I do want to describe one incredible stroke of good fortune I had in Italy. I got to see Leonardo's Cenacolo - without booking ahead.
Disclaimers: Yes, I have read the Da Vinci Code. Yes, I thought it was a flaming pile of crap and I think my cat could write a better novel. And no, I do not think the figure to Christ's right is Mary Magdalene. Sure, he looks girly, but so do some of the others - and do the math, for cryin' out loud!
And don't even get me started on the fact that paintings - like books - are in no way required to represent reality. Seriously. It's a painting made 1400 years after the "event." Why would you make any assumptions as to its accuracy? I have conversations with my freshmen like this all the time.
Whoa. OK. Rant mode off. Check out this article from about.com if you'd like to read from someone else pissed off about supposedly intelligent people abandoning rational thought processes when it comes to The Da Vinci Code. If I ever meet Dan Brown, I'm going to punch him in the face.
What the hell was I talking about? Oh, right. Me.
I was in Milan two days ago, and KC suggested we try to get in to see Leonardo's Cenacolo. I'd heard horror stories about trying to get in, and we hadn't been able to book tickets online.
Speaking of horror stories, don't ever try to drive in Milan. Ever. Just dump the car somewhere and take the Metro. KC heroically tried to get me close to the site of the painting without accidentally entering some 70-euro-fine-no-drive-zone. Finally he gave up, parked illegally, rolled the windows down, and pointed me toward the church. Since he'd already seen the painting, I hit the pavement.
Three long blocks in 95 degree heat later, I'd identified what I was pretty sure was my destination. I saw a big round church with a teeny-tiny glass door off to the left. I marched through the door into a tiny waiting room.
Only 25 or so people are permitted 15 minutes of time in the room with the painting at once. If you show up less than half an hour early, they don't let you in. I was counting on one tiny clause buried in the Lonely Planet - "and your ticket will be resold."
Off to my right in yet another waiting room, about 15 people already had their audioguides glued to their ears. An elderly man waved me up to the counter. I told him that I'd like to buy a ticket. "No ticket!" Yes, that's right, I don't have a ticket. "Sold out!" He gestured toward a big orange Sold out sign on the wall.
I attempted to explain that I wanted to buy a ticket from a cancellation or a no-show. He waved his arms at me, punctuating the international "you're an idiot" symbology with "no tickets two weeks!" and "call for reservations!" Finally I folded my arms and said, "I don't think you're understanding me." The man passed me off to his colleague, a young woman who had excellent English.
I very humbly explained to this woman that I knew reservations were required far in advance, but I had heard that they would resell the tickets of people who didn't show up. Were there any tickets like that in the next two hours? It was about 4 pm, and I knew they closed at 6.
She scrutinized me over the counter. Finally she asked, "Just you?" Yes, just me. Just one teeny ticket. She looked me over again, then said, "I don't know. Wait 5 minutes."
I had to piss like a racehorse, but I was scared to go out of this woman's sight, so I parked myself in the corner and fidgeted from foot to foot for about 10 minutes. While I waited all kinds of people came into the ticket office. One strangely-dressed young man seemed incredibly suprised that there was any type of system at all surrounding the painting. Four American teenagers came in, waved their guidebooks around, exclaimed over the improbability of planning so far ahead, then meandered out. But out of all the people I observed in those 10 minutes - maybe as many as 15 people - not a single one asked if a ticket was available right now.
Finally, another woman waved at me and pointed back to the first woman. I plastered my fake "well, trying your best is all that counts" smile on my face. She solemnly intoned, "Six-fifty."
"What???"
"Six euros and fifty."
I felt the blood rush into my face. "You're actually selling me the ticket?"
She finally cracked a smile. "Yes, but you have to hurry."
I shoved my money across the counter, grabbed my ticket, and darted through a set of closing glass doors. Two more environmental-control rooms later and I was in front of it.
To make an encounter precisely 15 minutes long last only a few sentences, I'll say that the painting is worth all the fuss. It's in absolutely dreadful condition - it's amazing there's anything left at all - and some idiot decided to replace Jesus' feet with a door. But it's huge, and stunning, and the humanity of the figures is positively overwhelming. I was especially moved by Phillip, the third figure on Christ's left.
There are a few benches in the room placed about 20 feet from the wall. I was the last one in, so there were no more seats. I spotted someone who looked like a guide and asked if it was possible to go closer. After a chorus of surprised Si's, I walked straight up to the front of the room. For awhile I was the only one - every one else was listening to their audioguides.
No way do I recommend doing what I did. I got incredibly, once-in-a-lifetime lucky. Do yourself a favor and book the tickets if you're going to Milan. The painting is worth it. And while you're in the refectory, don't forget to turn your back to the Last Supper and check out the other great painting in the room - a Crucifixion by Giovanni Donato da Montorfano.
For you armchair explorers out there here's an article from Wired magazine about a 16 GB version of the painting itself. It's possibly the highest-res photo in existence. If you've got a better internet connection than me, check it out - then book your flight to Milan. The real deal is stunning.
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