The Diary of Melanie Martin (4 page)

Dear Diary,

You know that tower Rapunzel was stuck in? Well, in Florence, or
Firenze
(Fee Ren Zay), there's this cool old palace bell tower that points up way above the other churches and buildings, and I can just picture Rapunzel inside it letting down her golden hair. In New York I bet that tower wouldn't even look tall. Old? Yup. Tall? Nope.

We crossed the
Ponte Vecchio
(Pon Tay Vecky Oh), or Old Bridge. It's so old that it was already old when Columbus discovered America! The bridge goes over the Arno River, and it has jewelry shops, ice cream stores, and scarf sellers right on it. Today was cloudy, so the Arno didn't look blue. It looked more like cappuccino and sort of matched the color of the buildings on its banks.

Here's the problem with Florence: the winding streets are too narrow for the traffic and crowds. We spent all day dodging cars, buses, mopeds, motorbikes, and motorcycles, trying not to get run over. At first Mom and Dad were holding hands (which they rarely do in New York), but soon Dad started cursing again (he said H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks twice). He said city drivers are as crazy as highway drivers because they zoom around on motorbikes and don't wear helmets and park on sidewalks and yak on cell phones, and some even have kids riding behind them holding on for dear life.

We started arguing, but Dad told us to knock it off. I asked Dad why they built such little streets, and Dad explained that they didn't build them too narrow on purpose, they built them for people, horses, and carts, way before anyone thought about cars or buses.

“Or stretch limos,” I added. “A stretch limo in Florence would get stuck for life.”

Mom said, “Let's go to the
Uffizi
.”

The
Uffizi
(Oo Feet Zee) is a big old museum that is supposed to be a “must-see.” Mom and I waited on the longest longest longest line while Dad and Matt played catch nearby. Even Mom admitted she should have made a reservation, because some people got to cut in line.

Inside, Matt and I played a game he made up called Point Out the Naked People. We ran from painting to painting, and Mom didn't mind because at least we were paying attention to art.

She even took a turn. She pointed out a painting by Botticelli (Bah Ti Chelly) called
The Birth of Venus
. It shows this long-haired lady, the goddess of love and beauty, standing naked on a seashell. Matt said she looked like Barbie with no clothes on, but I said that Venus looked more like a
real
woman.

Mom also showed us a painting by Leonardo da Vinci (Lee Oh Nar Doe Duh Vin Chee). I thought it was lovely. Everyone is dressed, and the angel Gabriel
is telling the Virgin Mary that she's pregnant. She wasn't even married to Joseph yet, but it was God's son, so it was a miracle.

I think Italy is full of miracles. I also think Italy is rated R.

Which I can handle. But maybe Mom and Dad should have left Matt at home with a baby-sitter.

Matt got hungry before I did. He said, “Dad, you said there are McDonald's all over Italy, and I want to go to one, and I'm putting my leg down.”

I said, “Your foot, not your leg, dummy.” But since I like McDonald's too, I started singing my latest poem:

Matt started singing along, but Mom and Dad said that instead of burgers we were going to buy bread,
cheese, and salami and make a picnic. That was a good idea except that all the bread, cheese, and salami shops were
chiuso
(Q Zo), which means closed, which is what shops are in Italy at lunchtime. Restaurants stay open (duh), so even though we didn't go to McDonald's, we did find an outdoor
ristorante
(Ree Store On Tay) with lots of tables with umbrellas.

Dad and Mom ordered bean soup, and Matt and I ordered minestrone soup, and we all had
panini
(Pa Nee Nee), which means sandwiches. The ham in them was more dark pink than light pink, but I ate everything except for some bread, which I fed to the pigeons.

Pigeonwise, I was Miss Popularity. But as soon as they flocked around me, Matt scared them all away.

After lunch, Mom bought a pair of sunglasses and Dad looked at shoe stores and I checked out the postcard racks. Matt bought a stuffed balloon toy with a face drawn on it and yarn hair glued on top. It was like a squooshy Mr. Potato Head. First I told Matt that it was a dorky souvenir, but later I begged Mom to buy me one too. She did. So for a short while, we both had squooshy souvenirs.

At a little museum called the
Accademia
(Ack Ah Demmy Ya), Matt behaved inappropriately.

People from all over the world come to see this famous sculpture that Michelangelo (Michael Ann Jello) made almost five hundred years ago. It's of David, the guy in the Bible who, with stones and a slingshot, won a fight against a giant named Goliath.

What Michelangelo did was he took a huge hunk of marble and carved and carved until it looked like it could breathe. You can see the veins on David's hands, the nails on his toes, and all his shoulder muscles. David looks like one of those lifeguard guys who work out all the time.

Dad read in his guidebook that Michelangelo said, “David was already in the marble. I just took away everything that wasn't David.”

Isn't that cool? When you think about it?

Mom said that when Michelangelo finished the
David
, everyone agreed it was a masterpiece except one important man. He thought the nose was too big. So Michelangelo took a handful of marble dust and a file and climbed a ladder in front of the man and tricked
him by pretending to scrape away at the nose. He let some dust fall from his fingers, and the man said, “Ah! Now it's much better!” (Hee hee.)

Well, here's what I wanted to say: You can see David's you-know-what!

Matt started pointing and giggling and taking his very last photos, so I giggled too. But Dad got mad and said, “Melanie, I thought you were more mature.”

He tried it again. When Dad wasn't looking, he pointed at David's behind and started laughing.

I told him to cut it out and that he would appreciate sculpture more when he grows up.

We walked down some more narrow streets, and suddenly there was the
Duomo
(Dwo Mo), this huge cathedral. In New York, St. Patrick's Cathedral is all one color: gray. The
Duomo
is covered with white, green, and pink marble. We climbed up the stairs inside, and then walked out and looked around at the red roofs of Florence. That was fun (for me, not my legs).

Dad took pictures, and Matt and I played catch with our squooshy things, but then I tossed mine to Matt, and Matt missed, so mine went
splat
, and the balloon ripped, and dusty white flour flew all over. Dad got mad at me, but it was Matt's fault. I told Matt to give me his squooshy thing, and he said, “No way.” I lunged at him, but Mom stepped between us and told me to calm down this instant so we could all go out to dinner.

Dad looked at me as if he couldn't believe he and I were even related. At least he couldn't send me to my room, since it's about a zillion miles away.

I thought the poem might make Mom and Dad at least smile, but Dad just said, “Melanie, we are on vacation, for heaven's sake. Stop being negative.” Then he said I have the best problems of anyone he knows.

Which didn't exactly help me feel positive.

I looked at Matt, and he was smirking—the repulsive little newt.

Anyway, Mom and Dad took us to this fancy
ristorante
, and I thought things were about to improve. A jolly man welcomed us in and walked us past tables of yummy food— salami, melon, breads, pastries—and also some yucky stuff—roasted peppers, mushrooms, mussels, garlicky spinach. We sat down, and Mom and the man talked about what to order, and he kept saying that everything was
fan-tastico
(Fon Tos Teek Oh), which I figured meant fantastic. He didn't sound phony. He sounded like he loved everything on the menu. (He looked like he did too.)

Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm
, I thought.
I can't wait
.

Well, I don't know what happened, but a few minutes later he was bringing out appetizers, and in front of me, he plunked a floppy pink baby octopus, grilled. It had eight disgusting tentacles and a million disgusting suckers. I was seriously

More like horrified. I almost started to cry, but Dad quickly traded me his tortellini soup, and Mom started apologizing because she didn't know what the heck she
had said that came out “octopus.” (The special, maybe?)

For the main course, the man brought me spaghetti with meat sauce. But then he
immediately
ruined it by sprinkling parmesan cheese all over it. Mom and Dad both had sole as their main course, so I couldn't even trade.

Besides, this time no one even cared.

Matt, meanwhile, had pork chops with French fries, and was happy as can be. He called his French fries Italian fries, and Mom and Dad thought that was just so adorable. Like when he wants something and says, “Peas! Peas! Peas!” instead of “Please! Please! Please!” Or like once when Mom was going to take us to Central Park and Matt got all dressed up and Mom said, “Those are your best shoes!” and Matt said, “Those are my best feet too,” and Mom just laughed.

Mom and Dad never stay mad at Matt.

After a while, Matt said, “I'm done. I can't eat any more.” I couldn't either because I'd poked around and found enough unruined spaghetti.

“Just pass the plate,” Dad said, sounding mad again, and he ate up Matt's pork chops—drool and all—before paying the bill.

Mom asked, “Who wants
gelato?
”
Gelato
(Jay La Toe) means ice cream.