Even for late May, the air was crisp and the late morning light was sharp.  The golden reflection of Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise was only one of many moments of illumination to be found in this city.  Yesterday it was the afternoon magnificence of San Miniato al Monte and its golden relief tossing sparkling sun over the city below.  I walked down to the Ponte Vecchio as the golden baton passed to the Arno itself, where the sun and sky reflected perfectly between arches and up each side of the river.  The buildings seemed to whisper to one another about what shades of ochre and cool bruised shadows the other structures were wearing for the evening.

Earlier, as only can be done in Florence, I started my day at San Marco in the presence of Fra Angelico’s Annunciation. It also glows, a fresco masterpiece with the subtle luminescence of skill and faith, an artist’s prayer.  The previous morning was spent at the mercy of Masaccio in the Brancacci Chapel. It was biblical stories told in the frescoed flesh of stonemasons and figures of every day craftsmen. It would be after this, and after a meal of lasagna and sparkling water, that I would get lost at the intersection of Via Dell Inferno and Purgatorio! I took refuge in the Uffizi Gallery, letting Botticelli protect me in the lyricism of Primavera. It feels like paradise now in the shadow of the magnificent Duomo as the afternoon approaches.

Two blocks or so to the south of Florence’s mother church, I find the Duomo’s workshop. Perhaps today is a holiday because it’s closed, but I can still peek in. Stone carving tools, stoutly timbered workbenches, partially carved columns, statues, and a dusting of marble are a powerful tableaux to a way of life. It is prelude to my walk, which takes me by the Institute and Museum of the History of Science. Inside is Galileo’s thumb, like some holy relic, and the lens, framed in ivory, through which he would first spy and identify the moons of Jupiter. I turn to the east to face the the Basilica of Santa Croce, just a short distance away.

Dante’s likeness holds the entire courtyard in front of the church – a massive and cloaked figure with a great and mighty scowl.  It makes me smile to see children furiously licking gelato cones at his feet. I enter the side of the church and work my way around the perimeter. A casuallu dressed symphony is practicing in the area before the altar. Here are the tombs of Galileo, Machiavelli and Dante. At last, in front of me, is the tomb of the great Michelangelo. As evening approaches, I light a prayer candle then aim once again for the Arno. I can see the vignettes of outdoor cafes and reflections strolling on the water like the people flowing down stone streets, and I can feel the presence and power of the centuries walking shoulder to shoulder with me as I make my way home.