Urban Venus Read Online Free PDF Page A

from the onslaught of visitors below.
    We turn the corner towards the Uffizi, squeezing past the semi-circular patches of crowds which have formed around the mime artists on the steps of the gallery, as effective and captivating as the real statues in the alcoves. Here a white-painted, powdered man, as motionless as David himself, until an eyelash flutter gives him away as a mortal soul. There a gold-leafed, ivy-clad female, still as a corpse, unaffected by the small child desperately tugging at her sleeve in an attempt to illicit a reaction of some sort. Their collection boxes bear testimony to their brilliance; you just can’t help yourself from stopping and staring, willing them to move, giggle, sneeze. And when they don’t, you can’t help but reach into your pocket.
    Further along are the inevitable sellers of cheap copies of the ‘masterpieces’ within. ‘Looky-looky, buy-buy! Cheaper than museum prices! Signorina, Miss, Fraulein, Mademoiselle,’ they urge, guessing wildly at nationalities, as the vast majority swarm past, clutching precious gallery tickets and searching for door numbers.
    Sophia has pre-booked and we sweep through a practically queue-less door and into the gallery. She drags me up what feels like endless stairs – not really what I need on the back of a hangover and a late night – and then we are high inside this huge edifice, and remarkably, away from the worst of the crowds.
     
    ‘ Time for coffee,’ Sophia announces, I suspect in an attempt to speed up our progress through the gallery. We’ve been here almost two hours already and have barely seen a third of the museum. I can’t help but tarry awhile, I’m an art lover, what do you expect? She’s a mathematician, with a healthy appreciation for the culture of the city in which she has chosen to study, but you can’t blame her for not wanting to linger to the degree that I do. Maybe I should thank her for bringing me here and send her on her way, perhaps to do a little Sunday morning browsing round the shops, but I don’t want to appear rude, so I accept her offer of coffee and decide to play it by ear.
    ‘ The café on the terrazzo is brilliant,’ Sophia enthuses. ‘It’s over the top of the Loggia, so you get all that lovely view to look at whilst you sip your espresso. That’s if we can get a seat of course. If not we’ll just stand and watch the world go by. Andiamo ?’
    ‘ Si, andiamo ,’ I acquiesce. Poor girl, she’s clearly had enough of culture for one day, and needs a bit more excitement; some real-live people to look at instead of wall-to-wall long-dead ones.
    Sophia was right. It is busy and there are no seats, in this very bright, modern space which seems totally at odds with the antiquity of the museum. We buy our coffees and stand at the perimeter of the outdoor seating area, as close as we are allowed to get to the edge, and peer through the balustrades at the swarming masses below. A wedding party appears from the far corner of the Piazza, the bride with her veil streaming out behind her, clasping the hand of the darkly handsome groom as they float on air across the square, the crowds parting for them, and followed more sedately by family and friends in their colourful Sunday Best. They make for Rivoire, the chic café-bar on the square, which apparently sells mind-blowing chocolates at wallet-blowing prices, presumably for their wedding breakfast, which I can imagine will be very caffeine- and chocolate-orientated.
    I decide to brave it with Sophia; I don’t want her feeling she has to give up her entire Sunday to me. She barely knows me yet, and I really appreciate her bringing me here, but I’m sure there must be other things she’d rather be doing today. I put that proposal to her and she looks visibly relieved. It’s one thing showing a regular tourist the sights, but another thing entirely when you have a serious art-lover in tow, and I don’t think she had anticipated just how riveting I would