Getting from Florence to Verona is a little complicated. There is a highspeed train, but it runs not from the main station, Santa Maria Novella, which was near our B&B, but from the Campo di Marte station, which is not. In addition, since we hadn’t booked in advance, the highspeed trains had sold out their cheaper tickets. DB was finding a much longer route, changing in Padua, still somewhat pricey, but not, at least, over fifty euros apiece.
So we went to Santa Maria Novella to buy our tickets, and on the ticket machine I immediately found a route that was shorter and cheaper than through Padua: take the highspeed back to Bologna and take a regional train from there directly to Verona. That meant that we would leave around 10:20 and get in a little after 1 p.m.
Immediately, Mary Joy, she of the fifteen-minute tour of the Chateau de Chillon while waiting for a train in Montreux, resolved not to waste the time before our train would leave, so the next morning we walked the 3½ blocks to San Marco. We had been there the last time we were in Florence. The reason for going there is that in the fifteenth century, one of the friars there was the great painter Fra Angelico, so when they decided to provide the cells where they slept with devotional murals, who did they turn to? You go upstairs to the sleeping quarters and the first thing you see is a wonderful Annunciation. The look of pure surprise on Mary’s face is exactly what one would expect under the circumstances, i.e., having an angel an with multicolored wings suddenly appear to announce that you are going to be the mother of the Messiah. Or at least what one would expect of a calm, devout young woman. I haven’t yet seen an Annunciation where she runs off screaming .
You then go around to look in through the doors of the individual cells. Each has a mural, most showing a scene of the crucifixion of Christ, with a saint of the Dominican Order (St. Dominic, St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Catherine of Siena, St. Peter Martyr) kneeling nearby. The idea, presumably, is that the friar would feel drawn into a devotional state, contemplating the passion and death of Jesus, more easily by doing so alongside a fellow brother or sister of his order, one who had, so to speak, “made it” already.
One who didn’t make it is also memorialized there. Toward the end of the fifteenth century the prior of San Marco was Girolamo Savonarola, who from his cell there led a prophetic, puritanical movement that used a “bonfire of the vanities” to destroy luxury goods, and drove out the ruling Medici family, reinstituting the Florentine Republic. But his prophecies didn’t come true, his alliance with the invading French, against whom the Pope had put together the so-called “Holy League,” got him excommunicated, the Florentines turned against him and he was hanged and burned in the Piazza della Signoria. In San Marco there is a large bust of Savonarola, along with certain personal items.
We hurried back to our room, collected our luggage, said goodbye to the young woman running the place for Signora Pezzati, and walked over to the station to catch our train.
Along the way to Verona we were shocked to see evidence of the recent earthquake in this area: you would be riding along, looking at normal north Italian scenery, when suddenly there’d be a flattened farmhouse or a village that looked like it had been through an artillery barrage.
We arrived in Verona and walked to our hotel, the Hotel Siena, a pleasant place, a little closer to the railroad station than to the old center of town. Our room even had a small balcony with a table and chairs, overlooking the courtyard where breakfast was served.
We asked the desk clerk for restaurant recommendations, and she gave us a list and map. We went to the closest place, named Tre Risotti (Three Risottos), which looked okay, but was now closed until 7 p.m. We asked for a reservation for dinner for then.
We walked on toward the center, stopping for lunch (sharing a pizza) at the Café del Teatro. Not bad. Then we continued to the large Piazza Bra, with the Roman Arena to the north, the old city wall to the south and a long terrace full of restaurants to the west. We went around the well-preserved Arena to the ticket office, across the street to the north. There we traded in our voucher for tickets to that night’s performance of Puccini’s opera Turandot.
We followed the crowds along the pedestrianized Via Mazzini, to the Piazza delle Erbe, originally the Roman forum and now a large, pleasant square with market stands and, toward the north end, a tall pillar with the winged lion of Venice, to show who was boss from 1404 to 1797.
We then wandered down a nearby street, until we came to a passage leading to a small courtyard packed with people. It was a madhouse. At the far end of the courtyard was a bronze statue of a young woman. People were taking pictures of others rubbing the statue’s right breast, which was worn to a shiny golden gleam. To the right was a building, with a balcony. Every so often a young woman would come out onto the balcony, and her family or friends would take pictures of her. Then she’d go back in and a few minutes later another young woman would come out and repeat the process.
This was, of course, the famous marriage market, where young Veronese women are sold to the highest bidder.
The last line was just to test if you are awake. The building was actually, of course, the House of Juliet, as in Shakespeare’s Romeo and, which happens to be set in Verona. Or, rather, the building is not actually the House of Juliet, since Juliet herself was never actual. That doesn’t prevent there from being a statue of her, which the tourist hordes treat in ways that they would not be allowed to treat a real woman: rubbing her breast is supposed to bring luck in love. Of course, she herself wasn’t exactly lucky in love, but then, she never had a chance to rub her statue’s breast. Though, even if the statue would have existed in her time, she herself wouldn’t have so existed. I suppose if there can be a statue of Peter Pan in London, and statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox on the lakefront in Bemidji, Minnesota, why can’t there be a statue of Juliet Capulet in Verona?
We then went to the Duomo, but didn’t go inside. Next, we walked a few blocks to the Ponte di Piedra (Stone Bridge) and crossed to the other side of the Adige River. As we crossed, Mary Joy noticed a suitcase floating down the river. On the other side was the very old church of San Stefano, originally Verona’s cathedral. It has an odd nave, which, halfway down, goes down a flight of steps, so that people in the back of the church are on a lower level and have to look up to see the altar. There are some old medieval and renaissance murals, not generally in good shape.
We crossed back over. The suitcase was gone, on its way to the Po and the Adriatic. At this point, we were looking for a coffee, and decided to get it at a bar that was advertising a riverview terrace. It was pleasant and shady, though there was not much river view, because the terrace was surrounded by a wall. You could see the renaissance-era Castel San Pietro with its square towers up the hill on the other side of the river.
At the next table was a couple from Ontario, who were there to go on a biking tour, to Venice and beyond.
We walked back to the Piazza delle Erbe and then to the Arena. At a stall there we looked for seat cushions. We ended up buying, for seven euros, two little seat-sized plastic air mattresses. The idea was that after the opera we could deflate them, fold them up and take them home.
We went back to our room and got ready, then, at seven, went to Tre Risotti for dinner. We were the only customers there and had the whole dining room to ourselves for at least half an hour, until another couple came in. Seven o’clock is very early for Italians to eat dinner. In another room, perhaps the kitchen, pop music was blaring on the radio. Our meal (again, I don’t remember exactly what we had) was good but not great.
We walked, with our cushions, one pink and one black, to the Arena. It was nearly 8:30 and the restaurant terraces in Piazza Bra were filled with diners. People were filing into the various gates of the Arena. Where you went in, as in ancient Roman times, as also for modern football stadiums, depended on where your seats were. Our tickets were in the first-come-first-served cheap seats, section D. This is simply a matter of going into one of the three gates indicated for Section D (we went in Gate 6), and up the stairs, which come out at the top level. Then you find the best available open spots (no seat numbers or delimiting markings) on the unbacked stone seats. We weren’t in the cheapest seats—E and F were on the sides and cost a euro or two less, while C and D were facing the stage, though, as I realized when we took our places somewhat to the right of center, a long way from it. Someone had written that it wasn’t any farther than the highest seats at the Metropolitan Opera in New York, but I have been in those seats, too, and at the moment I think I wouldn’t have traded them for these. I was very glad that I hadn’t forgotten my driving glasses, and wished a little that we had brought opera glasses or binoculars.
I had read on the website that food, drink and photography were not allowed in the Arena, so we hadn’t brought anything but the cushions. However, it was still a rather hot evening, a lot of people had brought water and vendors were going around loudly selling water and cola. I was feeling thirsty, so I bought a Coke for an exorbitant five euros, and shared it with Mary Joy. They were also selling programs and libretti and renting maroon-colored seat cushions.
Various announcements were made, first in Italian, then German, then English, then French. Every so often, a man in a Chinese costume would come out and play on a gong, ending with several rhythmic bangs, like a clock striking. Shortly before the nine-o’clock showtime, little birthday-cake candles were handed out. This related to a tradition. At the original Arena opera performance, a hundred years ago, there had been no lighting in the stands, so the audience had been given candles. Since then, audiences have been given candles to light before every performance.
It was announced that the spotlights would swirl around, and whomever in the audience they finally landed on would receive some special prize, I couldn’t hear what. The spotlights landed on a couple on the other side of the stadium, and they were led down the steps, to what end, I know not.
The candles were lit. This was a little problematic at first, since we didn't have matches or a lighter. Eventually, someone near us got a light from someone else, and we got a light from them. The sight of thousands of little lights around the arena was impressive.
Finally, the gong player came on for the last time, the orchestra tuned and the conductor appeared from a gate to the left and went down the ramp to the orchestra pit, to the applause of the audience. Then the orchestra started playing and immediately we were in an ancient, mythical “Peking,” whose people were waiting impatiently for the moon to rise, so that they could witness the execution of the Prince of Persia.
Turandot was Giacomo Puccini’s last opera, based on one of the exotic fantasies of the 18th-century Venetian playwright Carlo Gozzi, in turn based on a Persian folk tale. The story is relatively simple, if, like most opera plots, at least a little ridiculous. Princess Turandot, only child of the elderly Emperor of China, is, of course, expected to marry. However, channeling the spirit of an ancestress who was raped by barbarians, she wants nothing to do with men. She prevails upon her father to promise that she will only be required to marry the prince who can answer three riddles, and any who fails will lose his head. You’d think that this would deter any sane prince from trying his luck, but, unfortunately, Turandot is so extremely beautiful that any prince who lays eyes on her already, in one sense at least, loses his head. The latest unfortunate guesser is the Prince of Persia, who is to be executed tonight.
Into this situation arrives another royal personage, the deposed king Timur, on the run and incognito. As old and wobbly as the Chinese Emperor, Timur is accompanied by his son, Prince Calaf, and the devoted slave-girl Liu, who has an unrequited and hopeless love for Calaf. Calaf rails against the cold princess who will have the Persian prince beheaded just for daring to ask for her hand. Then, Turandot herself appears. The people plead for the life of the Persian, who has won their regard by how he has faced his impending doom. But Turandot is implacable, and the prince goes to his death, shouting her name.
Unfortunately, Calaf has now seen Turandot, and cannot be dissuaded from banging the gong to announce his acceptance of her challenge.
At this point the lights come up and there is a twenty-minute intermission, during which I go out to visit the restrooms, which are in a set of semi-permanent structures outside the Arena, to the north. I’ll have to say that this was one of the least unpleasant WC experiences I’ve had at a concert performance, in the sense that there was hardly any wait to use the facilities. This appeared to be true even for the women.
In the meantime, Mary Joy had decided that my spoken summary of the opera’s plot wasn’t enough to fully understand what was going on, so she flagged down one of the wandering vendors and spent five euros to buy the libretto, set out in a book, in a number of different languages. When I got back, she was frantically reading, trying to catch up before the lights went down.
In Act Two, the stage is opened up to a spectacularly gorgeous vision of a fantastic, golden Forbidden City. The feeble Emperor is helped in, and tries to persuade Calaf not to throw his life away. But it’s in vain, and Turandot recites the first riddle. After some hesitation, Calaf gives his answer, and the judges, one after another, read from their scrolls the same answer. The same happens with the second and then the third riddle. Calaf answers them all! The people, relieved, acclaim him.
I don’t remember what the riddles were, but in case you ever find yourself in a position where you have to answer a homicidal princess’s riddles, the answers are L’Esperanza (Hope), La Sangue (Blood) and Turandot (Turandot).
Turandot, however (the princess, not the riddle answer), is not pleased to find herself suddenly engaged to be married. She pleads with her father, unsuccessfully, to rescue her from this fate, but it’s Calaf who takes pity on her. He gives her his own riddle to solve. If she can tell him before dawn what his name is, he will forfeit his life to her.
Another twenty-minute intermission, followed by Act Three. Turandot has forbidden anyone in Peking to sleep, upon pain of death, until the name of the unknown prince is found. In the background you hear people calling “Nessun dorma!” (“No one sleep!”). Calaf appears, alone, and repeats “Nessun dorma,” launching into the opera’s most famous aria, one of the late Luciano Pavarotti’s specialties. He proclaims that love will succeed and ends with a triumphantly confident “Vincero!”-- “I will conquer!”
But that proves to be a little premature. The people of Peking, desperate to save their lives, have found Timur and Liu, who were seen consorting with the unknown prince. Turandot is called out and orders Liu’s torture, to make her tell Calaf's name. But Liu, in a heartfelt aria, tells Turandot that love makes her able to remain silent, in spite of all, and that the same love will come to the icy princess herself. Then Liu grabs a knife from a soldier and stabs herself to death. The people, won over by Liu’s sacrifice, beg her spirit not to avenge herself on them, and carry her body off, followed by the bereft Timur, leaving Calaf and Turandot alone on stage.
At this point, not only is Liu dead, but so is Puccini. By the autumn of 1924, he had composed everything before the final duet, but decided that the libretto for that duet didn’t work, and had gotten it rewritten, though not entirely finalized. One can see how it would be very difficult to get from this point in the story to where Turandot and Calaf live happily ever after together, without giving the audience whiplash from the sudden turn. Puccini died, suddenly, after writing sketches for that final duet. The composer Franco Alfani was chosen to finish the opera, and was kept on a very short leash—everything had to be seamless and based entirely on Puccini’s sketches.
So the show goes on, though at the first performance, at La Scala in Milan in 1926, the conductor, Arturo Toscanini, stopped the music at this point and the curtain came down.
In the final duet, Turandot, moved by poor Liu, opens herself to love. Calaf tells her his name, and she calls everyone to announce that she knows his name, it is Love.
General rejoicing and curtain calls ensue.
As to this production, the sets (by the 1960s and ‘70s film director, Franco Zeffirelli) and costumes were wonderful, and the young conductor, Andrea Battistoni, was deservedly given a grand ovation. The principal singers, Lise Lindstrom as Turandot, Stuart Neill as Calaf and Maria Agresta as Liu, were very good, as were the chorus and subsidiary roles. It was a wonderful experience, though Mary Joy gave up on her seat cushion after the first act, complaining that it didn’t work. I stayed with mine, though it was a little uncomfortable toward the end of the long Act One.
And so, to bed.
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