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April 04, 2008
Florence and Prague
Mine eyes have had the glory, in the past ten days, to see two of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen in my life. Florence and Prague are separated by mountains and borders and Austria and histories and diverging political preference, yet each, in their own way, are stunningly beautiful and extravagantly unique. Two cities that have produced poetry and prose, Dante and Kafka, Lorenzo De Medici and Pavlek Havel. Two cities that bring people throughout the world together to revel in their majesties, to see museums and paintings and bridges and castles. Two amazing, spectacular, wonderful cities, and yet, once my honeymoon was over, I couldn’t wait to get home.
The collegiate Spring Break has developed, in recent years, a certain “Girls Gone Wild” stigma, a scene of a jam packed beach with scantily clad young women and heavily boozed young men. Revelry and hilarity and immaturity run amok in these meccas of madness as our Nation’s best and brightest throw their inhibitions to the wind in the hopes of one last hurrah. In the world of studying abroad, however, Spring Break gives a chance for travel, an opportunity to see that which we have no yet seen, to culture ourselves for an extended period of time that a simple weekend simply can not afford. So I headed for where the culture was, to Florence, Italy and Prague, Czech Republic (or, for you native speakers out there, Firenze and Praha) prepared for adventure and excitement and maybe to learn a thing or two along the way.
The excitement of my vacation from my vacation (no, the irony has not been lost on me) truly began when I decided to celebrate the Jewish holiday of Purim the night before my flight was about to leave. Purim is the holiday that celebrates the book of Esther, the story where the Jews of Persia were saved from the hand of an evil tyrant, Haman, by the Queen, Esther, who was Jewish. Jewish tradition teaches us that, to celebrate this story, we are supposed to become so inebriated as to be incapable of recognizing the difference between the wicked Haman and Mordechai, the story’s moral compass. It should be noted that I recently learned from another blog, that of Ben Dreyfuss, that this long supposed commandment is not the whole Megillah (sorry, bad pun). Rather, the Talmudic text from where this concept is derived continues further, giving a precautionary tale as to the dangers of excessive drunkenness. However, I was unaware of this fact until after my most recent Purim schpeel (Yiddish for play, or performance). You should know that Purim and I have a sordid history. My senior year of High School, while in Israel, my entire grade decided to break the rules of our class trip by drinking on Purim. It’s a good thing that my teachers were not as deft at Talmudic texts as Ben Dreyfuss, otherwise we might have actually been kicked off the trip. Anyway, this year I decided to repeat many of my past mistakes by attending the all you can eat, all the beer you can drink Purim party of the Warsaw Jewish community. Not only could I not recognize the difference between Haman and Mordechai, I also slept through my alarm clock (not to mention my roommate attempting to wake me up) and only awoke about an hour and fifteen minutes before my flight was to take off. This taught me a valuable lesson: whenever reading a Talmudic text, or any important document, always check the paragraph AFTER whatever it is you are reading.
Due to my infallible luck as well as the brisk nature of the Warsaw airport, I was still able to make my flight on time. For anyone who has never visited Florence, I have one simple command for you: GO! It may very well be the most beautiful city in the world, unless you count the fact that the river is some sort of jungle green that just doesn’t seem right. I wish I could describe the city for you in laymens terms, but I just do not know where to begin. I was struck to my core the first time I saw Michaelangelo’s famous David. Pictures do not do this magnificent sculpture justice. The thing that strikes you most is the awe imposing size of the boy shepherd, how his muscles are rippling. Michaelangelo desired to capture the moment just before David slung the rock into Goliath’s head, dealing that fatal blow, and somehow, through David’s eyes, arms, and body stance, the sculpture exudes tension. It is an illusion, of sorts; the longer you look, the more sure you are that David is about to strike.
The Duomo, or the cathedral of Florence, is one of the most stunning edifices in existence. The decorative green surrounding the walls gives a taste of something foreign, its intricacy hinting at the true grandeur of the task completed. The cathedral is enormous, its huge red dome dominating the Florence skyline. The view from the top is amazing, as well. I had the fortune of standing behind a nice Polish couple from Warsaw on line, and they were heartily impressed with my “knowledge” of the language. Praying in the Florence Synagogue, a monstrous domed structure that sticks out from an aerial view, was one of the most unique places I had ever worshipped. The building had a very distinct Italian (and churchy) flare. The Uffizi, Florence’s most famous museum, probably contains more pictures of Jesus per square footage than anywhere in the world. While the Christian art may not have piqued my interest as much as some of the other pieces, Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” may have been one of the most beautiful paintings I had ever seen in my life. Venus, or the Roman Aphrodite, was the Goddess of love, a creature whose beauty was unspeakable. I felt myself entranced by this woman, a mere splash of color on parchment, unable to look away because I felt her looking back, felt her pulling me in for one last stare, one last moment that we could share between us. When art has that kind of effect on people, you know they are doing something right.
I was also amazed at the immense amount of history contained within this tiny city. Remnants of the Medici family who ruled Florence for centuries are evident throughout the city, from Castles and Gardens to paintings of the family lining the walls of the Uffizi. The real historical goldmine, however, is Santa Croche, which serves not only as a church but also as the cemetery for some of Florence’s finest. Michaelangelo spent his waning years in Florence, and is buried within these church walls. Machiavelli, a revolutionary in political thought (also in tyranny, but lets not get political) wrote his famous piece, “The Prince,” specifically for the Medicis. Galileo Galilei, who turned the world upside down, lays deep beneath the holy floor. Dante Alighieri, the Divine poet, was born in Florence but exiled from the city, and while he is not buried in the church, a plot commemorates his name. Even more fantastic was Dante’s church, a small and darkened house of worship that seems to lead to Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise all at once.
While the city was absolutely beautiful, the best part about the trip was getting to see my friends. I stayed with one of my best friends from High School, Jonah, and our compadre Ari was with us as well, enjoying his Spring Break from school in D.C. It had been a long time since the three of us had been able to spend this kind of time together, and we definitely made the most of it. One of the best parts about friends like Jonah and Ari is that whatever stupid things you do, or whatever moronic things you say, they are still there for you. They were both outwardly opposed to my decision to go to Warsaw, yet in the end, they could not have been happier to here how much I was enjoying myself. Its nice, occasionally, to not feel so judged. One of the best moments of our trip occurred that first Saturday night, when the three of us, along with one of my closest friends at Michigan, Mike, and his little brother, Jake, stood on Mike’s roof watching the Florence sunset. As the mixture of light, clouds, and mountains came into view, Florence’s role as a muse for artists throughout the years became glaringly clear, as it was hard not to feel inspired. The most beautiful sight I saw, however, was when Jonah and I took a 20 minute bus ride outside the city to a small Mountain town called Fiesole. The view was literally breathtaking, as Jonah and I every few minutes to pause and look at each other, not saying anything but just sharing the mutual acknowledgement that we could not believe what we were seeing. Looking up at the sky and the city below, it all seemed too dreamy, as if Michaelangelo himself had picked up a giant brush and simply stroked it to perfection. I urge all of you, if you ever have the chance to go to Florence, go to Fiesole. It was recommended to me by Professor Ralph Williams, and it has only further reaffirmed the man’s genius.
While I absolutely loved Florence, one caveat kept creeping up on me wherever I went. Everyone and their second cousin (Authors note: My second cousin, Miriam, is studying in Florence, and I had a wonderful evening with her and her family, who were visiting for the week) is studying abroad there. In the span of just a few days I ran into about 14 people that I knew. Meanwhile, two months in Warsaw and I’ve made vague Jewish-geographical connections with a handful of people. But not so in Florence, as the place is absolutely overrun by American students. The frustration among the locals is clear, and many of them adhere strictly to the “other side” of the River where tourists are not as plentiful. Even my friend Abby, who is participating in a home stay, admitted that she has few Italian friends. No one needs to learn Italian, as English is everywhere, and newfound cultural understandings exist not as much trans-Atlantic but rather trans-the Eastern seaboard of the United States. Do not, however, assume that I think any less of my friends and their choices for studying abroad (for more on choices, see previous entry). Even I must admit that being surrounded by a sea of Americans might be worth it to be able to gaze upon that skyline every day.
While not evincing the same aesthetic pleasures as Florence, Prague was, in its own way, absolutely beautiful. If I had to make a comparison, it would be that Florence seemed to showcase the glory of God while Prague seemed to showcase the glory of man. The intricacies and innuendos of the streets and buildings, the vast and eclectic architectures and style, and the mesh of cultural significance and influence all make Prague such a unique city. It seems to have a palate to satiate every tourists thirst, quite literally something for everyone. And Prague has plenty for me.
Not surprising to anyone, the Jewish Quarter was particularly enjoyable for me. I had actually been to Prague before, on a trip my Senior Year of High School with Ari and Jonah. But my main memories from that trip are being frigidly cold and typically immature, not appreciating what it was that I was truly seeing. This time around I made few of those same mistakes. Along with my fellow Warsawian Dave we went to every single sight the Jewish quarter had to offer. The Jubilee synagogue reminded me of an ornately designed Orthodox church, the colors blasting off the page and encompassing us in its own 3 dimensional world. The Jewish cemetery was absolutely fascinating, holding a who’s who of Ashkenzaic Judaism throughout the centuries. What is most interesting is that the depth of the burial plot has risen over the years, the small allocation forcing bodies to be buried on top of each other, gravestones sideways from Nazi desecration, souls cramped together, trying to cut each other on line for Messianic redemption. I was also particularly moved by the Altneu synagogue, or the “old-new” synagogue,” aptly named because it was newer than the old synagogue but older than the new synagogue. Regardless, it is the oldest continuing functional synagogue in Europe, dating back to the 13th century. I had the pleasure of worshipping there Saturday morning, and it was the first time I had ever seen women literally put behind a wall, only able to view and hear the service through small portholes. Oh how times have changed.
Prague, however, has much more to offer beyond its rich Jewish history. The Old Town square still has retained elements of its rustic feel, and the small kiosks and shops set up for the Easter Market are a nostalgic shot at the days of Yore. The Charles Bridge is an absolute marvel, a nice combination of creativity and practicality. Adorned by statues of Saints and Kings, the Bridge has served as a Prague landmark for centuries. The most famous statue adorning the sides is the one of the crucified Jesus, with the Hebrew inscription hanging over his head, “Kadosh Kadosh Kadosh Adonai Tzeaot,” or “Holy Holy Holy is the Lord of Hosts.” Just on the other side of the Bridge lays what I do hope is a slightly more ornate version of my future home, Prague Castle. I have seen a lot of Castles in my travels, but this one rivals Sweden’s at the top of the list. Built on one of the highest hills in Prague, the Castle lords over the city like a grand protectorate and big brother, safeguarding its citizens with an eye on their activities. It is both a security blanket and an imposing force, a warning to both those within and from outside to not dare disrupt the Kingdom’s order.
Like Florence, the best part of Prague was definitely spending time with my friends. The first night I stayed with Amy, a friend of mine from Michigan. Amy is the sweetest and most likeable person I know, and my friends from Warsaw who met me in Prague heartily agreed. She literally shepherded me around the city, making sure I would take in all the city sites she deemed important. The next three nights I stayed with Scott and Zach, to other fellow Wolverines. My first night in their apartment was certainly a memorable one, as the two decided to throw a party which they graciously allowed my fellow Warsawians to attend. It should be noted that Scott and Zach do not live in dorms but rather in an apartment building, and there is a Czech woman who lives somewhere in their building who is very unhappy to have noisy American college students as her neighbors. After repeated banging on the door, the woman finally decided to call the Czech police. They broke up with party with the fervor of a post communist apparatus, demanding passports and, more likely than not, desiring a pay off. We, in the end, gave them neither, an event that simply spelled the end for their celebratory endeavor. Scott and Zach showed me an amazing weekend, filled with all night partying and rich conversation, an amazing three days that left an indelible imprint on my time in Prague.
Yet I could not help myself, while being in Prague, from developing a sort of “Warsaw superiority complex.” When deciding where I would study abroad, I was split between Prague and Warsaw, finally choosing the latter because I thought it would be a more unique experience. For once in my life, I got something right, as there have to be close to 500 students studying in Prague, all of whom hang out at the same clubs and run into each other multiple times a week. The city is also absolutely over-run by foreigners. It was almost impossible to walk across the Charles Bridge, and the line for a tour of Prague Castle was around the block. Everywhere I went I heard English, and the desire to learn Czech seems not only secondary but also highly unnecessary. The irony is that some students went to Prague looking for something different; while it is certainly no Florence, it may well be on its way to becoming a real staple of the study abroad experience, complete with all the baggage that entails. But again, like Florence, I want to add a major warning label: Prague is still an absolutely spectacular city and would have been a great place to spend a semester.
I cannot even tell you, however, how happy I was to return to Warsaw after my ten days of traveling was done. Yes, I was tired and out of clean clothes, and a shower was certainly high on my priority list. But more than that, I was happy because, to a certain extent, my trip to Florence and Prague had vindicated my own choice of Warsaw. Florence is a perfect place for Jonah and Mike. The nightlife, the food, and the atmosphere all appeal to both of their personalities. But the truth is that if it hadn’t been for the two of them and Ari, the trip simply would not have been the same. Being with my friends made five days in Florence whiz by, filled with parties and food and just being able to sit there an enjoy each other’s company, something so rare in today’s day and age. But left to my own devices two days would have sufficed. Prague was a similar experience. Amy’s kindness gave me the best introduction to the city I could have asked for. Scott and Zach showed me how they have a good time. Yet in Prague, everyone seems like a guest, and trying to find a place to belong seemed an insurmountable task.
In Warsaw, we are it. No other Americans, very little English, sticking out but at the same time carving out a niche. We are insulated, but up to a point. We are seen as different but also as intriguing. Worshipping in Florence was different and the rustic Prague synagogue was a great experience but I felt myself longing for the Nozyk Synagogue in Warsaw, a place I was beginning to feel at home. The honeymoon is over. I am no longer living the dream but the reality. This is no longer a vacation but a more permanent stay. Friendships are maturing, relationships are expanding, and I’m beginning to really understand what Warsaw, what Poland, and what the Polish people are all about. Frankly, by this point, no other city can ever measure up.
Posted by borovitz at April 4, 2008 04:45 AM