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From our recording studio in Brooklyn, we make audio that celebrates human creativity, history and the spaces we live to learn about.

All the essentials, organized thoughtfully into a walk that you can do in a day, at your own pace. 

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Florence in a Day

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Florence

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“This is the fairest picture on our planet, the most enchanting to look upon, the most satisfying to the eye and the spirit."
- Mark Twain

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Allow me to be the first, hopefully, to welcome you to Florence.  As my favorite of its 160,000 daily visitors, I’m sure you’re excited to get out there to drink chianti on the site where Dante Alighieri ate his first carrot, or whatever you’re supposed to do here, but since I’m in charge, I say let’s start first with a look at the train station.  Not enough people stop to look at the train station!

Opening in 1935, this station is by far the newest site on this tour -- and by hundreds of years -- but its architecture highlights an interesting link between the philosophies of the so-called Renaissance and those of the modern age. In Italy, you can never escape the past.

Of course, in 1935 Italy was led by a short, bald sociopath named Benito Mussolini and his Partito Nazionale Fascista.  Indeed it was the Fascists who held a competition to redesign Florence’s main station, with Giovanni Michelucci and the Tuscan Group’s design coming out on top.

Look around at the interior of their design: from the “glass cascade” roof to the candy-striped floor, everything is, if a bit grimy, modern, streamlined, spartan, bold and full of light.  Just the facts, ma’am, cut to the chase, get me from Rome to Home on time and with no frills, ever pushing forward toward the future.  That’s the spirit of this station, and of the Fascist aesthetic overall.  But while the architects wanted to give Florentines a building that was marked by logic, looking forward and not back, defying precedent with its polychrome marble running in parallel lines, the station is also full of subtle nods to the past, from the hulking, epic columns flanking the ticket counter to the red, white and green marble interior you’ll see mirrored throughout this tour.

Now, step outside into the station’s main entrance. As you point yourself south toward the Santa Maria Novella church for which the station is named, consider yourself crossing a bridge from the modern age into the past.  This idea, I think, that enlightenment exists in the balance between the two, is the very lifeblood of what we now call the Renaissance, and, by extension, the foundation of this uniquely beautiful city.  Let’s check it out.

Piazza della Stazione \|||// Allow me to be the first, hopefully, to welcome you to Florence.  As my favorite of its 160,000 daily visitors, I’m sure you’re excited to get out there to drink chianti on the site where Dante Alighieri ate his first carrot, or whatever you’re supposed to do here, but since I’m in charge, I say let’s start first with a look at the train station.  Not enough people stop to look at the train station!

Opening in 1935, this station is by far the newest site on this tour -- and by hundreds of years -- but its architecture highlights an interesting link between the philosophies of the so-called Renaissance and those of the modern age. In Italy, you can never escape the past.

Of course, in 1935 Italy was led by a short, bald sociopath named Benito Mussolini and his Partito Nazionale Fascista.  Indeed it was the Fascists who held a competition to redesign Florence’s main station, with Giovanni Michelucci and the Tuscan Group’s design coming out on top.

Look around at the interior of their design: from the “glass cascade” roof to the candy-striped floor, everything is, if a bit grimy, modern, streamlined, spartan, bold and full of light.  Just the facts, ma’am, cut to the chase, get me from Rome to Home on time and with no frills, ever pushing forward toward the future.  That’s the spirit of this station, and of the Fascist aesthetic overall.  But while the architects wanted to give Florentines a building that was marked by logic, looking forward and not back, defying precedent with its polychrome marble running in parallel lines, the station is also full of subtle nods to the past, from the hulking, epic columns flanking the ticket counter to the red, white and green marble interior you’ll see mirrored throughout this tour.

Now, step outside into the station’s main entrance. As you point yourself south toward the Santa Maria Novella church for which the station is named, consider yourself crossing a bridge from the modern age into the past.  This idea, I think, that enlightenment exists in the balance between the two, is the very lifeblood of what we now call the Renaissance, and, by extension, the foundation of this uniquely beautiful city.  Let’s check it out.

1 Santa Maria Novella Station.JPG

Santa Maria Novella Station

Tour Item

1 StazioneIntroScored.mp3

Look at that tan-colored building up on your left, with the sharp spire jutting from the rear, then look back at the station behind you.  The differences are obvious, but what about the similarities?  That stone, called pietraforte, was extracted from a quarry beneath the Palazzo Pitti, which we’ll visit shortly, and is used in construction dating back to the 11th century throughout Florence. By using the same stone on the station, the architects were implying a return, I think, to former glories.  But like the Renaissance architects avoided regurgitating the past, as with neoclassicism, the Tuscan Group strove to break new ground as well.  As a result, and to the dismay of many Florentines at the time, the station really sticks out from the surrounding buildings. 

Now, while that no-necked Fascist lunatic Mussolini wasn’t sure at first as to whether or not he liked the overall design -- unlike his pale German friend, Adolf, the Italian dictator had little interest in architecture -- he was convinced when viewed that when from above, the station resembled the fasces, which is the symbol of Fascism. Even if that was incidentally, if not intentionally true, the architects let him believe it, and got their commission as a result.  

Let’s head from the train station to Piazza Santa Maria Novella, where you’ll see an evolution of the Basilica there, the first of Florence’s key cathedrals.

 \|||// Look at that tan-colored building up on your left, with the sharp spire jutting from the rear, then look back at the station behind you.  The differences are obvious, but what about the similarities?  That stone, called pietraforte, was extracted from a quarry beneath the Palazzo Pitti, which we’ll visit shortly, and is used in construction dating back to the 11th century throughout Florence. By using the same stone on the station, the architects were implying a return, I think, to former glories.  But like the Renaissance architects avoided regurgitating the past, as with neoclassicism, the Tuscan Group strove to break new ground as well.  As a result, and to the dismay of many Florentines at the time, the station really sticks out from the surrounding buildings. 

Now, while that no-necked Fascist lunatic Mussolini wasn’t sure at first as to whether or not he liked the overall design -- unlike his pale German friend, Adolf, the Italian dictator had little interest in architecture -- he was convinced when viewed that when from above, the station resembled the fasces, which is the symbol of Fascism. Even if that was incidentally, if not intentionally true, the architects let him believe it, and got their commission as a result.  

Let’s head from the train station to Piazza Santa Maria Novella, where you’ll see an evolution of the Basilica there, the first of Florence’s key cathedrals.

2SMNExteriore (2).jpg

Piazza della Stazione and The Mark of Mussolini

2 SMNScored.mp3

The unadorned rear of the church -- and again, there’s your pietraforte -- shows how the whole structure would have originally looked when first built in 1221, though like most of these sites, it stands on something much older.  Indeed, it’s called the Santa Maria “Novella” (or “new”) church because two Dominican friars designed this to replace the “old” church, the 9th century Santa Maria delle Vigne, which was originally on this site.

If you’ll walk along the via degli Avelli, you’ll see a string of arches in green and white marble marked with the crests of the city’s most important families: this arcade flanks the church’s burial ground, and 500 years ago you’d have been overwhelmed by the lovely stench of rotting corpses.

You’re about to be confronted by a facade that looks like spun sugar, with a color scheme reflected by that of the station.  

Commissioned by a wealthy wool merchant in the mid-1400s, the facade was executed by Leon Battista Alberti, perhaps the first so-called “Renaissance Men” or l’uomo universale of the period, an architect, mathematician, author, archer, and philosopher.  Alberti was credited with coining the phrase, “a man can do all things if he will,” an ethos of self-determination which effectively defined the era.

There’s just so much to say about this church, later renovated in the mid-1500s by Giorgio Vasari, the Uomo universale who was the first to publish the word “Renaissance”.  Inside, a fresco which effectively inspired a century of painters with its innovative use of perspective! Outside, obelisks designed by Giambologna to mimic the Ancient Roman Circus Maximus!   Perhaps most noteworthy, it was from a pulpit inside, designed by Brunelleschi, that in 1614 the Church launched its attack against Galileo’s theory of the sun being the center of the natural universe!

Within the artistic universe, this is, like a presolar collapsing mass?  And you’re a little satellite in orbit?  I don’t know.  Let’s head toward the Arno River.

4n Piazza di Santa Maria Novella \|||// The unadorned rear of the church -- and again, there’s your pietraforte -- shows how the whole structure would have originally looked when first built in 1221, though like most of these sites, it stands on something much older.  Indeed, it’s called the Santa Maria “Novella” (or “new”) church because two Dominican friars designed this to replace the “old” church, the 9th century Santa Maria delle Vigne, which was originally on this site.

If you’ll walk along the via degli Avelli, you’ll see a string of arches in green and white marble marked with the crests of the city’s most important families: this arcade flanks the church’s burial ground, and 500 years ago you’d have been overwhelmed by the lovely stench of rotting corpses.

You’re about to be confronted by a facade that looks like spun sugar, with a color scheme reflected by that of the station.  

Commissioned by a wealthy wool merchant in the mid-1400s, the facade was executed by Leon Battista Alberti, perhaps the first so-called “Renaissance Men” or l’uomo universale of the period, an architect, mathematician, author, archer, and philosopher.  Alberti was credited with coining the phrase, “a man can do all things if he will,” an ethos of self-determination which effectively defined the era.

There’s just so much to say about this church, later renovated in the mid-1500s by Giorgio Vasari, the Uomo universale who was the first to publish the word “Renaissance”.  Inside, a fresco which effectively inspired a century of painters with its innovative use of perspective! Outside, obelisks designed by Giambologna to mimic the Ancient Roman Circus Maximus!   Perhaps most noteworthy, it was from a pulpit inside, designed by Brunelleschi, that in 1614 the Church launched its attack against Galileo’s theory of the sun being the center of the natural universe!

Within the artistic universe, this is, like a presolar collapsing mass?  And you’re a little satellite in orbit?  I don’t know.  Let’s head toward the Arno River.

3 The Church of Santa Maria Novella.jpg

The Church of Santa Maria Novella

3 SMNChurchScored.mp3

From the Dominicans to the Franciscans, we transcend Catholicism to the 12th century Chiesa di Ognissanti, originally in pietraforte but eventually renovated into a rare example of Florentine Baroque.  Let’s go inside.

Head right on down the aisle, there.  Keep going.  Straight ahead, in the left wing and hovering atop some stairs, is a well-lit crucifix: this had long been neglected, but in 2005 was discovered to be the work of Giotto di Bondone, dating to 1315.  Giotto, the artistic genius of his generation, was to Renaissance Art what Chuck Berry was to rock ‘n roll: breaking from the two-dimensional, symbolic Byzantine style popular in his era, Giotto’s work restored the Classic desire to glorify nature, and to portray man -- Jesus, in this case -- in a more realistic and relatable light.  

Heading back toward the front door, in the nave, or central section, and facing one another just above the confessional booths are two important paintings produced in 1480: on the left is St. Augustine by Botticelli.  On your right, with the big white beard, is St. Jerome by Ghirlandaio.  In each case, the saints are shown executing their defining roles in Christian morality and, really, humanism, surrounded as they are by the tools of learning, just two intellectually ravenous men investigating nature, language, and art.

Botticelli lived his entire life on this street, and is said to be interred with his family to the right of Jerome, marked by the round seal with the gold lion.   Notably, the tomb is located beneath Ghirlandaio’s Madonna della Misericordia, the fresco which you’ll find up and to your right, under the arch, with Virgin Mary showing her arms outstretched. Here, under the Madonna’s left hand, is a lady in pink, with her forehead shaved back: this is believed to be Simonetta Vespucci, Botticelli’s true love and, perhaps, inspiration for his legendary Venus. 

If you recognize that name, it’s probably because she was the cousin of Amerigo Vespucci, who, according to Giorgio Vasari, is the boy on the top left, holding the banner.  Amerigo Vespucci, as in the explorer after whom America is named!  I mean, like, the dude named Brazil’s biggest bay, and its 4th largest city, after this, his family’s Church!  No big deal.

Now, with Amerigo’s lust for exploration in mind, we’ll head south toward the Arno River, following that until we find perhaps the most enduring symbol of the city: the Ponte Vecchio. 

42 Borgo Ognissanti \|||// From the Dominicans to the Franciscans, we transcend Catholicism to the 12th century Chiesa di Ognissanti, originally in pietraforte but eventually renovated into a rare example of Florentine Baroque.  Let’s go inside.

Head right on down the aisle, there.  Keep going.  Straight ahead, in the left wing and hovering atop some stairs, is a well-lit crucifix: this had long been neglected, but in 2005 was discovered to be the work of Giotto di Bondone, dating to 1315.  Giotto, the artistic genius of his generation, was to Renaissance Art what Chuck Berry was to rock ‘n roll: breaking from the two-dimensional, symbolic Byzantine style popular in his era, Giotto’s work restored the Classic desire to glorify nature, and to portray man -- Jesus, in this case -- in a more realistic and relatable light.  

Heading back toward the front door, in the nave, or central section, and facing one another just above the confessional booths are two important paintings produced in 1480: on the left is St. Augustine by Botticelli.  On your right, with the big white beard, is St. Jerome by Ghirlandaio.  In each case, the saints are shown executing their defining roles in Christian morality and, really, humanism, surrounded as they are by the tools of learning, just two intellectually ravenous men investigating nature, language, and art.

Botticelli lived his entire life on this street, and is said to be interred with his family to the right of Jerome, marked by the round seal with the gold lion.   Notably, the tomb is located beneath Ghirlandaio’s Madonna della Misericordia, the fresco which you’ll find up and to your right, under the arch, with Virgin Mary showing her arms outstretched. Here, under the Madonna’s left hand, is a lady in pink, with her forehead shaved back: this is believed to be Simonetta Vespucci, Botticelli’s true love and, perhaps, inspiration for his legendary Venus. 

If you recognize that name, it’s probably because she was the cousin of Amerigo Vespucci, who, according to Giorgio Vasari, is the boy on the top left, holding the banner.  Amerigo Vespucci, as in the explorer after whom America is named!  I mean, like, the dude named Brazil’s biggest bay, and its 4th largest city, after this, his family’s Church!  No big deal.

Now, with Amerigo’s lust for exploration in mind, we’ll head south toward the Arno River, following that until we find perhaps the most enduring symbol of the city: the Ponte Vecchio. 

4 All Saints Church and the Heart of Humanism.jpg

All Saints Church and the Heart of Humanism

4 OgnissantiScored.mp3

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StJerome.jpg

The route to the Ponte Vecchio -- literally the Old Bridge -- is so well-trod that you could probably find it with your eyes closed, simply following the sound of footsteps (don’t do that, though, as that river is not clean enough to swim in).  Today, its true legacy is its legacy itself: in view of the Second World War, when much of the city -- and country -- was blown to pieces, it is quite a miracle that this bridge still exists at all.

Once you’re on the bridge, pull off to the right for a second, opposite the bust commemorating Benvenuto Cellini, the city’s most notorious goldsmith and proudest murderer, amongst his many other great feats.  Here, you’ll see a plaque on the wall above you detailing the bridge’s salvation, and despite being etched in marble, I’m not convinced it’s true.    

For years, it was said that the Ponte Vecchio was spared from German bombardments by none other than that Grade-A schmuck from Germany, Adolf Hitler. For all the evil in there, legend says that Hitler found his heart swelling ever-so-slightly by the bridge’s beauty.  More likely is the claim of the aforementioned plaque, which attests that it was actually Gerhard Wolf, the German consul in Florence, who saved the bridge, as well as countless paintings and, most importantly, many lives. 
 
Not to take away from Wolf’s heroic legacy, but my favorite version involves a disabled man called Burgasso, who for years would help serve as caretaker to the bridge and its shops, despite some mobility difficulties.  The story, first published in 2016 by an author named Lucia Barocchi, argues that when Burgasso wandered onto the bridge, the Nazi guards ignored him, writing him off as some harmless fool.  Burgasso was anything but, and managed to scout out the layout of the explosives, which he would then disable with the help of his assistant, Luciano.  Man, that story, true or not, really brings tears to my eyes.  

30R Ponte Vecchio \|||// The route to the Ponte Vecchio -- literally the Old Bridge -- is so well-trod that you could probably find it with your eyes closed, simply following the sound of footsteps (don’t do that, though, as that river is not clean enough to swim in).  Today, its true legacy is its legacy itself: in view of the Second World War, when much of the city -- and country -- was blown to pieces, it is quite a miracle that this bridge still exists at all.

Once you’re on the bridge, pull off to the right for a second, opposite the bust commemorating Benvenuto Cellini, the city’s most notorious goldsmith and proudest murderer, amongst his many other great feats.  Here, you’ll see a plaque on the wall above you detailing the bridge’s salvation, and despite being etched in marble, I’m not convinced it’s true.    

For years, it was said that the Ponte Vecchio was spared from German bombardments by none other than that Grade-A schmuck from Germany, Adolf Hitler. For all the evil in there, legend says that Hitler found his heart swelling ever-so-slightly by the bridge’s beauty.  More likely is the claim of the aforementioned plaque, which attests that it was actually Gerhard Wolf, the German consul in Florence, who saved the bridge, as well as countless paintings and, most importantly, many lives. 
 
Not to take away from Wolf’s heroic legacy, but my favorite version involves a disabled man called Burgasso, who for years would help serve as caretaker to the bridge and its shops, despite some mobility difficulties.  The story, first published in 2016 by an author named Lucia Barocchi, argues that when Burgasso wandered onto the bridge, the Nazi guards ignored him, writing him off as some harmless fool.  Burgasso was anything but, and managed to scout out the layout of the explosives, which he would then disable with the help of his assistant, Luciano.  Man, that story, true or not, really brings tears to my eyes.  

5 The Miracle of the Ponte Vecchio.JPG

The Miracle of the Ponte Vecchio

7 PonteVecchio1Scored.mp3

If you manage to dodge the zillions of people in crossing the Ponte Vecchio, turn right to pass under the loggia supporting the Vasari Corridor.  Here, you’ll walk just in front of the apartment where I lived, somehow, back when I was a poor, ignorant college student (and yes, I’m still at least two of those things as of this recording). In some ways, it’s more pleasant to view the bridge from here, away from all of the dang people.  That being said, the bridge is of crucial importance, and has ensured many a walker safe passage over the river dating back to the 900s, but the Ponte Vecchio itself wasn’t quite so lucky: after a flood decimated it, the bridge had to be rebuilt in its current form in the late 1300s. 
 
During the golden age of the city, however, when the Medici were traveling like ghosts in the corridor above with its round little portholes, the shops you see dangling over the river were occupied by an odd squad of folks like leatherworkers, fishmongers and butchers who really stank up the joint.  By the end of the 1500s, the Grand Duke cleared them all out, instead installing the jewelers and goldsmiths you see here today. That's not to say it hasn’t had many tribulations since, including the great flood of 1966, when the bridge -- and city -- was up to its elbows with river water.

If it’s not immediately clear, then, to the throngs trodding past Cellini and the various jewelers, it’s a huge honor to be able to make that short journey.  

Once a symbol of commerce, now a symbol of resilience.

2 Lungarno degli Archibusieri \|||// If you manage to dodge the zillions of people in crossing the Ponte Vecchio, turn right to pass under the loggia supporting the Vasari Corridor.  Here, you’ll walk just in front of the apartment where I lived, somehow, back when I was a poor, ignorant college student (and yes, I’m still at least two of those things as of this recording). In some ways, it’s more pleasant to view the bridge from here, away from all of the dang people.  That being said, the bridge is of crucial importance, and has ensured many a walker safe passage over the river dating back to the 900s, but the Ponte Vecchio itself wasn’t quite so lucky: after a flood decimated it, the bridge had to be rebuilt in its current form in the late 1300s. 
 
During the golden age of the city, however, when the Medici were traveling like ghosts in the corridor above with its round little portholes, the shops you see dangling over the river were occupied by an odd squad of folks like leatherworkers, fishmongers and butchers who really stank up the joint.  By the end of the 1500s, the Grand Duke cleared them all out, instead installing the jewelers and goldsmiths you see here today. That's not to say it hasn’t had many tribulations since, including the great flood of 1966, when the bridge -- and city -- was up to its elbows with river water.

If it’s not immediately clear, then, to the throngs trodding past Cellini and the various jewelers, it’s a huge honor to be able to make that short journey.  

Once a symbol of commerce, now a symbol of resilience.

6 The Legacy of the Old Bridge.JPG

The Legacy of the Old Bridge

PonteVecchio2Take2Scored.mp3

And so this new crowd surrounding you is likely gasping at that long piazza-like gallery butting up against the river: that’s the Piazzale degli Uffizi, notable for its 19th century statues: those facing the river, for example, represent the men credited with defending the city in war.  If you pass through the archway, you’ll see many names you know, either from this tour, from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, or otherwise, each with a prop or two illustrating the source of their fame.
 
You may also notice at the inside apex of the archway a shield with six balls: this is the coat-of-arms of the Medici Family, and you’ll see it everywhere throughout the city, as they effectively ran this town, on and off, when Florence was arguably the wealthiest city in Europe.  The top ball, by the way, is typically blue with three fleur-des-lis: this is the symbol of the King of France Louis the XI, who apparently owed the Medici money and allowed them to use his logo on loan.

But back to the Uffizi.  Started by our friend Vasari and finished by Bernardo Buontalenti in 1581 after Vasari’s death, the “Uffizi” in “Uffizi Gallery” means “offices” because that’s what these were originally: a workspace for the Medici family, gradually converted into an art gallery by Francesco I de’ Medici.  So to recap: the art gallery is called “offices” and was founded by a family of bankers whose name actually means “doctors”.  

Over time, the space would house the whole of the Medici art collection, opening to the public by 1765, ultimately becoming one of the first major museums in the world, and certainly Italy’s most visited, housing works by all the greats: Giotto, Botticelli, Cimabue, Caravaggio, Raphael, Michelangelo, and Leonardo da Vinci.  Speaking of Leonardo, keep cruising down the piazzale and see if you can find his statue: it’s there somewhere on your right.

24 Lungarno Anna Maria Luisa de' Medici \|||// And so this new crowd surrounding you is likely gasping at that long piazza-like gallery butting up against the river: that’s the Piazzale degli Uffizi, notable for its 19th century statues: those facing the river, for example, represent the men credited with defending the city in war.  If you pass through the archway, you’ll see many names you know, either from this tour, from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, or otherwise, each with a prop or two illustrating the source of their fame.
 
You may also notice at the inside apex of the archway a shield with six balls: this is the coat-of-arms of the Medici Family, and you’ll see it everywhere throughout the city, as they effectively ran this town, on and off, when Florence was arguably the wealthiest city in Europe.  The top ball, by the way, is typically blue with three fleur-des-lis: this is the symbol of the King of France Louis the XI, who apparently owed the Medici money and allowed them to use his logo on loan.

But back to the Uffizi.  Started by our friend Vasari and finished by Bernardo Buontalenti in 1581 after Vasari’s death, the “Uffizi” in “Uffizi Gallery” means “offices” because that’s what these were originally: a workspace for the Medici family, gradually converted into an art gallery by Francesco I de’ Medici.  So to recap: the art gallery is called “offices” and was founded by a family of bankers whose name actually means “doctors”.  

Over time, the space would house the whole of the Medici art collection, opening to the public by 1765, ultimately becoming one of the first major museums in the world, and certainly Italy’s most visited, housing works by all the greats: Giotto, Botticelli, Cimabue, Caravaggio, Raphael, Michelangelo, and Leonardo da Vinci.  Speaking of Leonardo, keep cruising down the piazzale and see if you can find his statue: it’s there somewhere on your right.

7 Approaching the Uffizi Gallery.jpg

Approaching the Uffizi Gallery

9 PiazzaleUffizi2Scored.mp3

The piazzale’s 28 statues were the pet project of some unknown printer named Vincenzo Batelli who wanted to stuff these niches with a bit of nationalist flash, while Vasari, the architect who had died some 250 years prior, had intended them to remain blank to express that Renaissance simplicity and symmetry.  Nevertheless, after struggling to raise the funds for this whimsical project, by 1834 a lottery was held, and the statues were erected through public funds, a far cry from the old days of private benefactors with the public interest in mind, like the Medici, without whom there would be no Michelangelo and no Leonardo da Vinci.
  
Moving back to Leonardo: in 1911, his kinda-famous Mona Lisa disappeared from the Louvre.  The French poet Apollinaire was accused, then arrested for this crime; he in turn implicated his buddy, Pablo Picasso, who was questioned, though both were cleared.  It turns out that the painting was thieved by an employee of the Louvre, an Italian named Vincenzo who believed the work belonged in Italy.  So Vincenzo kept the painting in his apartment for two years, before ultimately trying to pawn it off to the Director of the Uffizi.  

The Director obviously turned in the thief, but not before the Mona Lisa spent a whole two weeks here, much to the delight of other proud Italians.

209 Piazzale degli Uffizi \|||// The piazzale’s 28 statues were the pet project of some unknown printer named Vincenzo Batelli who wanted to stuff these niches with a bit of nationalist flash, while Vasari, the architect who had died some 250 years prior, had intended them to remain blank to express that Renaissance simplicity and symmetry.  Nevertheless, after struggling to raise the funds for this whimsical project, by 1834 a lottery was held, and the statues were erected through public funds, a far cry from the old days of private benefactors with the public interest in mind, like the Medici, without whom there would be no Michelangelo and no Leonardo da Vinci.
  
Moving back to Leonardo: in 1911, his kinda-famous Mona Lisa disappeared from the Louvre.  The French poet Apollinaire was accused, then arrested for this crime; he in turn implicated his buddy, Pablo Picasso, who was questioned, though both were cleared.  It turns out that the painting was thieved by an employee of the Louvre, an Italian named Vincenzo who believed the work belonged in Italy.  So Vincenzo kept the painting in his apartment for two years, before ultimately trying to pawn it off to the Director of the Uffizi.  

The Director obviously turned in the thief, but not before the Mona Lisa spent a whole two weeks here, much to the delight of other proud Italians.

Leonardo Visits the Uffizi.jpg

Leonardo Visits the Uffizi

10 LeonardoUffiziScored.mp3

To your left is the (replica of the) Michelangelo’s David.  To your right, the Loggia dei Lanzi, with its works from Giambologna, Benvenuto Cellini, and others, perhaps the most generous open-air gallery on earth.  Above, the balcony seen in the 2001 film Hannibal, from which Hannibal Lecter hangs a disemboweled Inspector Pazzi  (referring, I might add, to the execution of Pazzi’s ancestor, Francesco, who suffered a similar fate on this site 523 years prior, having assassinated a Medici on April 26th, 1478).   

Straight ahead, you’ll find Baccio Bandinelli’s 'Hercules and Cacus', a long-detested sculpture whose musculature Cellini said looked like a “big sack full of melons set upright against a wall.”  All together, you’re standing at a crossroads of culture of inestimable value.  But we’re not here for the good stuff.  No, just behind the Bandinelli, almost camouflaged on the corner of the Palazzo Vecchio, you’ll notice a crude little face carved into the brick.  It’s attributed to one Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, known during his lifetime almost as much for his God-given, incomparable talent as his frumpy, anti-social attitude.  

The lore behind this one varies: some have said that, so moved he was by the sadness of a condemned man passing by, he had to sketch him, and the wall was the only medium within reach.  Some have said that it stemmed from a dare, that the great Michelangelo couldn’t possibly get away with defacing the palace in plain view, so he etched it behind his back, in mid-conversation.  Some have said that he did so with a knife in his mouth, or to shut up a guy who just wouldn’t stop talking.  Frankly, I like them all for what they say about the man. Amidst the amidst beauty surrounding, Michelangelo has this stupid little caricature to both confirm and complicate his immense talent and hubris. 

5 Piazza della Signoria \|||// To your left is the (replica of the) Michelangelo’s David.  To your right, the Loggia dei Lanzi, with its works from Giambologna, Benvenuto Cellini, and others, perhaps the most generous open-air gallery on earth.  Above, the balcony seen in the 2001 film Hannibal, from which Hannibal Lecter hangs a disemboweled Inspector Pazzi  (referring, I might add, to the execution of Pazzi’s ancestor, Francesco, who suffered a similar fate on this site 523 years prior, having assassinated a Medici on April 26th, 1478).   

Straight ahead, you’ll find Baccio Bandinelli’s 'Hercules and Cacus', a long-detested sculpture whose musculature Cellini said looked like a “big sack full of melons set upright against a wall.”  All together, you’re standing at a crossroads of culture of inestimable value.  But we’re not here for the good stuff.  No, just behind the Bandinelli, almost camouflaged on the corner of the Palazzo Vecchio, you’ll notice a crude little face carved into the brick.  It’s attributed to one Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, known during his lifetime almost as much for his God-given, incomparable talent as his frumpy, anti-social attitude.  

The lore behind this one varies: some have said that, so moved he was by the sadness of a condemned man passing by, he had to sketch him, and the wall was the only medium within reach.  Some have said that it stemmed from a dare, that the great Michelangelo couldn’t possibly get away with defacing the palace in plain view, so he etched it behind his back, in mid-conversation.  Some have said that he did so with a knife in his mouth, or to shut up a guy who just wouldn’t stop talking.  Frankly, I like them all for what they say about the man. Amidst the amidst beauty surrounding, Michelangelo has this stupid little caricature to both confirm and complicate his immense talent and hubris. 

9 Michelangelo's Graffiti.JPG

Michelangelo's Graffiti

Graffiti scored.mp3

Here on a site dating back to the 1st century, the Palazzo Vecchio has been the seat of Florentine government dating back to the start of the 1300s, a building that marks the symbolic end of a longstanding war between the city’s two feuding factions, the Guelphs and the Ghibellines.  When the former managed to run the latter out of the city, they bulldozed their towers and built this on top, a rather expensive, and doubtlessly petty “screw you” to their rival.
	
Interestingly, the friar Girolamo Savonarola, the central figure in the Bonfire of the Vanities -- as detailed in another of our tours here -- had quite the relationship with this building.  While the de facto leader of Florence, he oversaw the construction of the most notable of this building’s many rooms: the Salone del cinquecento, or Hall of the 500.  Glistening in gold filigree and busy with frescos throughout, the room features two epic-sized depictions of battles on opposing walls: each a commission to Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo Buonarotti.  Though neither finished their work, it would have had -- dare I say the two greatest artistic minds in the history of the universe?  Is that too hyperbolic? -- facing off against one another at the same time in the same room.
	
As for Savonarola, the fiery rhetoric against Florentine leadership which helped put him in power to begin with also led him to lose everything, and it was in that tower, in a prison cell known as the alberghetto, or brutal hotel, where he was imprisoned before being burned alive in the piazza below.
	
Speaking of the tower, at the very top, you’ll see a weathervane in the shape of a lion, known as the Marzocco, the symbol of Florentine’s might.  This led to an old Florentine expression which would say that “when the lion pisses in the Arno, it’s water.”  When the weathervane swings so that the lion’s hind faces the river, it means rain.  

Oh, and on the subject of might, lions, and water, say ciao to the replica of Michelangelo’s David at the Palazzo’s entry and head toward Neptune’s Fountain.  You’ll pass another marzocco, this one a replica of one by Donatello.  From there, continue north for about seven minutes en route to the Baptistery of San Giovanni.

28 Punto Signoria \|||// Here on a site dating back to the 1st century, the Palazzo Vecchio has been the seat of Florentine government dating back to the start of the 1300s, a building that marks the symbolic end of a longstanding war between the city’s two feuding factions, the Guelphs and the Ghibellines.  When the former managed to run the latter out of the city, they bulldozed their towers and built this on top, a rather expensive, and doubtlessly petty “screw you” to their rival.
	
Interestingly, the friar Girolamo Savonarola, the central figure in the Bonfire of the Vanities -- as detailed in another of our tours here -- had quite the relationship with this building.  While the de facto leader of Florence, he oversaw the construction of the most notable of this building’s many rooms: the Salone del cinquecento, or Hall of the 500.  Glistening in gold filigree and busy with frescos throughout, the room features two epic-sized depictions of battles on opposing walls: each a commission to Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo Buonarotti.  Though neither finished their work, it would have had -- dare I say the two greatest artistic minds in the history of the universe?  Is that too hyperbolic? -- facing off against one another at the same time in the same room.
	
As for Savonarola, the fiery rhetoric against Florentine leadership which helped put him in power to begin with also led him to lose everything, and it was in that tower, in a prison cell known as the alberghetto, or brutal hotel, where he was imprisoned before being burned alive in the piazza below.
	
Speaking of the tower, at the very top, you’ll see a weathervane in the shape of a lion, known as the Marzocco, the symbol of Florentine’s might.  This led to an old Florentine expression which would say that “when the lion pisses in the Arno, it’s water.”  When the weathervane swings so that the lion’s hind faces the river, it means rain.  

Oh, and on the subject of might, lions, and water, say ciao to the replica of Michelangelo’s David at the Palazzo’s entry and head toward Neptune’s Fountain.  You’ll pass another marzocco, this one a replica of one by Donatello.  From there, continue north for about seven minutes en route to the Baptistery of San Giovanni.

10 Palazzo Vecchio and the Alberghetto.JPG

Palazzo Vecchio and the Alberghetto

PalazzoVecchio1Scored.mp3

Here in the Piazza Vecchio, this site represents one of the darkest periods in the city’s history, one that ran directly counter to the artistic glory to come.  After leading a vengeful charge against all forms of indulgence, the powerful friar Girolamo Savonarola and his supporters received a brutal dose of their own medicine.
Look at the circle beneath you.  It reads: “Here, with his fellow priests Father Domenico Buonvicini and Father Silvestro Maruffi, Father Girolamo Savonarola was hanged and burned alive on May 23rd, 1498.  This memorial was placed here four centuries later.”  This, folks, is the site of the Bonfire of the Vanities.  Around each Mardi Gras, or Shrove Tuesday, from 1495-1497, Savonarola and his ilk convinced their followers -- Botticelli reportedly among them -- to burn what he considered to be sinful excesses, including all art and literature.  
Though the head of the Florentine Republic, Lorenzo de’ Medici, had appointed Savonarola to Florence, the Dominican friar soon denounced the Medici family, and helped lead their expulsion from the city in 1494 which, obviously, Lorenzo didn’t appreciate.  

Savonarola’s sermons were populist by nature, and for a minute he found himself effectively in charge of the city.  He foretold apocalypse, and demanded the Church and the city be purified of all corruption; when France’s King Charles VIII stormed the city in the same year, Savonarola declared this to be a sign of the reformation needed.  

Unfortunately for Savanarola, it wasn’t the type of reformation he had hoped for.  After his power continued to grow, Pope Alexander IV eventually intervened and excommunicated the man.  After imprisonment and torture, Savonarola finally confessed that his prophecies were all lies, and on May 23, 1498, Savonarola and his two colleagues were marched to this spot, hung, and incinerated, their ashes thrown into the river.

20 Piazza della Signoria \|||// Here in the Piazza Vecchio, this site represents one of the darkest periods in the city’s history, one that ran directly counter to the artistic glory to come.  After leading a vengeful charge against all forms of indulgence, the powerful friar Girolamo Savonarola and his supporters received a brutal dose of their own medicine.
Look at the circle beneath you.  It reads: “Here, with his fellow priests Father Domenico Buonvicini and Father Silvestro Maruffi, Father Girolamo Savonarola was hanged and burned alive on May 23rd, 1498.  This memorial was placed here four centuries later.”  This, folks, is the site of the Bonfire of the Vanities.  Around each Mardi Gras, or Shrove Tuesday, from 1495-1497, Savonarola and his ilk convinced their followers -- Botticelli reportedly among them -- to burn what he considered to be sinful excesses, including all art and literature.  
Though the head of the Florentine Republic, Lorenzo de’ Medici, had appointed Savonarola to Florence, the Dominican friar soon denounced the Medici family, and helped lead their expulsion from the city in 1494 which, obviously, Lorenzo didn’t appreciate.  

Savonarola’s sermons were populist by nature, and for a minute he found himself effectively in charge of the city.  He foretold apocalypse, and demanded the Church and the city be purified of all corruption; when France’s King Charles VIII stormed the city in the same year, Savonarola declared this to be a sign of the reformation needed.  

Unfortunately for Savanarola, it wasn’t the type of reformation he had hoped for.  After his power continued to grow, Pope Alexander IV eventually intervened and excommunicated the man.  After imprisonment and torture, Savonarola finally confessed that his prophecies were all lies, and on May 23, 1498, Savonarola and his two colleagues were marched to this spot, hung, and incinerated, their ashes thrown into the river.

11 The Real Bonfire of the Vanities.JPG

The Real Bonfire of the Vanities

bonfire scored1.mp3

Well, I’ve saved the first for second-to-last: this octagonal thing, here, the Baptistery of St. John, is effectively the oldest religious structure in the city, dating to 1059.  It’s believed that the battistero is built on the bones of a 1st century Roman temple, and was definitely already in this octagonal shape at least from the end of the 800s.  In fact, basically every Florentine up through the 1800s, including Dante and most of those buried in Santa Croce, were baptised here.  She is old, and she is important.
	
What Dante called his “beautiful San Giovanni” in the 19th Canto of the Inferno is now famous for what would be unveiled just over a hundred years after his death: the bronze doors, known as the "Gates of Paradise", by Lorenzo Ghiberti.

The cloth merchants’ guild held a competition at the start of the 1400s to commission doors which displayed scenes from the New Testament.  The competition attracted the best of the best, and when the final judgement came on sample panels depicting the Sacrifice of Isaac, it came down between Ghiberti and his lifelong rival, the aforementioned Filippo Brunelleschi.

Having survived the Plague, for Florence, these doors were presented as a chance to herald in a new era.  Brunelleschi’s panel was exceptionally dynamic, and violent, given to tendencies from the Gothic style, where religious depiction appealed to the emotions.  Ghiberti’s was considerably more restrained, elegant, and composed, anticipating the focus of the Renaissance on aesthetic realism and beauty, particularly with regard to the human body. More, Ghiberti’s model was lighter, using far less bronze, and the guild was no doubt happy to save a bit of money on that.
Ghiberti’s final product integrated multiple scenes into each panel, so on the right, second from the top, you can see the Sacrifice of Isaac included in the Life of Abraham.   

Ghiberti would spend the next 21 years of his life completing the panels, considered a masterwork in perspective and inspiring countless future artists in the process, including Michelangelo, who gave them their name, and Vasari, who declared them to be "undeniably perfect in every way and must rank as the finest masterpiece ever created.”  Brunelleschi reportedly stormed off to Rome, so offended by the result, but he would have the last laugh. 

Speaking of Brunelleschi, our final stop brings us to a pair of statues just a few feet away.

25 Piazza di San Giovanni \|||// Well, I’ve saved the first for second-to-last: this octagonal thing, here, the Baptistery of St. John, is effectively the oldest religious structure in the city, dating to 1059.  It’s believed that the battistero is built on the bones of a 1st century Roman temple, and was definitely already in this octagonal shape at least from the end of the 800s.  In fact, basically every Florentine up through the 1800s, including Dante and most of those buried in Santa Croce, were baptised here.  She is old, and she is important.
	
What Dante called his “beautiful San Giovanni” in the 19th Canto of the Inferno is now famous for what would be unveiled just over a hundred years after his death: the bronze doors, known as the "Gates of Paradise", by Lorenzo Ghiberti.

The cloth merchants’ guild held a competition at the start of the 1400s to commission doors which displayed scenes from the New Testament.  The competition attracted the best of the best, and when the final judgement came on sample panels depicting the Sacrifice of Isaac, it came down between Ghiberti and his lifelong rival, the aforementioned Filippo Brunelleschi.

Having survived the Plague, for Florence, these doors were presented as a chance to herald in a new era.  Brunelleschi’s panel was exceptionally dynamic, and violent, given to tendencies from the Gothic style, where religious depiction appealed to the emotions.  Ghiberti’s was considerably more restrained, elegant, and composed, anticipating the focus of the Renaissance on aesthetic realism and beauty, particularly with regard to the human body. More, Ghiberti’s model was lighter, using far less bronze, and the guild was no doubt happy to save a bit of money on that.
Ghiberti’s final product integrated multiple scenes into each panel, so on the right, second from the top, you can see the Sacrifice of Isaac included in the Life of Abraham.   

Ghiberti would spend the next 21 years of his life completing the panels, considered a masterwork in perspective and inspiring countless future artists in the process, including Michelangelo, who gave them their name, and Vasari, who declared them to be "undeniably perfect in every way and must rank as the finest masterpiece ever created.”  Brunelleschi reportedly stormed off to Rome, so offended by the result, but he would have the last laugh. 

Speaking of Brunelleschi, our final stop brings us to a pair of statues just a few feet away.

12 Ghiberti's Gates of Paradise.JPG

Ghiberti's Gates of Paradise

14 GatesofParadiseScored.mp3

"When the sage points at the moon, the fool looks at the finger," or so goes an old Chinese proverb.  And certainly as you look at this smoggy 19th century statue of Filippo Brunelleschi, it won’t take much effort to realize what he in turn is looking at, given that it’s likely been in your periphery since you arrived in Florence.  Yes, next to his predecessor, Arnolfo di Cambio, who gazes at his own masterpiece, the city’s main cathedral, Brunelleschi gazes up at the only thing that could have topped it, literally and figuratively: The Cupola.

Though Arnolfo di Cambio’s cathedral behind you, Santa Maria del Fiore, had been under construction for a hundred years, it wasn’t until Brunelleschi returned with a revolutionary design inspired by ancient models, such as the Pantheon in Rome, that construction could even be conceived for the cupola. It was to be, and still remains, the largest dome of its kind in the universe. This secured Brunelleschi’s place in history while providing an apt symbol of the Renaissance, a true expression of the potential of man learning from the masters of antiquity, combining scientific innovation with aesthetic simplicity, looking over a city full of countless interconnected expressions of the same.  I feel proud and I had absolutely nothing to do with it!

And so, with that last stroke of hyperbole (which I hope you’ll agree is quite deserved), I will leave the city to you.  The beauty of this place is the layers and the legacy which enriches each site, and affords those interested with a lifetime of stories.  If you have the time, you might check out some of our other, slightly weirder tours at your own pace.  If not, I hope you’ll have cause to return again someday.  

Until then, adios, muchachos.

15 Piazza del Duomo \|||// "When the sage points at the moon, the fool looks at the finger," or so goes an old Chinese proverb.  And certainly as you look at this smoggy 19th century statue of Filippo Brunelleschi, it won’t take much effort to realize what he in turn is looking at, given that it’s likely been in your periphery since you arrived in Florence.  Yes, next to his predecessor, Arnolfo di Cambio, who gazes at his own masterpiece, the city’s main cathedral, Brunelleschi gazes up at the only thing that could have topped it, literally and figuratively: The Cupola.

Though Arnolfo di Cambio’s cathedral behind you, Santa Maria del Fiore, had been under construction for a hundred years, it wasn’t until Brunelleschi returned with a revolutionary design inspired by ancient models, such as the Pantheon in Rome, that construction could even be conceived for the cupola. It was to be, and still remains, the largest dome of its kind in the universe. This secured Brunelleschi’s place in history while providing an apt symbol of the Renaissance, a true expression of the potential of man learning from the masters of antiquity, combining scientific innovation with aesthetic simplicity, looking over a city full of countless interconnected expressions of the same.  I feel proud and I had absolutely nothing to do with it!

And so, with that last stroke of hyperbole (which I hope you’ll agree is quite deserved), I will leave the city to you.  The beauty of this place is the layers and the legacy which enriches each site, and affords those interested with a lifetime of stories.  If you have the time, you might check out some of our other, slightly weirder tours at your own pace.  If not, I hope you’ll have cause to return again someday.  

Until then, adios, muchachos.

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