world traveler has made me realize how downright hideous American English sounds, especially against other languages. Hearing the rich, almost romantic Italian language and accent is like listening to opera, even when it’s being spoken in the midst of a venomous fight. In fact, several times during our trip, I overheard angry Italian arguments and was always reminded of either opera star Andrea Bocelli or the chef from Lady and the Tramp.

In spite of myself, I copied my fellow compatriots, taking pictures of the interesting buildings we passed and conversing in my uncultured drone. At the very least, the three Americans in our group had an easy time combatting the disruptive and obnoxious stereotype that everyone else seemed to have no problem perpetuating. (Being the INTJ that I am, I prove pretty adept at the whole “judging others silently” bit.)

By this time, it had been a while since our last meal (not to mention the fact that our 450-stair workout had helped along our appetites), so we ducked away into a little café we found along our route. A kind blond woman seated us immediately, fussed over our table things, and took down our beverage orders. Her response to literally everything we said during the course of our visit was, “Prego.”

I scanned over the menu and noticed that a number of food items were named after my family. Medici Such-and-Such. Something-in-Italian de’ Medici.

“I didn’t know I could order myself for lunch,” I mumbled to Adam.

“Maybe Medici body parts,” he said. “More likely Medici cooking. It smells exactly like your grandmother’s kitchen in here!”

Adam and I each ordered a bowl of fragrant vegetable soup, which did indeed taste and smell just like my Grandma’s cooking (i.e. absolutely divine). Our table also collaborated in making a bottle or two of Chianti disappear. I was quickly becoming hooked on it, and was also beginning to understand Florence’s long time love affair with the blood-red vino. 

We paid and left amidst many ‘pregos,’ then made our way towards Palazzo Medici, palace of the Medici.

We’re still on day two, folks – and my next post should finally complete it. (I’ll be covering just the palace.) And then, onward to days three and four. Please bear with me, and stay tuned. Prego.

[sophistikated-travel]

Florence 2014: Entry 2, Into the City Center

We all got the much-needed full night’s sleep that we had been hoping for, but only at the cost of oversleeping for the second day in a row. It was 11 AM by the time everyone had bathed, dressed and piled into in the car. But no matter – we still managed a full day for my mother’s 56th birthday, and as you’ll see, it was quite the stroke of good fortune that we had all woken up peppy and fully recharged.

After we had snaked our way through the complicated path that led from our villa to the main road, trusty old Snoop Dogg began directing us. “Go straight on,” he said. “Like a playa do.”

The ride from our Bed and Breakfast into the city center of Florence was fairly short, but still offered wonderful scenery along the way.

“I would so live here if I could get residency,” my mother said as she stared out her window, ogling a particularly magnificent estate. “This scenery and these houses are just stunning.”

I grinned smugly. “Maybe one of these days I’ll dig up my ancestry documents and claim my Italian passport.”

“Or you could just marry some random Italian guy, purely to obtain a marriage certificate.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” I said indignantly. “I am Medici.”

Approving nods from the boys.

(Please keep in mind that we watched Medici: Godfathers of the Renaissance just before our trip to Florence. I think my three non-Medici travel companions fear me now.)

We crossed the Arno River, watching as the scenic hills were replaced by buildings, roads, and street signs, then parked the car near the city center. It was around this time that I realized the weather was absolutely horrible, but fortunately I had planned ahead. Wearing a hooded, water-resistant jacket and the wellies I had purchased at the UK Skrillex concert I attended in August, I stepped out into the cold wind and rain. I remained comfortable and dry for the rest of the day abreast my stringy-haired, scowling counterparts.

Together, we splooshed along the sidewalk to the nearby bus stop that would take us into the heart of Florence. By the time we reached the stop, the car was only about a block behind us. However, no one was too happy when Adam realized he had left something in the car.

“Shit,” he said, then ran away to retrieve it.

Of course it was at this precise moment that the bus rumbled to a halt in front of us. Patrick flailed his arms at the bus driver, beckoning him to wait, as Mom and I flailed our arms at Adam, beckoning him to hurry. Neither of our attempts yielded desirable results, and the bus was already several blocks down the road by the time Adam had splashed up beside us.

And then, someone else came flying into view. A woman with a striking combination of waitress-red hair and some of the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen had apparently witnessed the whole fiasco from inside her little café. Still garbed in work apron and nametag, she had taken it upon herself to abandon her customers, charge out into the rainy streets, and immediately begin drowning a couple of tourists in rapid Italian.

Patrick listened as the woman explained how to fix our problem, and before long, we were seated comfortably on a different bus, headed to our original destination. Soon, I would come to acknowledge and appreciate the obnoxiously friendly and unnecessarily helpful nature of the Italians.

On the bus, a couple of Brits in front of us heard us speaking English, and one of them turned around. “D’you know where this bus is going?” he said. “We’re bloody lost.”

Saint Mom jumped to her feet, eager to take the kindness from the red-haired waitress and pay it forward.

The bus dropped us off near the Florence Cathedral. Our British buddies huddled away, light raindrops tapping their little umbrella, as our group quickly sought out a place to eat. We found a restaurant that served a hodge-podge of diner food and Italian staples, where a cool ponytailed guy waited on us. I ate a yummy veggie sandwich on an Italian roll with fries, while Adam tucked into a zucchini and eggplant pizza.

Meanwhile, Patrick, who had already eaten at the house, disappeared to claim our 3-day Firenze Passes. (By the way, “Firenze” is how the Italians say “Florence.” It’s pronounced “feh-REHN-zeh” with a roll on the R.)

By the time Patrick arrived back in the restaurant, we had finished our meals – and I couldn’t help but notice that he appeared to be on the verge of tears. “I-I can’t believe zis is possible,” he stuttered. “Where did zey go?”

Patrick, who had been carrying IDs for everyone in the group (a form of identification was required to claim the 3-day Firenze Passes), was under the impression that he had dropped my and Adam’s passports somewhere along his route. He spanked his pockets and shook his head in a catatonic manner, completely inconsolable. Then Mom pulled the passports out of her purse.

“I never gave you their passports,” she laughed, then took his wallet from him. “I gave you their student IDs.” She pulled the much smaller student IDs out of his wallet and flashed them.

Patrick needed many cigarettes after that.

We paid and left the restaurant, then embarked upon our itinerary. First stop was the Florence Cathedral, home to some of the most magnificent ceiling paintings in Italy as well as Brunelleschi’s legendary dome.

After straightening out the situation with our Firenze Passes, the four of us arrived in front of the gargantuan building. And the queue of people leading away from it rivalled its size. The horde of tourists waiting to enter the Florence Cathedral seemingly had no end, even in such awful weather. Many people were eating their lunch in line, as they had clearly been waiting there for hours. Others had given in to their aching feet, and sat unapologetically on the cobblestone ground, rear-ends squelching in wet jeans. I couldn’t have begun to count the people – I could barely see the end of the line.

This was the moment that I became duly grateful for my 3-day Firenze Pass. For 72 Euros, I was afforded 72 hours of unlimited access to all of the major landmarks, cathedrals, and museums in Florence, as well as unlimited access to all buses and trams.

Adam, Mom, Patrick and I whipped out our Firenze Passes, and were warmly ushered into the cathedral to much exasperated sighing and hissing from the crowd.

But by the time we had entered the Florence Cathedral, we were the ones issuing sharp gasps -- the sights around us were literally breathtaking. The inside of the structure was as huge as it looked from the outside; beautifully-patterned marble floors seemed to go on for miles in every direction and the intricate ceilings overhead were so high, I half-expected to see clouds when I looked up. Glistening stained-glass windows cast jewel-toned pools of light against every surface, from the stunningly carved wooden pews to the magnificent marble altar, to the faces of the spellbound tourists gaping at the spectacles all around them.

I gazed around with owlish eyes. “Fucking massive.”

“This took forever to build,” I heard Adam whisper from beside me. “Can you imagine being the person to come up with the idea to build it? They never got to see it finished.” 

And sadly, such is the case with most buildings of such grandeur. Begun in 1296 (in the gothic style), the cathedral did not receive its final touches until 1436, with the addition of Brunelleschi’s famous dome. But with a process so meticulous and painstaking, it’s understandable why hundreds of years were required to construct such a masterpiece of architecture. And it was the dome in particular that fit this description. 

This is where my ancestors come in.

The Medici dynasty was the ruling political family in Florence during the Renaissance, and it was 1419 when they decided that the unfinished state of the cathedral needed to be addressed.

Enter Cosimo de’ Medici, also known as “Cosimo the Elder.” My great-great-great-many-more-greats-great grandfather, born 600 years before me within a month. He wanted an architect, and he wanted a good one -- not only to cover the gaping hole in the top of Florence’s unfinished cathedral, but also to find an attractive and intimidating structure worthy of filling it.

Now, enter Filippo Brunelleschi, a revolutionary architect of the Renaissance who developed the concept of linear perspective, in addition to his countless contributions to mathematics, engineering, and architecture.

With Cosimo de’ Medici’s immense power and wealth, and Brunelleschi’s unparalleled talents, a recipe for the dome was soon concocted, and Cosimo immediately commissioned its construction.

“The biggest accomplishments of the Medici were in the sponsorship of art and architecture, mainly early and High Renaissance art and architecture. The Medici were responsible for the majority of Florentine art during their reign. Their money was significant because during this period, artists generally only made their works when they received commissions in advance.” (X)

Brunelleschi’s work began, but only after quite a bit of head scratching. The hole to be filled was enormous – it started 180 feet above ground, with a diameter of 150 feet across. The idea for the dome had been set in stone, but no one knew if it would render ideal results.

“Other questions plagued the cathedral overseers. Their building plans eschewed the flying buttresses and pointed arches of the traditional Gothic style then favored by rival northern cities like Milan, Florence’s archenemy. Yet these were the only architectural solutions known to work in such a vast structure. Could a dome weighing tens of thousands of tons stay up without them?”(X)

Many scoffed at the mere thought of it, claiming such a feat was physically impossible. But Brunelleschi, who was a mathematical genius, did not back down so easily. This much is obvious…

Patrick, Mom, Adam and I moved slowly through the ancient building. Far above us, we could see the many circular, railed balconies that lined the circumference of the cylindrical walls leading up to the dome, each sitting at a different height. I could just barely make out the people walking around the highest circle – tiny ants marching along a shoestring path. As we made our way towards the staircase that would take us up the dome, I dreaded both the hair-raising heights and what I knew would be the most exhausting climb of my life.

This is where our full night of sleep and late awakening saved us all. Stairs, stairs, and more stairs. They would not stop appearing. Climb, climb, climb, 90-degree right turn. Climb, climb, climb, 90-degree right turn. Repeat, repeat, repeat. I was incredulous. Certainly, we were nearing the end...? No. Now we went in a circle. Round and round and round. Up and up and up the spiral…

Every once in a while, I passed a window, and the shakiness of my tired legs was compounded by anxiety over the staggering heights. I was no longer merely breathless and fatigued -- I was now beginning to feel alarmed. My state resembled that panicky feeling you get during the slow climb of a rollercoaster ride, your toes prickling and your stomach searing as you look down, wondering why in the hell you put your life in the hands of some jerk-off who designed this senseless thing. I remembered those who had criticized Brunelleschi’s design, insisting that the structure could not support its own burdensome weight. And consequently, several times during my exploration of the high dome, I found myself fantasizing about its collapse, and my plummet… 

Finally, we reached a hall – with no stairs. Thank Christ. I tried not to think of the height as I allowed myself a bit of rest at last. But to my chagrin, I soon learned that we had only reached the lowest-level circular balcony, and still had many more stairs to climb if we were to reach the very top of the dome. And of course, that was part of the plan (which, yes, I had begrudgingly signed up for).

Nonetheless, we walked out and began circling the balcony. Looking down over the railing at the enormous church was both awe-inspiring and deeply disturbing, so I compensated by casting my gaze skyward. The hollow bowl of Brunelleschi’s dome was close enough to see much more clearly now, but it wasn’t until we had climbed another round of stairs up to the highest indoor balcony that we were able to speak meaningfully about the dome’s stunning frescos. 

Still biting back the knowledge that I was higher than god at the moment, I observed the colorful bible stories all around me. The human figures depicted against the dome were enormous; in comparison to some of the largest ones, my body must have been the size of a foot. They were also incredibly detailed, lifelike and pristine. Thinking of the artists, Giorgio Vasari and Frederico Zuccari, I wondered how on earth mere human beings could have physically produced such a work of art, much less portray flawless depth and perfectly proportioned bodies. With the gargantuan size of the canvass, how could anyone have known what they were painting, without backing miles away every few strokes to properly view their handiwork?

When my fellows announced they were ready to climb the dome itself to the highest outdoor point of the cathedral, I glanced at my favorite part of the fresco paintings one last time: Hell. How ironic that I yearned for ground but was going higher still; the flaming demons seemed to cackle at my misfortune. Maybe they knew I would be joining them soon.

More and more and more fucking stairs. A woman hurried past me in the opposite direction. “No, I don’t want to go to the top…” she laughed a bit frantically when a worker tried to usher her forward.

The stairs curved upward ever so gently, in such a way that it was obvious we were climbing the rounded edge of the huge dome we had just been inside. It was strange to think that the magnificent frescos were just under my feet…

Cold air hit my face at last as I climbed the final steps to the tip-top balcony of the Florence Cathedral. I was breathless from the ascent, but no longer anxious, as the view surrounding me was now nothing more than an endless landscape. I was fine so long as I didn’t lean over the edge and look straight down, which I didn’t.

With the hard work behind me, I gazed around at beautiful Florence, finally able to rest and simply appreciate the sights. It was absolutely a pain in my ass getting up there, and more than a little bit nerve-racking. However, I can honestly say that it was more than worth it.

More to come soon. Thanks for reading.