Noi Siamo I Barbari

If you've ever seen Ca' Rezzonico seeming quite to float upon the Grand Canal as you bob in a boat, or if you've ever eavesdropped in some Trastevere alley some golden afternoon on some tenor's voice a-sobbing beneath an early moon, or in Andrea della Valle breathed in Puccini's subtle chords, you'll know that life affords no more sacred boon. Recondita armonia, literally. If you've taken in Albinoni's Adaggio or gnocchi con formaggio in a loggia on the Arno or the slopes of Montepulciano, or walked in misty thunder the olive groves of Cennina, or sat in wordless wonder in the theater of Taormina, or witnessed Piero's frescoes in San Francesco of Arezzo, or breathed the morning sunlight or Mascagni's Intermezzo, seen summer rain in torrents come laughing down the street, then you'll know why or looked down upon fair Florence like a carpet at your feet, Italians set at variance themselves and us, and call us The Barbarians.