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[Life in Italy]
The recent tragic floods in western Tuscany brought to mind the first time I saw Florence, one of the world's most beautiful cities. I had dreamed of going there since I was a kid, and didn't know until I arrived that it had been struck by massive flooding only a few weeks before: torrential rains had brought the Arno overflowing its banks and sent it raging through the streets, leaving in its wake a misery that sickened the hearts of the populace.
As I walked along I saw people who seemed dazed, as if still wondering why the river had betrayed them. Mud was everywhere, marks on buildings showed how high the water had risen, there were power outages and, what was worse, temperatures were freezing. It was the coldest winter anyone could remember, and with so little electricity coming through, there simply was no heat.
After checking into a pensione, I went immediately to see Michelangelo's David at the Accademia, just a block away. I was the only person there except for the guard, a rather bent old fellow with a muffler wrapped around his head, trying to warm himself at a tiny stove. I stared in awe at the marble masterpiece, my teeth chattering and body shivering from both the 15-degree cold and my emotions. After all, I'd been in love with David since my childhood.
The guard approached and said something. At the time, I knew no Italian and didn't immediately grasp that his "Dah-vee-day" was my David. He circled the great statue, making sweeping gestures as he spoke, telling me what I'm sure were wonderful things about Davide and Michelangelo, sending great clouds of vapor from his mouth into the frigid air. I followed along behind him, lost in starry-eyed wonder, listening and nodding sagely from time to time. What did it matter that I didn't understand Italian. The reverence, love and respect in the man's voice was unmistakable. Like magic, his cheeks became warm and flushed. He unwound his muffler and unbuttoned his coat. Oh, he was wonderful.
I went back a few more times and it was always the same. I was the only one there and that good man was my private guide. He took me through the other rooms, showing me several other Michelangelos. The unfinished Slaves were truly splendid, but Davide was our man. Eventually, I was able to grasp that my guide had been guarding these great works for forty years and considered all the pieces to be family.
I visited the Baptistery across from Florence's great cathedral. As I gazed at Lorenzo Ghiberti's bronze doors, I saw some of the many students who had come from universities all over the world to work side-by-side with Italians saving the priceless antiquities of Florence from the massive flood damage. These young people were up on ladders, down on their knees, lying on the floor, delicately scraping away solidified mud from the intricately-carved, 15th-century bronze reliefs in the doors, drying the pages of ancient manuscripts, dabbing away at wall frescoes, cleaning tiles in the mosaics, piecing together broken artifacts, all in the freezing cold. Their wonderful dedication left me profoundly moved.
A couple of years later, after I had settled in Rome, I went back and saw the Florence of my dreams. Everything that hadn't been completely lost had been restored, cleaned, and put to rights, including the Arno, whose banks had been buttressed so it would never overflow again. But it was the people that impressed me so, with their smiling Renaissance faces, their natural warmth, their durability, their strength.
You know, there's a mistaken idea that Italians are soft. It simply isn't true. They're a tough, resilient people, able to snap back stronger than before from unfortunate events, of which they've certainly had their share over the centuries. And they will surely overcome the tragedy of the 1996 floods in western Tuscany. You'll see. They'll put everything right once again. You can bet on it.
[Life in Italy]