It was a restless group, and everyone wore the same anxious look of concern about whether they would gain entrance to the famed museum—the fresh-scrubbed family of four wearing varying shades of fluorescent-colored Crocs; seniors in Tilley hats; svelte, smartly dressed middle-aged couples trying not to look like tourists despite the Rick Steeves books nosing out of the wives’ leather handbags. Each new arrival to the lineup was greeted warily. You didn’t dare jump the queue with this crowd.
Visiting cultural highlights in cities takes on the air of an extreme sport. Those who joined the queue were armed with bottles of water, food, and blankets, some with folding stools, newspapers, handheld devices that play games, and the ubiquitous cell phone. Some also come with strategies, such as the couple ahead of me who were conveniently spelled off by their newly arrived travelling companions for a tea-and-pee break. Oh, the benefits of travelling with spry, able-bodied companions.
How can there be so many people and not one of them with a physical disability? I hoped they realized how lucky they were, though more likely than not—as is the case for all of us able-bodied people—they took their health and mobility for granted.
Having nothing whatsoever with which to amuse myself while I stood in line, I eavesdropped on the conversation of the couple in front of me. They were young and, based on what I overheard, from California. The woman was a pretty and perkily chatty woman of Asian heritage with long, glossy hair; her non-Asian boyfriend was the glum and silent type. The girlfriend—oh, I have seen this, I have done this so many times with men—was gamely trying to keep the patter going with her partner with conversational games and idle gossip. So many women really do work hard to bring life to their relationships.
“Would you rather watch a movie on a boat or on a plane?” the Asian gal asked her man. I could not hear his mumbled response.
“Would you rather see a play or a rock concert?”
Another mumbled reply.
“Let’s see. Would you rather be eaten by a shark or swallowed by a whale?”
When she tired of this game she tried another.
“Guess what I’m thinking now.”
“Guess what I’m looking at right now.”
And then she moved to gossip.
“Do you know how she’s wearing her hair now? It’s like chopped to here with bangs, and it’s white!”
And so it went.
I tried to find a way to join the conversation because, while the conversation itself was more than a few brain cells short of a Mensa meeting, at least the woman was animated. By this point I had begun to ponder rather seriously whether I would rather be eaten by a shark or swallowed by a whale.
After an hour or so a slight murmur arose from the crowd when the Uffizi’s mammoth doors were pushed open. The line began to surge and shuffle toward the entrance.
When my turn finally came at the ticket wicket, I was told I could not buy tickets in advance except on the Internet. Also, I could not buy tickets for someone who was not accompanying me.
Well, there was an hour and a half of my life that I won’t get back.
I ran back to the hotel, rushed Mom into some clothes, and hustled her against her will out of the hotel and across the cobblestone streets and the vast piazza and back to the Uffizi. This time, however, I walked her boldly to the front of the line and asked a young ticket taker about wheelchairs, invoking my practiced, “Mia madre è disabile.”
He immediately let us through the doors. Once inside, I feigned shock and horror that we did not have tickets.
“Momento,” he said, and dashed off.
A minute later he returned with our tickets. There was no charge, he said.
“I must take you places more often,” I smiled at Mom.
I fetched a wheelchair for her and parked the red walker behind a customer service desk.
A crush of people attempted to surge as one through the turnstiles.
“This is madness!” a teenaged Brit cried out to no one in particular. The British find disorder a very grave and distressing offense. I believe it was the British-Hungarian author George Mikes who once said that an Englishman, even if he is alone, will always form an orderly queue of one.
We wandered the sprawling Uffizi for no other reason than it seemed it was required of us as visitors to Florence.
We waded through the throng clustered around Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus and the master’s other crowd-pleaser, La Primavera; we turned a corner and came face-to-face with Piero della Francesca’s famous profile of Federico da Mon-tefelto sporting a red, flat-topped, felt hat above an almost comically impassive face. He has a nose so hooked you could hang laundry on it. The painting is actually a diptych (I did not know that), and in the second panel is the less famous but gentler profile of Battista Sforza (I later learned that she was Mrs. Montefelto).
There was Caravaggio’s grimacing, decapitated Medusa, an image that still induces nightmares in one of my grown children. And over there, wasn’t that, yes, of course, it was Leonardo da Vinci’s Annunciation!
So familiar were many of the paintings—endlessly reproduced over the centuries in art books and on tote bags, tea cozies, fridge magnets, bookmarks—that I reflexively greeted each with a nod and a smile of recognition, as if I were bumping into a long-lost friend at a party. But there my fascination with the Uffizi ended.
The Uffizi is undeniably huge and grand, and its collection is certainly impressive, but the place has the same effect on one’s system as gorging on a box of chocolates.
Since I have already committed heresy by panning Italy’s food, allow me to hang myself further by saying this: Unless you have a craving to stand two feet away from The Birth of Venus (and it’s behind glass now, by the way) or you possess a fetish that involves looking at art while standing on your tiptoes and subjecting your neck to the hot, stale breath of strangers, skip the Uffizi.
IT IS impossible to escape the leather-hawkers in Florence.
Casually inquire about an item at one of the numerous stalls that populate the piazzas, and its keeper will hound you relentlessly, maybe even grab you by the hand and drag you through a series of dark back alleys to his supplier, who will then show the full line of wares. Even Houdini would be stymied by the experience. If you so much as venture in to a leather shop or showroom, prepare to surrender your wallet on the spot. Don’t even try to leave without buying anything.
Mom and I were picking our way slowly along a semi-deserted street a block or so away from the hustle and hucksters of the Via Roma. She was pushing her red walker; I was trying not to go insane from walking at a pace I can only describe as slower than a death march.
“There’s a nice coat for you,” said Mom, gesturing toward a shop window.
I often wonder what my mother imagines my life is like when she suggests items of clothing for me. The coat she pointed out was truly beautiful: a below-the-calf length of soft, tawny suede. The skirt of the coat was slightly gored to produce an elegant flare as I walked. The collar, cuffs, and hem were trimmed with an uncertain species of rich-looking fur.
It was the sort of coat that would raise the ire of a peta supporter. I slipped it on to appease my mother; it fit like a glove.
“That is definitely you!” she gushed as her eyes lit up. “Look, since you’ve done all the driving on this trip let me buy you the coat as a gift.”
I began to protest, but my mom’s words had already reached the ears of the owner, who had been unpacking bags of coats at the rear of the shop. He sprang to our side to assist in the seduction, quickly launching into a heady combination of flattery and fibbing. When he started fawning over my “lean figure”—a point so patently false—I had no choice but to put us both out of our misery.
Had I been a movie star, a call girl, or the arm candy of a jet-setting tycoon I just might have let them talk me into the coat. Instead I opted for a practical, knee-length trench-style coat in black leather. I’ve regretted my choice ever since.
&
nbsp; I wore my new coat that night as Mom and I tucked into yet another dull meal near our hotel. The air was cool and damp, and a few cafés with patios had turned on their outdoor heat lamps and were handing out fleece blankets to their patrons.
To avoid being ripped off again, Mom and I kept the order simple: half a bottle of wine, soup, and spaghetti. There was no cover charge, but the menu announced that an outrageous sixteen percent service charge would be applied to all bills.
I was lifting a forkful of spaghetti to my mouth when who should approach our table but Raphael, the leather guy from the previous night. He stopped and bowed slightly, but instead of being warm and pleasant, as he had been the night before, he was tense and terse. His eyes darkened when he saw my new coat; he grabbed a fold of the sleeve and gave it a quick feel between his fingers.
“Hmm, very nice,” he said in a sarcastic tone, and then turned on his heel and stomped off, turning his head to shoot me his best wounded-beast look.
Mom and I were dumbstruck.
“I can’t believe that!” exclaimed Mom. “How did he know we were here?”
Then she leaned over her soup and said in a loud whisper, “I hate Florence. There’s something dirty about the place. I think we’ve had enough. Let’s leave.”
There was so much in Florence I wanted to see: Dante’s home, the Palazzo Pitti, the Galleria del Costume, Fort Belvedere, and the Ferragamo shoe museum. But I was not loving Florence, either. It was rushed and rude. Earlier that day, at a café on Via dei Castellani located outside the rear exit of the Uffizi, a short, snotty little waiter had kicked—kicked!—
Mom’s little red walker and snarled at us in contempt. And this was before we placed our order! Out of sympathy I stroked the walker’s handlebars.
Witness to this was an elegant couple polishing off their sandwiches at the next table.
“Do you want me to hold him down while you kill him?” the man deadpanned in an American drawl.
“Is it just me, or are the waiters in this city unbelievably arrogant and rude?” I asked.
“It’s not you,” he said. “We travel all over the world and this is the worst place we’ve experienced. Are you going to Venice?”
I gave a shrug of uncertainty.
“Go to Venice,” said the man. “It’s a gentler place, and the waiters are lovely.”
That night, I packed up my soiled, ugly clothing and gazed enviously through the tall slim windows of our hotel room at the steady stream of customers shopping for new duds at Zara across the road. I could have popped over but I dislike crowds and my aversion to them is amplified in stores. Florence was a nonstop shopping mecca; it seemed there wasn’t much more to Florence than lining up for art or at a cash register.
I looked over at Mom, who had taken a break from packing and was staring dreamily out onto the piazza. She was dressed in a silky taupe nightgown, her elbows resting on the marble windowsill, her hands propping up her chin. Below her swarms of people strolled along the sidewalk for the evening passeggiata.
I wondered what Mom was thinking about, whether she was imaging a younger version of herself among all those people, or perhaps wishing she could have experienced Florence with my father. Maybe she was asking herself why they had kept putting off many of their trips in order to stay home and toil at work or on the latest renovation of their home. Save it for a special occasion, my parents used to say. My father saved bottles of champagne and wine, and when he died, we had to throw most of it out because, like him, it had had an expiration date. Unlike my parents, I do not save for a rainy day or a special occasion. The future is too uncertain. To me, every day is a special occasion.
I moved toward a window to observe the passing parade for myself. Down the Via Roma, toward the Savoy Hotel, another wave of humanity surged along the sidewalk. In its midst was a little girl about five or six years old dressed in a pale pink sweater and patterned pale pink skirt. She was skipping while holding the hand of her mother, who was dressed in a cream-and- white linen top and trousers and smart black leather flats. The sight of them made me think of my daughter.
Long ago we too had held hands: Zoë skipping beside me free of self-consciousness; me full of maternal devotion. I would hold her hand for all the practical and protective reasons, but really I just loved the feel of her soft little hand in mine. It made me want to scream with joy, “I have a daughter!” Although I had been holding hands out of duty with my mother during this trip, I could not ever recall holding her hand out of pure love.
“What are you looking at?” asked Mom as she waddled over beside me.
“Look at that mother and her little girl, skipping along so happily. Did we ever do that?”
“No,” she said curtly, waving her arms dramatically. “You never wanted anything to do with me. You were always off doing your own thing. That woman does have a lovely outfit though, don’t you think? You’d look good in that.” She turned away and resumed packing.
More than any other Italian city we visited, Florence was the city of mothers and daughters. It is a shopper’s haven, and shopping is, regrettably for those of us who are not shoppers, the preferred activity of mothers and daughters.
I watched how they interacted with each other, the mother always conscious of her proximity to her daughter, the daughter more conscious of her proximity to the clothing racks. You could see in the mothers that they adored their grown daughters, were breathless with awe at how their once chubby, clumsy child—not so long ago sprung from the womb—had been transformed into a sleek, poised, self-possessed beauty.
That night in bed I was lulled into sleep by the gentle sounds of a bass cellist, a keyboardist, and a soprano serenading people in the piazza below. Italy is wonderful for moments such as this. And yet the longing for home returned once again.
There comes a time when the thrill of travelling wanes for me—when I can’t stand packing and repacking my suitcase or hauling it everywhere, when I get so sick of my travel wardrobe that I want to burn it, when my moisturizer and toothpaste run out, when my bank card is rejected by the atm, when restaurant food starts making me ill and I start craving my own bland cooking, when I pine for the comforts of my own bathroom and my own bedsheets, when I start anticipating a return to my routine, the very one I wanted to escape just weeks earlier.
I also wanted to go home while I still liked my mom. We were entering the fourth week of our trip and the fourth cycle of repetitive stories and anecdotes (if I heard the one about the uncle and his affection for hot dogs one more time I was no longer going to hold myself responsible for my actions). The sound of her cane clicking on the tiled floors sounded like a tongue clucking disapproval; I resented the way she hogged the extra pillows and ninety percent of the bathroom towels.
“I wish I could make the clock go faster,” Mom said as we both waited for sleep to overcome us. “I can’t wait to leave.”
She was talking about Florence; I had the same thought about Italy.
16
Rome
EASTER WEEK end in Rome. It never occurred to me to book a hotel room in advance of our arrival in the Eternal City. My punishment for this oversight was eternal fretting.
After the debacle over our hotel in Florence, I was concerned about the fact that we had snagged the last available hotel room in Rome, or so the reservation clerk had told me. My worry was compounded when I telephoned the hotel in Rome from Florence and they easily accommodated my request to check in a day earlier than originally planned. All I could think of was, How bad is the last available hotel room in Rome? I prayed all the way to Rome that it would be something acceptable to She Who Insists on Perfect Accommodation. Mom was already grilling me about it and questioning my booking abilities.
Only when we rolled up to the white pillared, portico entrance of the Hotel Aldrovandi was I able to relax slightly.
“Well, it didn’t have to be this grand,” gasped Mom.
“Oh yes it did,” I muttered to myself.
; The doorman greeted us with a low bow and gently guided me away when I attempted to unload our luggage from the car. At the front desk, the clerk informed us that we had been upgraded to a suite. Things were looking up! Did I also mention that the sun was shining, and we had not seen rain for two whole days?
The bellhop took us to our room, and I ended up pressing into his hand the last three euros I had. He tossed them into his pocket without even looking at them.
When Mom steered her walker into our room, she was positively beaming at the soft yellow walls, furniture upholstered in sumptuous pale yellow, sage, and white, and walnut side tables. The large gleaming-white marble bathroom was stocked with loads of complimentary swag. While she did wheelies in the living room, I dumped our bags in the bedroom and spread out the road map by the telephone to figure out the last leg of our trip.
We were spending five nights in Rome and then driving north again, this time to Venice for two nights, before flying out of Treviso to begin our journey back to Canada. Yes, I know I had initially vowed not to go to Venice, but by this stage I thought, what the hell, we’re in the neighborhood.
The trip to Venice was also a trade-off to my mother for my decision to end our trip a week earlier than planned. Mom was fraying physically, and I was fraying emotionally. Nearly five weeks on the road together had taken its toll. Selfishly, I just couldn’t cope with her anymore. I needed a break, and I yearned for the small and irreplaceable comforts of home. I was counting the days.
We could have visited Rome at any time during our holiday, but Mom had scored tickets from Catholic hq in Canada granting us seats in the enclosure at Saint Peter’s Square for Easter Sunday Mass. Our entire trip had been planned around this event.
“I am going to bring my walker,” Mom intoned solemnly as we prepared to set off for a pre-Sunday visit to the Vatican. She looked at me when she mentioned the walker, knowing how much I hated it. I looked down at the red walker contemptuously so that it understood how much I resented it and that it better behave. It shuddered a bit and stuck close to Mom’s skirt.
Incontinent on the Continent Page 24