Florence was the second stop on my whirlwind trip to Italy. By the time I left Venice (click here to read about my experience in Venice), I wanted nothing more than to be around people again. The weather in Florence was noticeably warmer. The thick winter coat and umbrella that had been shielding me from the world were no longer required. Rainy skies turned sunny. Damp air was dry and fresh. Cold sea water was replaced by palm trees. It was an interesting personification of my own transformation.
When I arrived in Florence on Sunday afternoon, restaurants were bustling with patrons, the streets were crowded, and the city had energy. Surrounded by many iterations of the David, including novelties such as ball-adorned boxer shorts, it was difficult not to chuckle a bit as I strolled through the Piazza del Duomo on my way to the guest house where I would be staying.
I spent the first day in Firenze wandering about. I climbed 414 steps to the top of the Campanile, I ate gelato, I visited the Uffizi, I sat outside at a cafe in the Palazzo Vecchio, and I generally got a feel for the layout of the city. I was still in a fragile state, but my mindset had changed. Cynicism was replace by optimism, and a feeling of calm had washed over me.
I was initially disappointed in Florence, as I heard the harrowing sound of American voices everywhere I turned. Who knew Florence was the study abroad capital of Europe? At closer glance though, as daylight turned into evening that Sunday, I was inspired by the breathtaking views from the Ponte Vecchio, Florence’s first bridge across the Arno River, and the only medieval bridge to survive World War II. By day, the Ponte Vecchio was bustling with shops selling all types of gold and silver jewelry. By night, the bridge was peaceful and solitary.
After a long day, I returned to the guest house in search of an establishment that would air the Patriots/Jets game. It was the playoffs and, as a devoted Pats fan, I wanted to see my team win. On my way to the Red Garter, I stopped into Benvenuto, a small trattoria on a quaint side street, for a glass of Chianti and an authentic Italian dinner. Upon arrival at the Red Garter, to my surprise and delight, the bar was filled with patrons donning NFL jerseys, and a table of Pats fans welcomed me. I met several interesting people that evening, including an American girl and fellow Mass-hole, who had returned to Italy to marry her Italian boyfriend. The downside to the evening, other than the Pats loss, of course, was my half-hearted attempt to find my way back to the guest house after downing several glasses of Chianti. My saving grace was the guest house’s proximity to the Duomo, which became relatively easy to find after asking several Italian strangers for directions.
The following morning I awakened with a massive headache. The guest house closed for two hours each morning to clean (seriously, the place was spotless), and all guests had to temporarily vacate. I forced myself out of bed, zipped up my boots, and trekked across Florence to the Piazzale Michelangelo, where the panoramic views of Florence rivaled any postcard I’d seen during my wanderings.
Upon my return to the guest house, I was exhausted. I sat in the kitchen sipping a glass of wine and listening to the conversations of those around me. The clientele was diverse – two women traveling from Nigeria, several people from around Europe, and a boy from Colombia who befriended me. After much conversation, he asked if I wanted to take a walk. Walk we did, all around the beautiful city of Florence. Florence at night had a glow.
Eventually, we settled down on the Ponte a Santa Trinita, one bridge down from the Ponte Vecchio. Ponte a Santa Trinita donned spectacular views of the Arno River. The night was peaceful, the crowds had subsided, and the once busy streets were serene. We spent some time talking, and I learned that he was returning to medical school in Colombia the following day on a flight out of Paris. He had reserved a sleeper car on a train to Paris which left Florence an hour later, and he had with him his backpack so he could head directly to the train station. I learned he had been traveling for two months, and I listened eagerly to some of his travel stories. I was captivated by his stories, and I felt a twinge of jealousy for his time spent in Europe, as my time in Italy was so brief.
After getting to know each other for a while, he caught me off guard by leaning over and kissing me. I don’t read romance novels but, to this day, I’m pretty sure that moment is as close as I’ll get to a scene from one – sitting on that bridge, in Florence, next to a total stranger, who for some reason I felt closer to than I had to anyone in a while. I barely knew anything about him, but I understood that he would be the only person in the world to fully appreciate that brief point in time. His train to Paris left an hour later, and we walked together to the train station. He kissed me goodbye and off to Paris he went. As I walked away from the station, I felt as though my whirlwind trip to Italy had all been worth it.
I was leaving Florence the following morning to head back to Milan, where I would stay for one night before flying back to New York. It saddened me. I had such a wonderful experience in Italy. I popped into a small gelato shop on my home and headed back to the guest house. On my way, I stopped and sat on the steps of the Duomo to relish the last few moments I had in Florence. Inevitably, I questioned what life would be like upon my return, if I would ever love someone again, and if I’d ever find what I was looking for in life. My mind was racing. I felt I had made peace with many things on this trip, while at the same time, felt I had opened the door to a million more questions.
As I sat there, pondering life, asking myself the profound questions I and so many others typically avoid because the inability to ferret out the answers can be downright frightening, a boy who was staying at my guest house approached me. His English was broken and his accent was thick, but I could understand him. We exchanged pleasantries as I finished my gelato, and I learned that he was traveling through Italy from Sicily and attempting to learn English. He apologized profusely for his poor English grammar, often mixing up pronouns such as “he,” “she” and “they,” but I could understand him perfectly. For the next hour, together we sat, on the steps of the Duomo in Florence, me teaching him the correct English pronouns and him teaching me how to pronounce things properly in Italian. It was special, and I smile every time I think of it.
I have no photos of these people, and I have only shared these stories with a select few. I suppose I felt they would be cheapened somehow by sharing them — that my wonderful experience overlooking the Ponte Vecchio would somehow translate into something taudry and that my listeners would fail to grasp the true meaning of the encounter. But, I’m ready to share them now.
My time in Florence was filled with moments I wouldn’t otherwise have experienced had I not been traveling alone. I’m pretty sure there were those who pictured me in solitude, spending countless hours by myself and failing to interact with anyone. I’m also pretty sure there were those who felt pity for me, as a single woman, lacking someone special to travel with. I can’t help but laugh at those people, whose closed-mindedness will never be able to fully grasp or comprehend the incredible and life-altering experiences I have had, and I move on. The real pity is on them, I think. They have no idea what they’re missing!
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