The morning after finishing my postgrad at the Mozarteum, I flew out to begin a month-long stint at the Bel Canto Institute in Florence. I’ll admit that after the longest, snowiest winter for 110 years in Austria, followed by the wettest spring in 130 years (and the floods), I was pretty excited about a change of scenery. Beautiful Florence, that gem of a city, is pure inspiration at every turn.
I was billeted to a lovely older Italian couple along with several other students, close to the centre of town, so it was great to get that insight into real Italian life (and food!). Each day we would start with several hours at the language school, before an afternoon of various coachings, lessons, masterclasses, lectures, tours and rehearsals. There were no days off. It was a very busy month!
I was billeted to a lovely older Italian couple along with several other students, close to the centre of town, so it was great to get that insight into real Italian life (and food!). Each day we would start with several hours at the language school, before an afternoon of various coachings, lessons, masterclasses, lectures, tours and rehearsals. There were no days off. It was a very busy month!
The statue of Puccini outside his birth home in Lucca In the few precious hours I would get to myself I would sneak off and work on my music in the courtyard café in the bottom of the Palazzo Strozzi, the only place I found where you could take shelter from the intense midday heat (it didn’t drop below 30 degrees all month, and there was no airconditioning anywhere!) and linger over a coffee without being moved on too quickly. And yes, I started drinking coffee again for the month. IT’S ITALY!
My very first morning in class my German-addled brain, desperately casting into the depths of my unreliable memory for some basic Italian, came within a hair’s breadth of having me announce to the class earnestly, “Please, I have a strawberry”. Fortunately I not only avoided that, but managed to find a toilet in the language school from whence one could theoretically throw back the wooden shutters and contemplate Brunelleschi’s dome (the Duomo) whilst sitting upon the throne. Ladies and Gentlemen, is that not living?! Still, it is very easy to feel spoiled in a town where you can sneak in reverential lunch-time visits to Dante, Galileo and Rossini, and I soaked it all up with liberal lashings of gelato.
My very first morning in class my German-addled brain, desperately casting into the depths of my unreliable memory for some basic Italian, came within a hair’s breadth of having me announce to the class earnestly, “Please, I have a strawberry”. Fortunately I not only avoided that, but managed to find a toilet in the language school from whence one could theoretically throw back the wooden shutters and contemplate Brunelleschi’s dome (the Duomo) whilst sitting upon the throne. Ladies and Gentlemen, is that not living?! Still, it is very easy to feel spoiled in a town where you can sneak in reverential lunch-time visits to Dante, Galileo and Rossini, and I soaked it all up with liberal lashings of gelato.
My beautiful American room mate, Bridget, and I by the Arno The teachers and coaches mostly hailed from the Metropolitan Opera in New York (also the Lyric Opera Chicago, and the Royal Conservatorium of Copenhagen), with a direct line of a coaching tradition that reached back to Puccini himself, so there was lots of good input peppered with *interesting* stories. The month culminated in two concerts, one in a beautiful old frescoed hall and the other in an equally beautiful old church, after which we finally let our hair down.
My final morning in Florence I watched the sun rise over the orange roofs from a hilltop just outside the city, having danced and ridden around in an Italian open-top sports car all night with friends (we went to see Galileo’s house, and bellowed Italian songs from the Piazzale Michelangelo), and as the haze above the Duomo turned to pink I breathed deeply and contemplated the Florentine belief that genius is carried down the Arno to Florence like silt. And then, all smudged mascara and aching limbs, I contemplated how I was too old to be facing such a massive hangover on no sleep and with a 37 degree day forecast. And smiled despite myself.
My final morning in Florence I watched the sun rise over the orange roofs from a hilltop just outside the city, having danced and ridden around in an Italian open-top sports car all night with friends (we went to see Galileo’s house, and bellowed Italian songs from the Piazzale Michelangelo), and as the haze above the Duomo turned to pink I breathed deeply and contemplated the Florentine belief that genius is carried down the Arno to Florence like silt. And then, all smudged mascara and aching limbs, I contemplated how I was too old to be facing such a massive hangover on no sleep and with a 37 degree day forecast. And smiled despite myself.
