beautiful things he purchased solely for his pleasure and the pleasure of others. And yet we were going there simply to see a halberd—a weapon of war—proving boys will be boys in whatever age they reside.
As I walked out the door, Antonella remained on my heels. On the Via Nuova, I was met by no less than four men, attired in the same colors as Antonella. The men carried an ornately decorated litter—a wheel-less carriage with red velvet and the same royal blue trim with the yellow wasps.
“Who are these gentlemen?” I whispered to Antonella.
“Your retinue, of course. Here to carry you to the Palazzo Medici.”
“What about Sandro?”
“He will walk alongside you, of course.” She shrugged.
“No, Antonella. I want to walk with him.” I always felt I belonged in the Renaissance in life, one reason being that I hated all modern modes of transportation—cars, planes, boats, helicopters—and always preferred to walk.
Antonella sighed and rolled her eyes as she waved the litter-bearers away. I laced my arm inside of Sandro’s, and his reaction was warm and welcoming, as I led him hastily down the Via Nuova. Unfortunately, Antonella and the retinue trailed close behind.
We turned right, making our way across the piazza in front of the swirls and bands of green and white marble that make up the façade of the Santa Maria Novella. It was so pristine and new at this time. The church’s complex marble façade with its S-curved volutes was the first of its kind. I spent a moment taking it all in—the revolutionary church in its first days of glory. Sandro gazed upon it by my side.
“Members of the Rucellai family, who rent the house to my father, commissioned Alberti to design the upper façade of the Santa Maria Novella, as well as the Palazzo Rucellai.” As Sandro spoke, I leaned towards him, riveted by his every word.
“Really? I didn’t know. How are people reacting to it?” I asked, knowing that the masses inevitably dislike or fear anything new and different.
“Well, my father hates it, of course,” Sandro chuckled. “I feel it is magnificent, is it not?”
“It is,” I agreed, as I turned to look directly into his eyes, instead of at the grand façade.
“One of my paintings resides in the del Lama Chapel. I would take you inside, but the nuns seem to have closed the church doors for the night.”
“Would that be the Adoration of the Magi with your self-portrait?” I asked, self-assuredly. I now had his full attention. He stared curiously back into my eyes.
“ La Bella Simonetta , you have seen my painting?” He gaped, bewildered.
“Of course I have.”
Only a thousand times.
It would’ve been a perfect made-for-Hollywood make-out moment had it not been for the hovering retinue, the swift kick I received from Antonella, Simonetta’s wedding ring on my finger, and my potentially unwilling partner. Instead, we continued down the Via del Giglio through the oldest part of the city. As the sun faded, we made our way around the unembellished church of San Lorenzo—the beginnings of what would always remain a bare brick, unfinished façade.
Sandro opened his mouth, clearly ready to give me another lesson, this time regarding the origins of San Lorenzo. But his words were halted when peddlers of the square, who had been packing their wares for the night, dropped to their knees at the sight of me. One even sang, and another spouted poetry. I panicked, as they circled around us. Though the retinue quickly intervened—forcing the admirers to disperse—and we were soon on our way, it took some time before I could choke down the lump that formed in my throat. Antonella shot me a look as if to say , that’s why they’re supposed to carry you, dummy.
We approached the Palazzo Medici, the future museum known as the Medici-Riccardi Palace, although it would be years before the Riccardis would claim any ownership. A porter at the entrance immediately stepped aside at the sight of me. He
As I walked out the door, Antonella remained on my heels. On the Via Nuova, I was met by no less than four men, attired in the same colors as Antonella. The men carried an ornately decorated litter—a wheel-less carriage with red velvet and the same royal blue trim with the yellow wasps.
“Who are these gentlemen?” I whispered to Antonella.
“Your retinue, of course. Here to carry you to the Palazzo Medici.”
“What about Sandro?”
“He will walk alongside you, of course.” She shrugged.
“No, Antonella. I want to walk with him.” I always felt I belonged in the Renaissance in life, one reason being that I hated all modern modes of transportation—cars, planes, boats, helicopters—and always preferred to walk.
Antonella sighed and rolled her eyes as she waved the litter-bearers away. I laced my arm inside of Sandro’s, and his reaction was warm and welcoming, as I led him hastily down the Via Nuova. Unfortunately, Antonella and the retinue trailed close behind.
We turned right, making our way across the piazza in front of the swirls and bands of green and white marble that make up the façade of the Santa Maria Novella. It was so pristine and new at this time. The church’s complex marble façade with its S-curved volutes was the first of its kind. I spent a moment taking it all in—the revolutionary church in its first days of glory. Sandro gazed upon it by my side.
“Members of the Rucellai family, who rent the house to my father, commissioned Alberti to design the upper façade of the Santa Maria Novella, as well as the Palazzo Rucellai.” As Sandro spoke, I leaned towards him, riveted by his every word.
“Really? I didn’t know. How are people reacting to it?” I asked, knowing that the masses inevitably dislike or fear anything new and different.
“Well, my father hates it, of course,” Sandro chuckled. “I feel it is magnificent, is it not?”
“It is,” I agreed, as I turned to look directly into his eyes, instead of at the grand façade.
“One of my paintings resides in the del Lama Chapel. I would take you inside, but the nuns seem to have closed the church doors for the night.”
“Would that be the Adoration of the Magi with your self-portrait?” I asked, self-assuredly. I now had his full attention. He stared curiously back into my eyes.
“ La Bella Simonetta , you have seen my painting?” He gaped, bewildered.
“Of course I have.”
Only a thousand times.
It would’ve been a perfect made-for-Hollywood make-out moment had it not been for the hovering retinue, the swift kick I received from Antonella, Simonetta’s wedding ring on my finger, and my potentially unwilling partner. Instead, we continued down the Via del Giglio through the oldest part of the city. As the sun faded, we made our way around the unembellished church of San Lorenzo—the beginnings of what would always remain a bare brick, unfinished façade.
Sandro opened his mouth, clearly ready to give me another lesson, this time regarding the origins of San Lorenzo. But his words were halted when peddlers of the square, who had been packing their wares for the night, dropped to their knees at the sight of me. One even sang, and another spouted poetry. I panicked, as they circled around us. Though the retinue quickly intervened—forcing the admirers to disperse—and we were soon on our way, it took some time before I could choke down the lump that formed in my throat. Antonella shot me a look as if to say , that’s why they’re supposed to carry you, dummy.
We approached the Palazzo Medici, the future museum known as the Medici-Riccardi Palace, although it would be years before the Riccardis would claim any ownership. A porter at the entrance immediately stepped aside at the sight of me. He
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