My Herald Plays the Kazoo

Arriving in Italy by air via Florence is a delight. It’s a Renaissance artist’s welcome wagon. The light bathes the landscape just so, conjuring red tiled roof mosaics above marble facades, or a corpulent dome hinting at Brunelleschi’s marvel waiting in the heart of the city. Flying in I imagine a kind of time travel that will have me touch down in Michelangelo’s courtyard. Or better yet, stepping off the jetway to da Vinci’s beaming approval at how well his flying machine designs turned out.

Instead, on terra firma, the airport is a provincial and rather bland locale. No swaths of rich fabrics grace the entrance, no priceless frescoes adorn the walls. Just a small terminal, two crowded baggage carousels and a long line at the rest room. Not even a passport stamp. No. Am I not in Italy, the country where the thumpathumpa of a stamp legitimizes even the most mundane civil transaction? Official crests and heraldic standards flourish here. How can Italia refrain from setting her seal upon any foreigner the moment her borders are traversed? I crave one designed by Zeffirelli, Ferragamo and Bernini. Someone stamps my foot instead, reaching for luggage. No matter, I'm greeted by helpful and efficient rental car agents, and to a jet-lagged traveler, that's a fashionable welcome in any culture.


We're a mother-daughter quartet on this trip; the matriarch Priscilla; her daughter Cynthia, whom I've known since nursery school; daughter-in-law Trish; and I, a daughter and sister by association of years. We are bound for southern Tuscany, and later, Venice. Treasures lie beyond the Florence air terminal, and our loyal steed awaits, a clean diesel-powered Ford crossover. That's Lamborghini in Italian.