My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Twenty-Two

Tuesday, 27 December, 1988
Löhenthal* to Firenze [Florence]

10:36 train from Olten. Frau Renzberger* packed me a nice lunch and Lukas* took me to the station. He was gracious enough to wait with me till the train came but it seemed a real strain for both of us. I’ve been trying to figure out what I could’ve done to make him act like this and can come up with zip. But something’s happened to make him act like a вопреки and it’s really too bad. I need to make some good friends at Coverdale* this next term and I’d thought he’d be one. But apparently not. I’d thought we’d get to know one another better on this visit, but now he seems like a permanent stranger.

This was so frustrating and depressing I could’ve cried right there in the compartment. But instead I wrote a long letter to Janie*. Had cause in the course of it to think about Nigel* and that made me feel a lot better.

The Alps were quite lovely. Sun came out and showed them up beautifully. And I enjoyed looking at the little Tuscan churches in the Italian part of Switzerland.

Funny thing at the border crossing. Italian customs man came in and asked the guy opposite me a question in Italian. He answered, and then the official addressed me. Out of habit I said, "Pardon?" in French. At which the customs man rolled his eyes, lifted his hands towards heaven, and departed, without asking for passports or anything.

Train change in Milan. Found a first class compartment this time. Second is supposed to be so much more atmospheric and authentic; I just found it tiring. Seats are too shallow.

Hit the closest Frommer selection for places to stay in Florence. Unfortunately the city was pretty thick with students on holiday, like me, and I ended up renting a double room for around $24 a night. Couldn’t deal with schlepping bags any farther. So the Locanda Marcella it was.

In the Frommer book I’d read of a nightly lecture on Renaissance art given by a American art historian in Florence. It’s being on for this evening was confirmed by a poster in the railroad station, so as soon as I’d dropped my bags in the room on the Via Faenza, I headed over to the Borgo San Lorenzo.

Paid my respects to the Duomo first-- what I could see of it in the fog.

Streets of Florence are frequently narrow, darkish (yet people are on them anyway), and have very narrow sidewalks. The pavement is blocks of stone, cut rectangular maybe 12" x 15", and laid diagonally. Sidewalks usually have cars parked halfway on them, making it quite a game to walk along, what with the cars coming, and especially with the motorscooters whizzing by.

Quite a few people around the cathedral (at 8:00 PM) but still I didn’t feel comfortable going around back of the chevet. Too dark.

The Borgo San Lorenzo was lined with black men, apparently North African, selling belts, jewelry, and other souvenirs off mats and blankets spread out on the pavement. I wondered that they don’t worry about the motorcyclists coming along and destroying their goods.

There were also a lot of different languages to be heard there, including American English. Seemed quite odd, after France.

Waited for 8:30 and time for the lecture. It’s at the top of the house at No. 20 and given by a Kirk von Durer, who also runs a gallery at that address.

It was worthwhile going, more from a social than from an art historical standpoint. There was Chianti on the deck (view of Duomo) beforehand and I talked with a couple from Toronto, also students on Christmas break, about travels in France (she’s a student in Grenoble) and other things . . .

They mentioned it and I’ve become conscious of it, too, that my accent (English) has changed and become less "American." I honestly think that has intensified since last weekend with Lukas’s family. I knew they'd learned British English so I felt I should modify my speech with them so I could be understood (Lukas told me that at Coverdale he could understand me almost all the time and ditto Sam* [another compatriot in our year abroad program], despite his broad Oklahoma accent, because he speaks so slowly. It’s Darla* he could never make out. This surprised me as she seemed the most cosmopolitan of any of us. And now I can’t listen to her and discover what he means, because she’s returned to America).

In style the lecture, which was on the late Gothic/early Renaissance Florentine and Siennese painters, such as Massaccio and Giotto, was kin to Ed Eglinski’s Art History for Non-Art Majors at KU, but with even more of the stand-up comedy. I felt von Durer could have done with rather more content but I’m coming from an art historian’s viewpoint.

Not that I didn’t appreciate the humor; I did. When showing Giotto’s painting of the Stigmatization of St. Francis, he quipped, "For living such a holy life, St. Francis received the same wound marks that Christ had on the cross. Wouldn’t you rather have a Ferrari!?" "Well," think I, "only if Tom Selleck is driving it!"

The greatest thing I got out of it substantially was a realization first of how Italy was ripe for the Renaissance style, its Gothic being largely held-over Byzantine, and then of where many of the trademarks of the "Pre-Raphaelite" movement style came from. For here were the original preRaphaelites whose work inspired it.

The lecture got out at about 10:45 and I thought, I’ve heard this town is not too big on nightlife and no telling what the streets are like this time of night. So let us get back to the hotel presto.

So I set off walking very fast in what I thought was the right direction. But after awhile I realized that I’d walked for much longer than I had coming over and was nowhere that I recognised. I was using the map torn out of the Frommer book and couldn’t find the street I was on listed. And up ahead was a group of young guys who may’ve been perfectly innocent but I wasn’t taking any chances.

So I cut over to the right (after backtracking at a run) and came to a street called after St. Catherine d’Alessandria. Started heading up it, trying to get to the Via Nazionale, but decided maybe I should ask the desk clerk in a nearby hotel for his advice.

I ducked into the lobby and inquired where I was in my limited Italian: "Dove io sono?" He said something obviously contemptuous about the map I had and pulled out a better one. Turns out I hadn’t taken the radial layout of Florentine streets into consideration and was an appreciable distance away from where I wanted to be. He gave me to know I could keep the map-- grazie-- and I hoofed it back to the hotel, allowing the effect of two glasses of wine on no dinner to deceive me into thinking I could do that much running. Made it back safely but the experience was a little surreal.

Books and More Books!

This past Saturday the area library held its annual book sale.

And regular income or not, I needs must go and see what I can find. At a dollar per hardback, I'd be an idiot not to.

Here is this year's haul, in the order they happen to be stacked on my study floor:

1) Common Errors in English and How to Avoid Them, by Alexander M. Witherspoon, Ph.D., 1943.

I've inherited some of my English teacher grandmother's propensity for being a grammar and usage cop. And as much fun as it is to deplore others' mishandling of the language, it's salutary for me to make sure my own writing is itself up to par (hmmmm . . . . should that actually be "propensity to be"? And would it be more accurate to say I want to get "down to par"? I'd better read this book and find out!). Then, too, it'll be interesting to see what usages have absolutely changed in the past 64 years. I actually hadn't known that "contact" hadn't always been a verb as well as a noun!

2) Hypatia, by Charles Kingsley, no copyright date shown but originally published in 1853. The design and frontispiece illustrations of this American edition look more Edwardian. 1905, let's say.

Charles Kingsley is a familiar name, somehow in association with the Inklings of Oxford. A predecessor? And I'd heard of his Hypatia, but I hadn't known what it was about. Turns out it concerns a young woman, a philosopher and teacher, who is trying to bring back Classical paganism against the momentum of post-Constantinian Christianity. But that's only the first two chapters. I'll see what ensues.

3) David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens, 1948 Literary Guild edition, first published in 1850.

Everybody needs a copy of David Copperfield. Otherwise, how are you going to know when Masterpiece Theatre gets it wrong?

4) Les Miserables, by Victor Hugo, English translation 1943; French original published 1862.

Gosh, I hope, I hope, I hope this version is unabridged, discursions on argot, the Battle of Waterloo, and all!

5) Cathedral, Forge, and Waterwheel: Technology and Invention in the Middle Ages, by Frances and Joseph Gies, 1994.

Promising-looking treatment of Medieval architecture and technology, with reproductions of period illustrations. The people who put together the library sale tables had filed it under "Religion." Hilarious! (Unless you really do think that architects will save the world).

6) All Things Bright and Beautiful, James Herriot, 1974.

Dogs! Cats! Horses! Furry critters in general! And the vicarious pleasure of looking in on a country vet's life without having to get cold and tired and grotty oneself! Eh, oop!

7) Laughing Stock, Bennett Cerf, editor, 1945.

In his Introduction, Mr. Cerf states, "The joke book of the future will bear little resemblance to this collection. My grandson will tell me . . . 'For Pete's sake, is that what people laughed at fifty years ago?'" Alas, Mr. Cerf was right. But there are still enough good ones to amuse any occupant of the porcelain throne-- which is why I pick up books like this in the first place.

8) The Hymnbook, David Hugh Jones, editor, 1955.

Not a lot of Presbyterian Church (USA) congregations still use the Dark Red Hymnal. But occasionally I'll preach at a church that does. Now I can return the copy I borrowed from the church of a pastor friend of mine two years ago (sorry, Deb!)

9) The Presbyterian Valley, William Wilson McKinney, editor, 1958.

A collection of essays on the history, development, and accomplishments of the earliest Presbyterian churches in the Upper Ohio Valley. The church I used to pastor is shown on the map on the endpapers, but far, far south of where it's located now. Another congregation by the same name? Or the same one, and is this yet another example of the lack of communication and obscurantism I encountered in that parish? I knew when I was there that the church had moved at some point to its present location, but nobody could or would tell me from where. Maybe they had no historic sense and simply didn't know. Or maybe it was more of the quality that made the clerk of session keep the church register and Session minute book at his home and refuse to ever, ever let me see them.

10) Home Painting, Wallpapering and Decorating, a "Wise book," 1951.

Screamingly out of date for many products, tools, and techniques, but containing some recipes that may come in very handy as I renovate my 1920s foursquare house (see my blog The Sow's Ear). Worth spending a buck for, just in case.

11) Decorative Painting, by Emma Callery, 1990.

I've already done some nice (I think!) faux finishing on my kitchen (which someday I'll get round to publishing on my house blog). This book should come in hand for the next such project I may try. Lots of well-photographed illustrations.

12) A Certain Justice, by P. D. James, 1997.

I "read" this story before, in 1999, by way of Books on Tape, while en route to a Face-to-Face pastor search cattle call in Corning, New York. Got so wrapped up in the story that I missed my exit for my friends' house in Cincinnati (where I was to spend the night) and ended up in Over-the-Rhine. There are times when that could've been very awkward for someone like me, but happily, that midnight was not one of them. A friendly gas station clerk set me straight and I eventually made it back to the suburbs.

As for the story, P. D. James can always be relied upon to give the reader a grim but gripping, well-constructed, psychologically-motivated tale. And, what fun, I see that she has signed this copy on the flyleaf!

13) The Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces, fourth edition, Vol. 1, Maynard Mack, general editor, 1979.

14) The Norton Anthology of English Literature, fifth edition, Vol. 1, M. H. Abrams, general editor, 1986.

15) The Norton Anthology of English Literature, fifth edition, Vol. 2, M. H. Abrams, general editor, 1986.

Back in June of 1975, Judy, an architecture school classmate at my Great Midwestern University, borrowed my Norton Anthology of English Literature; I think it was to clear up an Incomplete she'd had to take in an English class. But she absconded to Iowa, transferred to Maharishi University, and I never saw her or my Norton again.

When I laid eyes on these books last Saturday, I thought, "Ah! here's my chance to recover my loss." But the sale room was too crowded and the books were too heavy to see if any of them were the same one I had in the mid-'70s. I'm particularly looking for a story called "August Heat," about a man who goes walking in London on a blindingly hot Bank Holiday afternoon, and somehow ends up in a stonecutter's yard where the unknown craftsman has just finished chiseling a tombstone with the protagonist's name on it . . .

Haven't found it yet. Maybe it was in the 1974 edition, but left out of this. I know it always creeped me out enjoyably.

There should be one more, going by the amount I was charged. But I can't find it. Oh, well, if the volunteer made a miscount, that's one more dollar for the library fund!

"In the Beginning Was the Word . . . "

Having decided to launch myself into the blogosphere, I couldn't help noticing something about the "equipment" on the way. The templates provided by the very helpful people at Blogger.com are filled in with verbiage-- if one may call it that-- that looks like a collision between Cambodian, German, and a few other tongues, followed by some very doggy Latin. And blimey if I wasn't trying to make sense out of it! I could feel where the nouns, verbs, adjectives, articles, and all the other parts of speech were, as if it had been written in a real language! Of course, I was doing it according to my understanding of English syntax. Someone who really spoke Cambodian or German would most likely tell me, "No, the verb is there and the noun is there!" But I'd willingly bet that their heads would be wired to want to find sense in that gibberish, too.

For there's something in a human being that wants to find meaning in letters and words. There's something in every person with half an education that will try to find it, when it isn't even there! Think how we spent our teenage years ascribing deep philosophical import to the vacuous lyrics of the rock and roll songs! And no matter how picture-oriented our culture becomes, no matter how badly we mangle our mother-tongue (and we do, we do!), we want our words to carry us into the hearts and minds of other people, and we want to feel that the words of others really convey them to us. We feel instinctively that what we say and what we write is an image and likeness of who we are; or at least, is the image we wish to present to the world. To those around us, we are our words.

And that isn't surprising, is it, since we're made in the image of the Triune God? "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God." Jesus the Word expresses the Father; our words express ourselves.

Only trouble is, our words fall so dismally short of doing that for us! Broken-backed, crippled, loaded with more than they can ever carry, they return to us shamefaced when they-- and we-- are misinterpreted and misunderstood. And I and my words will be no exception. Still, as my blog-rocket gains altitude, I hope my writing can express something worth expressing. And if not, may the Father of mercies cover them with blessed silence!