U Fizi is as Good as My Fizi

May 1, 2024

As Cathy and I waited in the ticket office this morning at the famed Ufizzi Art Gallery, she asked me, “What does Uffizi mean?” It was a reasonable question to the Tour Director, but one I neglected to prep for.

It happens, okay.

Now, I had two options. I could try to bullshit her. Always dicey. Usually, there comes that moment when the true answer comes out from some more reliable source. That’s always awkward.

So I went with a joke instead.

“You fizi is as good as my fizi”, I quipped, thinking it wasn’t bad for early in the morning. Maybe not Vegas or even Catskill level material, but not entirely lame.

Cathy just rolled her eyes.

“I’ll be here all weekend.” I added,

This too was met with silence. “Jeez.”, I thought. “Tough crowd, these art lovers.”

I admit it. I’m not good at art galleries. Especially crowded ones. I have to fight the urge to race ahead when I should linger. You know . . . “Okay, we’ve seen it; we can say we’ve seen it; let’s take a photo and beat the crowd to the “Birth of Venus.”

I’m pretty sure this isn’t the attitude the Museum Director is after. Maybe more contemplative, less competitive.

I also have anger management issues with folks who are rude or lack what I call “SCA” . . . “situational crowd awareness.” You know . . . the woman who stops on the stairway to check her cell phone, holding up everyone, totally unaware that she is blocking traffic behind her. Or the tall guy who takes root in front of the Da Vinci blissfully unaware that his head will be forever immortalized in family vacation photos all over the world.

Sometimes I’m tempted to take a photo of people taking photos. Like this one I took at the Piazzale Michelangelo as Cathy . . . and a few of our closest friends . . . waited to see the sunset over Firenze.

At first, I thought the fella with the white ball cap, red backpack, and grande macchina fotografica on a tripod was a bit much. I mean, your cell phone takes excellent photos. Why schlep that gear up the bloody steps? Who’s he trying to impress? But, as is so often the case, I was wrong. He and his wife were a delightful couple. He is a retired professional photographer from Canada. They now live in Panama and very kindly suggested that, depending on how the American election goes, Cathy and I might want to join them.

Apparently, the health care is excellent.

Speaking of crowds, Cathy has become a little dynamo at Pollo Italiano.You know . . . you’re walking toward someone. They are some ways off, but you’re on a clear collision course. Here in Italy the young men are the worst. They tend to be arrogant, travel in packs side by side with their buddies, and foolishly think Cathy will defer and step aside to let them pass. Usually, the guy on the wing takes the hit.

Poor bastard. Elbow checked into the boards by a featherweight.

Cosi imbarazzante.

Me. I specialize in the “cold stop.” I look for the Moses glued to his cell phone who assumes the pedestrian waters will part before him. Rather than opt for a smooth “pase de pecho” (that’s matador for the “chest high pass “), as he expects, I opt for the risky, seldom used, but ballsy “Berto parar.” That’s a Spanish bullfighting term for “stand one’s ground.” This seems to upset your typical pampas bull who, forced to an abrupt stop and prepared for battle, but then sensing senility in his adversary, backs off and goes around. I think it’s the big smile and hearty “scusa” that unnerves him.

Pedestrian battle is particularly treacherous on the Ponte Vecchio in the rain. My little REI expandable umbrella is no match for Japanese tour groups wielding bumpershoots the size of Hokaido. Watch yourself. These gals don’t subscribe to Michelle Obama rules. When you go high, they go low so the tips of the ribs of their umbrella dart past you at just about eye level.

But I digress. Back to the Ufizzi.

Cathy pointed this painting out in the corner of a room; she said it reminded her of me. That’s Botticelli’s “St. Augustine in His Study.” The handy bilingual informational plaque says, “The sheets of paper strewn across the floor at the saint’s feet are intended to convey the difficulty implicit in translating divine inspiration into words.”

Riiiiiight.

I have several reactions to this. First, I am of course simpatico. I too leave good material strewn across the floor every night in our hotel room. Second, I chuckle to think of a Saint swearing beneath his breath as he works through celestial writer’s block, “No, no, no . . . that’s not it. Stupido.” But, third, it strikes both Cathy and me that, if it truly is the Lord speaking to you, it ought to be like taking dictation.

No rewrite should be required.