RIP Adrienne Rich, hero.

This morning when I came into work and flicked through the news headlines/ trending tweets I was informed that the poet Adrienne Rich had died at the age of 82.

I was first introduced to Rich whilst I was at Lancaster (thank you for quite literally changing my life, now defunct Women Writers of Britain and America 302) through the Virago Book of Love Poetry.

 I can honestly say that some of the most beautiful writing I encountered throughout my whole degree was created by little known female writers and stored between the Virago collection’s heart-adorned covers.

Adrienne Rich was of course not one of the many unacknowledged writers that graced the book’s pages, although being female, gay and Jewish she was fighting on multiple levels. Due to copyright law, a lot of her poems that were previously on sites like poemhunter.com have been taken down, and her work is therefore not all that easy to find on the internet. So, I’ve been slightly sad today about the fact that my copy of the Virago collection, containing her work, is 200 miles away in a bag in the corner of my Huddersfield bedroom.

Adrienne Rich died yesterday in Santa Cruz. (Re)visit her work if you have the inclination or a few spare minutes. She was one of the greats. 

MATE, there is no talent here... oh.

Hanging around Alex Square in the rain, falling asleep in the Learning Zone and repeatedly getting told off for bringing my umbrella into Venue by the DON'T SHEK IT woman - these things were regular occurrences in my Lancaster life. Today saw the end to another great Lancaster institution: as of around 3am this morning, Carleton was no more.


She doesn't even GO HERE (any more), I might hear you suggest. Well. Never mind. 


Here is a collection of my favourite Carleton moments. Just call it a tribute - to three years of Wednesday nights.

Soz Katy.

Patriot's Carleton... 

What beauts... just before we ended up in A&E getting told off. Class.

So much lovin'. 

FRINGED Wench

<3 

We dressed as chimney sweeps and took a broom to Carleton. Couldn't do it anywhere else.

Tasty face.

Foam's about to hit.

Came home later covered in washing up liquid and without golf club or glasses, gutted.

Thank you Carleton! 

xxx

Last Chance To See... 'Alice in Wonderland' at the Tate Liverpool

The spontaneous tale that Charles Dodgson made up for Alice Pleasance Liddell and her sisters during a summer riverboat ride down the Isis in 1862 has spawned more visual illustrations, retellings and cultural associations than any other narrative, possibly ever. Film versions of Alice were created in almost every decade of the twentieth century. The most likely Alice to spring to mind is Disney’s blonde haired, restless cartoon version from 1951, who questions the logic of books without pictures before curiously following a waist-coat clad white rabbit into the bowels of the earth, but other incarnations have included 1983 Japanese-German anime, Mia Waskikowska’s older, gothic 2010 Alice (thank you Tim Burton) and a peculiar Czech interpretation by Jan Svankmajar that began with a taxidermied rabbit smashing its way out of its glass case and ended with my friend and I rocking backwards and forwards in horror on the floor in my room and feeling more than slight apprehension about ever going outside again. 

In the early years of the twenty first century, Alice has inspired resurgence in the popularity of everything from retro tea parties to floral prints to the Urban Outfitters golden pocket watch necklaces on long chains that never seem to leave the shelves. For her birthday this year, one of my friends threw an Alice themed garden party. During the course of my English degree, Alice appeared in modules dedicated to Victorian literature, literature and film, and children’s literature. Tim Burton’s film version saw an onslaught of Alice-related paraphernalia swamping our high streets. An alarmingly large number of British students, I have noticed, seem to have an obsession with tea drinking and cup-cake consumption.  Alice in Wonderland has even passed into the medical lexicon, its eponymous Syndrome referring to the condition, usually manifesting itself in childhood or adolescence, whereby as a result of surplus blood flow to the brain sufferers experience confusion over their physical size. 

The affect that Alice has had, and continues to have, on our popular culture cannot be underestimated. Questioning why exactly this is the case, I find myself feeling just like Alice herself –curiouser and curiouser… 

Why has Dodgson’s tale of a middle class, mid-Victorian girl child falling into a world of hookah-smoking felines and talking flowers been so successful at capturing both the public conscious and the cultural sphere for the last hundred and fifty years? Why, simply, is there (still) such an enduring interest in Alice? 

Answers may be found at the Tate Liverpool, where the Alice in Wonderland exhibition brings together a collection of Alice related paraphernalia dating from its initial publication in 1865, through its later Victorian stage adaptations, its relationship with war-fractured Europe and influence on artistic movements including Pre-Raphaelitism, Surrealism and the psychedelic. 

We are first greeted with a collection of dream-like, psychedelic neon words that are suspended from the ceiling as if depicting thought clouds. The words appear random, as is the nature of dreaming, and indeed Wonderland itself – ‘Abraham’s Bosom’, ‘Trout Basket’, ‘Vice of Love’, ‘Peep’, ‘Cha Cha’. Suspended at various heights, they certainly seem to offer a manifestation of the wandering, unrestrained imagination – or, as my companion put it, ‘the wacky ramblings of Carroll’. On the floor beneath is a pile of towels folded into the shape of a bed, an incongruous pair of ears emerging from it. An attached label reads ‘#2 My Madinah’ – research later tells me that ‘Madinah’ is an alternative word for Medina, the supposed birthplace of Mohammad. Possibly this installation is suggesting that sleep and dream-like states, or the imagination that comes from dreaming, can offer healing and solace in the same way that religion can. The Freudian themes of the Alice books, then, can be seen clearly in the first room of the exhibition. 

On the walls are three paintings by Swiss artist Annelies Strba, entitled Nyima 445, Nyima 405 and Nyima 438, that depict a sleeping child in a wood. The colours are hazy and purple, again suggesting a half conscious state. Running above the works, around the walls of the room, is a thick black line – it is nine feet above the ground, the same height that Dodgson’s Alice grew to in Wonderland after imbibing the cake labelled ‘EAT ME’. 

Upstairs, we are given a wealth of information on the mid-Victorian context of the Alice books. The nineteenth century fascination with childhood, as seen in Pre-Raphaelite works such as William Holman Hunt’s Triumph of the Innocents, which is seen here, was one of the reasons for the books’ early popularity. The relationship between Dodgson and the Pre-Raphaelites can also be seen in the numerous paintings of him that they produced – including works by Dante Rossetti and Holman Hunt. Pre-Raphaelite inspired painter George Dunlop Leslie was the first to make a clear connection between the novels and seemingly unrelated art, with his 1879 painting entitled Alice in Wonderland – a portrait of his wife holding his daughter, who also happened to be named Alice. 

Quotations from Dodgson are printed on the walls, offering an insight into the spontaneity behind the novels: ‘In a desperate attempt to strike out some new line of fairylore,’ his words read from above a line of Pre-Raphaelite portraits, ‘I had sent my heroine straight down a rabbit-hole… without the least idea of what was to happen afterwards.’ 

Also included in this section of the exhibition are translations in Polish, German, French, and Russian –the latter the work of Nabokov. The real highlight though is Dodgson’s original, handwritten manuscript, set behind glass. It is bizarre to consider that all the cultural associations previously mentioned –tea sets, dressing up costumes, countless films– have stemmed from the small, slightly faded book that now sits in front of us unimposingly at the Tate. 

After the Victorians, we are faced with the first art movement to consciously engage with Alice in the twentieth century: Surrealism. Unexpected, anti-rational, uncanny –the suspension of reality required fits easily with the land beneath the rabbit-hole. The theme of displacement was adopted poignantly by artists as a result of the Second World War, and the movement of dispossessed peoples in mainland Europe. Here we see works by Max Ernst, a POW in France in 1939, and Oskar Kokoscha, whose 1941 painting shows Alice’s naivety as a metaphor for the Austrian government, closing her eyes to what is going on around her. 

A 1969 work by Dali shows twelve illustrations, one for each chapter of Alice. She is depicted as a young girl with a skipping rope, overshadowed by huge, psychedelic insects and bright swirls of colour. 

This leads us directly into the ‘altered states’ of the 1960s, the decade that saw Dodgson’s Victorian creation become ‘a poster child for the psychedelic generation’. We are faced with oils by Adrian Piper, showing a hallucinogenic version of the rabbit hole, the tea party and the card game. The LCD-esque creations that close the exhibition bring it full circle – back to the beginning, which saw neon words hung from the ceiling in an incongruous depiction of a dream world. 

The day after I write this review, I am sat in Revolution in Manchester when a stop-motion version of Alice appears on the screen next to our table. Mildly surreal, in a vodka bar on Deansgate Locks, but the hypothesis is proved correct: in late 2011, 146 years since its first publication, society is still taking Dodgson’s dream-like, unpredictable narrative and adapting it for its own ends. We aren’t bored of Alice yet. 

The Alice in Wonderland exhibition runs until January 29^th. 
Tate Liverpool, Albert Dock, Liverpool, L3 4BB. 
tate.org.uk/liverpool  

Extra baggage allowance bought, final visit to Trastevere undertaken, many hugs given: I'm coming home...

...to cider and black at The Star on Wakefield Road, to the smell of pine from a real Christmas tree, to my limitless supply of books, to my cat, who between naps on the back of the sofa probably hasn’t even realised I’ve been away for four months, to British television, to walks around the frozen lake at Cannon Hall, to tattoos that remind me of second year summer, to having a sofa again, to Love Actually and Bridget and Pride and Prejudice, to a snow covered Thorpe Lane, to mince pies, to Mingles, to Castle Hill, to the Comedy Store, to Dirty Dancing in Manchester, to Piccadilly station, to rolling hills, to mulled cider at Giraffe, to present exchanges, to my grandparents, to garden centres, to cheap, acidic wine at Huddersfield Yates, to the Kingsgate Centre in festive lights, to Haigh’s farm shop, to fireworks, to the Yorkshire accent, to gingerbread smells, to snow, to boxes of Celebrations, to baubles, to Christmas stockings, to woolly hats, to Morrissey and the Stone Roses, to driving back over Saddleworth moor, to pointing out the chippy with the mushy pea fritters, to my own quilt, to chocolates on the tree, to Nosh, to Zephyr, to Chaophyra, to exhibitions of Alice in Wonderland and Ford Madox Brown, to Christmas cake with plastic Santas, to cups of tea from an actual kettle, to 19 days of an unopened advent calendar, to a hundred photographs of Almondbury, to making Christmas cards of Siena, to Wench Banter, to everyone in the world that I love, to Lancaster in January, to Friary and Merchants and Bar Eleven (before 9pm) and Water Witch and The Sun and afternoon drinking at Robert Gillow, to hallucinogenic spinach wraps at Venue, to the castle, to catch ups; to London, to The Independent, to learning shorthand, to reciting media law, to the British Museum and the V&A and Kensington High Street and crowded tube trains, to Royal Parks, to a pile of journalism books, to newspapers, to no more procrastination, to the next chapter...  

A jolly good knees up... 12 reasons why England wins at Christmas

1. Advent calendars. The Italian version of the advent calendar does not contain chocolate, which seems to me to defeat the entire point of its existence. I remember when I was about four years old, getting an advent calendar from my childminder that contained only festive drawings of deers behind every window. Luckily I had the real thing from my parents/ grandparents, but the disappointment of the one chocolate free advent calendar was palpable. Now, imagine that the pretty deer pictures were the sum total of what was behind the advent calendar doors for your entire childhood. It’s a sad thought, isn’t it? And this is if they exist at all – I have been informed that they do, but I’ve get to see evidence of twin advent calendars at the Bellomos, and December is now two weeks old.

2.       We have Hyde Park Winter Wonderland.

3.       We also have Christmas crackers. They don’t exist here. Wtf?

4.      Snow. Nothing says ‘festive’ like a glittery dusting of the white stuff, and over the last few years England has come up trumps in its provision of it. I find it extremely difficult to care about people not being able to get to work when the world is swathed in silver. The temperature here is autumnal, and the landscape is reflecting it. Rust coloured leaves do not say December to me. They say October.

      5.       X Factor. A poor one, I know. But it’s going on the list, despite it being (in the words of my mother) ‘crap – apart from Gary Barlow’. Since X Factor hasn’t been in my life this year, I’ve been clamouring for it. It is a Christmas tradition for the 21^st century.  I have even forgiven it for providing the world with Jedward.

6    Christmas Costa. I don’t care if I’m in the coffee capital of the world; get me a Gingerbread Latte and a festive cupcake. Pronto.  

      7.       Christmas farm shops, particularly Cannon Hall Farm Shop at Haigh’s at Mirfield. Farm shops at Christmas, I feel, are a very British invention. Every year we troop to Haigh’s and buy our Christmas tree, and there is always a slight worry that it will not fit in the back of the Yaris. British farm shops make me stupidly content.

      8.      Love Actually. My absolute favourite ever; a beautifully put together piece of British cinematic festive fluff. It’s just so happy (apart from for Emma Thompson). I love Andrew Lincoln. I love Colin Firth. I love Hugh Grant’s dancing. I love Love Actually because it contains Andrew Lincoln and Colin Firth and Hugh Grant’s dancing.

9.       Christmas cards. Again, I see no evidence of this most traditional of Christmas traditions in Italy. Admittedly, the sending of Christmas cards has fallen over the last few years. But with all things retro currently en vogue, I sense a comeback. As soon as I’m home I’m going to make mine using pictures from Siena, and dash them off in the last minute first class post.

10.   Rudolph. In Italy, there is no Rudolph. There is no red nose. There are just... reindeers. That’s all. It begs the question, how do they understand the songs?

11.   Christmas songs. They are all in English. I refute the probable fact that this is because English is one of the world’s dominant languages, and instead choose to believe that it is because, quite simply, England is best at Christmas.

      12.   British Christmas television. Recent and not so recent years have provided us with Christmas Specials from The Office and Gavin and Stacey, amongst others, that have passed into the comedy hall of fame (if there is such a thing). What classics have I got to look forward to when I get back this year? Well, the annual Yuletide offerings: The Big Fat Quiz, the Royal Variety Performance, this year hosted by Peter Kay, and Micheal Buble all over my life, to name but three. We will also see Dickensian classics given a festive tint with Great Expectations and The Bleak Old Shop of Stuff, starring Robert Webb of Peep Show fame. And then there is the Outnumbered Christmas Special, and The Many Lovers of Miss Jane Austen, and the return to our screen of Edina and Patsy in the first of two Ab Fab specials. After Christmas we will be treated to the wisdom of Charlie Brooker in his 2011 Wipe. Yes, British television is the best. I’m possibly most excited about 4OD-ing My Big Fat Gypsy Christmas.

13.   Alright, I know I said 12, as in 12 Days of Christmas, but I’ve thought of another. Yankee candles from Mellow Moments in Huddersfield. Lighting them in our cosy dining room. Candles that match the wallpaper. Cinnamon, baked apple, spice, wood smoke, pine. Nom.

      

      I love Christmas, I love England; the two combined is a fairly winning combination. Add Baileys and a box of Roses and I’ll be utterly content until January rolls around. Now, I’m going to dig out the wrapping paper and toilet roll tubes. The twins have crackers to make.

Galleria Accademia & Siena

In the morning I go to the Galleria Accademia, where I see a lot of pretty intense art, as well as some beautiful sculpture. Michelangelo’s David is the highlight, of course – it really is mesmerising. It takes me a long time to get round the Accademia, and by the time I get round to recounting it in this blog, whilst sat in a square in Siena, it feels like it was a very long time ago.

The Accademia is the last thing I do in Florence, before collecting my bag from the hotel and catching the bus to Siena. I felt that I should really get to Siena before the evening, since my hotel is outside the city, a bus ride away, nestled amongst the Tuscan hills. I don’t particularly want to try and find it in the dark.

On the bus ride I mainly read the Daily Express, which reminds me why, at home, I never read the Daily Express. I am also thinking, hmm, Tuscany. A bit like Yorkshire. 

The Historic Centre of Siena is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and it is clear why. The streets are narrow, and cobbled – it is like the Ghetto in Rome, but a whole (tiny) city of it. If I thought parts of Florence were medieval fairytale-esque, they have nothing on Siena. The centre is also full of festivity – huge silver stars are strung everywhere, above the tourists as they squeeze down the tiny streets. Siena is the most festive place I think I’ve ever been (possibly aside from Whitley’s Garden Centre, Mirfield). 

I go to check out Piazza del Campo, followed by the Duomo. Both are breathtaking. They look like settings from an over exaggerated Disney film. Here they are. See what I mean? 

Afterwards I go to a restaurant at Piazza del Campo and get pizza – again. I don’t meet any random friends tonight, sadly, but it’s ok because I feel like getting back to the hotel and being cosy (Alberto was right, Siena is freezing).

Unfortunately, so is my room. Bizarrely, it has shutters that won’t open. When I checked in I took a photograph of the view from between the gaps: 

Here is the view from outside:

I get under a blanket and fall asleep straight away, and then am woken up at what I am surprised to find is only 11.30pm by my mother, who is ringing to check that I am still alive. I assure her that I am, and then immediately fall back to sleep. Tomorrow: further exploring of Siena.

***

I dispense with the map and have a wander on Friday morning. Beautifully and completely by accident, I stumble upon a food market at the bottom of a windy path. There are samples everywhere; I feast on cheese, pork, and bruschetta despite only just having had breakfast. I want to buy some cheese, but resist since I’m fairly sure the fridge will be full of festive formaggi when I get home a week before Christmas. Instead I purchase two jars of chutney, one spicy pear and one spicy peach. I feel very festive. I am so, so paying excess baggage to Jet2 next week. 

My first official stop is Siena Cathedral – the Duomo. It is without a doubt the best cathedral I have ever seen, probably because it is so different. The columns inside are black and white; they make me think of a fifteenth century jester’s tights. It is all very medieval. I feel like I’m in an Italian version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

There are a lot of interesting things about the cathedral. On the left wall, amongst statues of various other saints, is a depiction of Saint Paul that has been attributed to Michelangelo. Next to Saint Paul is an image of the Virgin with child – a typical picture, at first glance. There are thousands of them, all over Italy. But no, at second glance it becomes clear that she is breastfeeding. The Virgin Mary, boob out. This is crazy.

On the floor there is, in marble, a depiction of the She-Wolf of Siena. The image could easily be mistaken for the She-Wolf of Rome, as it is almost identical – but, the audio guide informs me, a different set is twins is present here. They are Senius and Aschius, sons of Remus, who fled from Rome to avoid the anger of their uncle Romulus, and went on to found Siena. On the founding of the city, they sacrificed a wolf. Black and white were decided as they colours of the new city, hence why the inside the cathedral is largely monochrome. The legend of the She-Wolf of Siena, being nothing to do with Italy’s capital, is obviously less well known than the story of Rome’s founding.

I also find out that the cathedral itself was originally built in around 1000, but that it was rebuilt in medieval times to such an extent that none of the original remains. There are around 170 busts around the ceiling of the cathedral, below the stained glass windows. All of them are Popes from across the centuries, from the cathedral’s beginnings to the end of the 1500s.

***

I am in the cathedral for quite a long time. Afterwards I decide, because I feel that I should whilst I am here, to climb to the top of the tower in Piazza del Campo. I had gone in earlier, before I returned to the Duomo, and found that the climb was not advised for those suffering from claustrophobia, or, I imagine, a fear of heights.

But I climbed the Dome in Florence so now I decide to be fearless.

To a certain extent, anyway. I climb the standard 400 steps, but I decide to stay away from the rickety wooden stairs that lead to the very, very top. A sign at the bottom of them says that, in parts, they are ‘exposed to the elements’. Why would anyone inflict this upon themselves? There is no need for this. I have a good enough view after 400 steps. I stay exactly where I am. 

After the long climb back down, during which I almost trip and twist my ankle, I sit in Piazza del Campo and read my map whilst drinking an espresso. I had previously written down that I should visit the Sanctuary of Saint Catherine of Siena, so this is where I head now. On the way I stop at a beautiful candle shop where a couple of women are crafting away with hot wax, and purchase a candle moulded into the shape of an owl.

The Sanctuary of Saint Catherine is basically a small church, but it is set high up in the winding Sienese streets and offers a lovely view. Here is Saint Catherine herself, guarding the entrance to her casa, and the panorama of Siena that I found around the corner when I visited the Basilica of San Domenico:

The Gothic Basilica of San Domenico, just around the corner from Catherine’s sanctuary, is stuffed full of art. I read that it dates from the 13^th and 14^th centuries, and since then has survived 15^th and 16^th century fires, a 16^th century military occupation, and various 18^th century earthquakes.

The view of Siena from outside it is a beautiful way to end my visit.

***

It is going up to 4 o’clock; I have to get the bus, pick up my bag from the hotel, get back on the bus, find some food to sustain me for the journey and locate the stop for the cross country SITA bus before it’s departure for Rome at 6pm.

I leave Hotel Vico Alto, and as I am waiting at the bus stop and taking photographs of the view, an old Italian man appears and tells me, in Italian, that I have a beautiful hat. It is a nice hat, purchased from La Chieve in Largo Argentina (thanks mother!), but still, how very surreal. I thank him. His tiny Chinese wife looks confused.

And so, back to Rome. I am restless on the journey. I’m tired, and am not anticipating a late night change of metro from Tiburtina. As soon as I’m on the bus I want it to go faster towards the capital and the hotel and Alphabet House. My Bronte Myth book (by Lucasta Miller, weirdly) does not hold my interest. For a lot of the time I just stare out of the window, trying to distinguish shapes in the darkness.

The journey (three hours) feels overly long. Just outside Rome, I start to notice women stood at the side of the road. The first one I see is texting, from a lay-by. I think how unfortunate it is that her car has broken down in this particularly grim location. And then I see another women. And another. The third one I see is wearing bright red, patent leather boots. And it is at this point that I realise they are in fact engaging in the oldest profession in the world. This is extremely disturbing. They are touting for business on the main autostrada into Rome. And five minutes later, the bus drops me off at probably the most dangerous looking station I have ever seen in my life.

My advice on Roma Tiburtina Autostazione is this: avoid it as if it were a Florentine plague.

Unless of course you enjoy being surrounded by litter, homeless people and questionable taxi drivers touting for business whilst you search for a metro station that just doesn’t seem to be around.

I am relieved when I find it, and even more relieved when, half an hour later, I let myself into Alphabet House dump my bags on the floor. Shower. Bliss. I then get into bed without even drying my hair. Sacrilege in Italy!

Sleep, finally. 

What happens in Florence...

...will not remain in Florence, obviously, but will be recounted in minute detail on this blog. Would you expect anything less?

Before 6am on Friday, I am sat on a train at Termini, waiting for it to pull out of the station. Florence bound! I left the hotel at quarter past five, and my fingerless gloves (I am prepared for the cold in Siena), new hat and departure under the cover of darkness makes me feel like something from a Graham Greene novel. 

There are a few tramps asleep at Termini, most of whom smell like fragrant piss. Incongruously, they all seem to have un-bashed, brand new suitcases to rest their trampy heads on whilst they nap on the edge of the platform. Bizarre. 

Finding piattaforma 1 (East) isn’t difficult, but I am assisted anyway by an Italian man who seems to be wandering around the station. Clearly I look less like a spy than I first assumed – more likely I look tired and British. He appears as I am accidentally reading the Arrivals board instead of Departures, and having a momentary panic because my train doesn’t appear to exist. My helpful new friend offers me a few words of advice in Italian, before deciding that it would be better if we spoke in French. Yes, ok – who am I to question? In French, he tells me that I should go straight on, then right, then through a tunnel. I thank him in Italian, because this is what is in my head, and retreat with shouts of bon voyage following me down the platform. Bon voyage aussi, you helpful station wanderer. 

On the train, then. I am almost the only passenger, aside from a woman who is walking up and down the carriage and looking extremely confused. Our first stop is Roma Tiburtina, just down the track. I pay particular attention to it because this is where the bus from Siena will drop me off on Friday evening, leaving me to make the last stage of my journey by taxi or metro, depending on the time. Tiburtina looks a lot like Clapham Junction, with the tracks stretching on and on, but I doubt Clapham is ever this deserted at 6am. 

I fall asleep, while the train is still rattling along through indistinguishable Roman darkness, and when I wake up it is light and we are approaching Florence. An American couple have invaded my seating area and are talking loudly about the hilarity of almost having booked a hotel room in Rome, Georgia, by accident. Dear God.

I find Hotel Fiorita easily (it is only 300 metres from the station) and am very happy to find that because of a cancellation my room has been upgraded to a double with ensuite. Yes, Florence! You are working well for me so far.

After dumping my stuff and picking up a map I get straight on with exploring. My first stop is Basilica San Lorenzo, which the extremely friendly reception man has circled on my map. I reach it through an outdoor market, which is full of stalls selling ‘I Love Firenze’ hoodies. The Basilica is nice – my favourite part is the garden, which contains a big orange tree. It is very Florentine. 

(Did you know, also, that Dante, Petrarch, Machiavelli, Galileo Galilee and Da Vinci have all called this city home? This is a fairly impressive list, considering that it takes in undisputed masters of literature, science and art, as well as the man who actually invented the sonnet. Mind blown). 

I carry on walking, vaguely following the map. And then I round a corner and am visually smacked in the face by the most impressive building I’ve ever seen: the Cattedrale di Santa Maria de Fiore.

I go and sit at the top of the Dome. The view is mental. I could even go as far as saying that it is off its tits, but I feel that this phrasing may be disrespectful to Santa Maria. We are so very, very high up. Considering my all encompassing fear of heights (I could never even jump off the three metre diving board at Huddersfield Sports Centre without squeezing my eyes shut) I have no idea why I’m not shitting right about now. I’m not, though. I’ve even walked all the way around the outside and taken a video of the view. Maybe I’m growing. 

Florence looks like a favela from this height. A low-slung, sunlit, red and yellow favela. With a few medieval towers. And clocks. And Tuscan hills closing in from every side. 

It is extremely humbling and melancholy. 

And then hundreds of Japanese teenagers appear and start taking photographs whilst bouncing on the railings as if they aren’t about two miles up in the air. Time for dry land, I think. 

***

Heading in the vague direction of the river (towards Ponte Vecchio and the Uffizi), I see a sign pointing in the direction of ‘Casa di Dante’. Well. I follow this sign now Via Del Corso (is there one of these in every major Italian city?) until I find not the casa of Dante, but the chiesa. 

This is a major event, I feel. The Church of Saint Margaret is better known as Dante’s Church, it being where he worshipped, where he married Gemma Donati, and where she is buried along with her entire family of thirteenth century Florentine nobles. I sit in a pew in the tiny church (it is so small there are only four rows) and try to get my head around the fact that this is where the creator of the Divine Comedy, the Inferno, etc, got married seven hundred years ago. It is also where he met Beatrice Portinari, who inspired his poetry.

Afterwards I go across the cobbles to his house, which is now a museum. Here is what I learn:

Dante Alighieri was born between the end of May and the end of June, 1265, to Alighiero di Bellicione and his wife Bella – a family of noble lineage, proved by its ties with other aristocratic Florentine families, including the Donatis, of which Dante’s future wife was a daughter. His great great grandfather Cacciaguida had been knighted by King Conrad II and had died in the Second Crusade in 1147. 

I also infer that Dante quite liked Florence:

Where the lovely Arno flows,

There I was born and raised,

In the great city.

(Inferno)

Since astrology was incredibly important in the thirteenth century, it was recorded that Dante was a Gemini. 

His mother died when he was young, and he was brought up with an older sister, a younger brother, and a younger sister from his father’s second marriage. He was educated at home, and first met Beatrice when he was nine years old; she would later become his muse. Despite this, a contract between the Alighieri and Donati families saw him betrothed to Gemma Donati at the age of twelve.

Dante’s Muse

Beatrice Portinari lived with her five sisters in Florence, close to the Alighieri house. Dante was nine when they first met; later she would appear in his Divine Comedy as Vita Nuova. ‘9’ is a number that occurs throughout Vita Nuova, symbolising a miracle. He began writing of Beatrice in terms of courtly love, in the traditional way of poetry, admiring her beauty, elegance and grace, but eventually moved away from earthly reality and began a period of deep introspection. Beatrice married Simone di Bardi and died at just 24, leading Dante into crisis and years of philosophical study.

The museum tells me that,

In the Divine Comedy, she is the vehicle of his salvation and, as the symbol of theology, guides the poet in the last part of his other worldly journey.

My humble translation of a plague on the wall, without any help from Google: 

In the 8^th month of 1991

In this church of 1033

A celebration

Of the 8^th centenary of the death

Of Beatrice Portinari

The inspiration of poet

Dante Alighieri 

***

A few more Dante facts:

Dante’s teacher was Brunetto Latini, who had translated Cicero as well as working as Florence’s ambassador in Spain under Alfonso X. 

Dante was in exile from Florence between 1301 and 1311, because of fighting between opposing families in the city. Little is known about his movements during this time.

***

My life is crazy. I come to this conclusion not long later, whilst sat outside drinking espresso (to pep me for the Uffizi) at a cafe opposite the Ponte Vecchio. 

Ponte Vecchio: a 10^th century bridge, covered in tiny, brightly coloured windows, once home to greengrocers, now inhabited by goldsmiths and jewellers after an edict by the Pope. They shops are their original size, without alterations, and the doors are tiny. The bridge looks like something out of a Grimm’s fairytale. There is a gelateria at the end, and I indulge myself in a cone of stracciatella, whilst reaching the definite conclusion that I like Florence more than Rome. 

Now, back down the river to the Galleria Uffizi. I’m hoping that when I come out it will be getting dark and that Ponte Vecchio will be all lit up. 

***

Before I go into the Uffizi, I am busy taking photographs of the statues outside  -Florentine luminaries including Galileo Galilee, Petrarch (of sonnet form fame), Da Vinci and of course Dante– when I am accosted by a painter who is going about his portraiture outside the ticket office. He asks where I am from, and I tell him England. His response to this is fairly unique: ‘You are of beautiful colours,’ he says. ‘Please, please let me paint you.’

Good lord.

The Uffizi stuffs my mind with artistic knowledge to such an extent that by the time I leave I feel like I’ve run a marathon (getting up at 4.30am is probably also a reason for this).

Afterwards I wander back to the square, thinking about Lidia’s advice that I should ‘not go out in the evening’ – mildly worrying advice, that. It is half past five but already dark (it is December), and there are lots of people around in Piazza della Signoria. I was given a leaflet for a restaurant offering pasta/ pizza, a pint and icecream for ten euros before I went in the Uffizi, so I seek it out now – I’m not hungry after the massive stracciatella, but it is in the piazza and I expect will therefore provide a good people watching/ blog writing opportunity. The streets around are all lit up with Christmas lights, and on the way I browse through a couple of vintage shops – bellissimo.

 

The restaurant is closed, predictably since it is only 6pm, but there is an Irish pub next door – it appears to be called, simply, Guinness. 

Well, this is extremely tempting. Sider e nero, per favore?

Yes, I think so.

While I am sitting with my cider and black, writing this blog and feeling extremely content with life, the lad who gave me the ten euro pizza leaflet and then found me lurking outside his restaurant comes over for a chat. He doesn’t like Rome, he says. It is too big and confusing. All the streets are the same. He has lived in Florence for eight years, but is actually from Kosovo.

I don’t pursue this topic of conversation.

After a while, when he has informed me that ‘Guinness’ will have live music on later, he goes back to work.

There are two American girls at a table near mine. Can you guess what they are talking about?

The Wi-Fi in their hotel isn’t working. Seriously. 

***

Also, Italians clearly do not know how to create a good cider and black, even if they are running an Irish pub. It is definitely not heavy enough on the black. I miss Wench and Meg whilst drinking this. 

***

When I was leaving the Uffizi I was informed that the best thing to do next would be to visit the Palazzo Vecchio. It is just across the square, so I go over to check it out when my cider is finished.

It turns out the ticket office closed at 6.30pm, but part of the museum is outside and free of charge – I assume, I walked straight into it anyway. It is all statues and massive Florentine frescos. I wander back up one of the shopping streets afterwards. Something tells me that I should have a taxi number and credit on my phone if I’m going to end up at the ‘Guinness’ live music night. I deal with both these things before heading back to the restaurant, where I order pizza e funghi and swap the included icecream for wine. 

***

I feel that various surreal things have happened to me whilst I’ve been in Italy, but this evening in Florence, I think, might rate higher than any of them on the weird-ness scale.

The pizza is good. Afterwards I watch some Italian football at ‘Guinness’ whilst talking to the Kosovan boy about Rome, about Italian language learning, about various things in this area. The live music starts. I acquire another pint. Kosovan Boy has had no one in his restaurant all night (bar me), so we carry on with our conversation, which is very interesting. 

We are having a nice conversation about Florence, when Alban (or Arban, or Ahban, or something else – not going to lie; I can’t remember though cider fug) tells me that he has featured in Jersey Shore and then invites me to Kosovo to meet his father. 

Pardon?

It turns out that he used to ‘stay with people from Jersey Shore’ and worked with ‘Mike’ in a gelateria just around the corner. Why Jersey Shore was filming in Florence I was unable to establish. But it is true. At the gelateria, there is a photograph of The Situation in the window.

We discuss this for a long time. Alban (?) shows me a video on his phone of the house he and his father have recently had built in Kosovo. I come up with the bright idea that we should exchange contact details, so that he can practice his English and vice versa my Italian, and to this end we swap email addresses. He adds his phone number and full name too. Sometime between twelve and half past I decide that now would be a good time for me to leave. Alban (?) goes to talk to someone he knows –he appears to know everyone, working next door– and out of courtesy I wait for him to come back before I disappear. 

And wait. And wait. It is probably only about ten minutes, but I’m itching for bed and I really, really want to leave. And what am I waiting around for, anyway? So I go. I feel slightly bad about this (but not too bad). Honestly, I could have been waiting for half an hour, for no reason. 

When I get back to the hotel I text, apologising for running away. I don’t feel mean, then. 

More tomorrow.