What I Loved about Our Six Weeks in Florence

Who could not love Florence?

Plenty of people, that’s who. As my husband and I wended our way through the city streets on our daily jaunts, we saw lots of bored, tired faces among the throngs. Some of were probably on this Italian trip to placate a spouse or parent; some had probably had fights that morning, or just weren’t feeling well.

I felt sorry for them. Tours serve a useful purpose, but a leisurely pace is much, much nicer. Our daily little flirtations with Florence gradually turned into a deep and abiding love for the city.

 

Walking the City Streets.
We were here without a car, staying in the Oltrarno (across the Arno, half an hour’s walk from the center), so we walked a lot, every day. Most days – at least most days after I recovered from my stomach trouble – we spent most mornings reading or writing or making a trip to the grocery store, then set off in the afternoon to explore. Sometimes we had errands to run. Sometimes we ate a late lunch out (though if we drank wine, there was the sleepiness factor to contend with). Often, we headed to at least one church or historical site. Always, we walked.

The crooked streets between the Duomo and the Piazza della Signoria were jammed with other tourists. There were beggars, bicycles, and pickpockets to contend with. And yes, it was disconcerting when a huge bus forces all the pedestrians onto a narrow, crowded sidewalk, especially if we were just passing a large tour group. On the other hand. . . .

On the other hand, it’s Italy. It’s Florence.

Most days we walked piazza to piazza, dodging buses and other tourists, enjoying the way that crooked, narrow medieval streets suddenly opened onto expansive piazzas. We admired old stone and walls plastered in many shades of ochre, statues of saints on random street corners, people’s balconies and gardens. We climbed steep streets to the famous overlooks and lovely gardens. We frequented charming little pedestrian lanes lined with eateries and stores, where we lingered at shop windows to mull over whether that cotton sweater came in Michael’s size or I could live without that fabulous scarf. By our last week, I rarely needed to consult the map.

Living in the Oltrarno
Towards the end of every day’s adventure, we would set off for our neighborhood. Every route home led us along the Arno and across one of the bridges. In one direction, the Duomo floated elegantly above the terracotta rooftops; in the other, old palazzos punctuated the river-bank, framed by green hills behind them. We never tired of it.

After an afternoon of crowds and bustle, it was a joy to walk down our quiet street. One side was lined by a stone wall that had once served as part of the city’s bastions but now sported wooden doors and iron gates opening into homes. On the opposite side, a low wall held back a steep hillside covered with grass, bushes, and trees. We usually had to step aside to let through a few cars or motorcycles, but mostly the noise of the city gave way to bells and birdsong.

The beauties of Florence
My husband enjoys history, so he read a book about the Medici dynasty and (it explained double-entry book-keeping, which helped make the Medicis rich.) As for me – I’m more touched by beauty. And the type that moves my heart most deeply is beauty that’s scarred, a little shabby, and surrounded by nature. I love stone walls with vines spilling over them, buildings with the plaster pockmarked with chips and patches, and roofs with some moss creeping over the terracotta tiles. Sights like those are around every other corner in Florence.

My kind of beauty is also quiet. The paintings at The Uffizi are gorgeous, as are the sculptures at The Accademia, but it’s rare that the rooms aren’t jammed and noisy – especially the rooms with the well-known paintings like the Botticellis or statues like the David. I’m happier in the Brancacci Chapel with ten other people, looking at the frescos by Massacio and Lippi, taking in the everyday ordinariness of a sleeping watchman or a pregnant woman holding a child. Or in the Convent of San Marco with no other visitors except my husband and a guard in his chair. We stand in front of Lippi’s Annunciation and marveling at the respectful, rueful, understanding exchanged by Mary and the archangel. Or I can sit happily in a pew at the basilica of San Miniato al Monte, listening to the monks sing the midday office as my eyes drift over the gold- leafed mosaic in the apse glitter slightly in the dusky light.

Likewise, I prefer views that are not jammed with other tourists. So on my way from San Miniato, I rarely stopped at the Piazzale Michelangelo. Instead, I would halt several times on the walk down and admire the view over Florence framed by trees. Even better are the stunning, uncrowded views from Fiesole or from the café at the Bardini Gardens. (Views are always better if they include espresso, pastry, and a chance to rest your feet. And at the top of the Bardini Gardens, I could enjoy the smug certainty that the way home would be downhill all the way.)

The passegiata
The daily promenade of Italians after work was, for me, the sweetest and most unexpected pleasure of Florence. On our way home from whatever gorgeous museum or church we’d seen that afternoon, my husband and I would often stop about 5:30 p.m. at an outdoor café. We’d order a glass of wine and watch the passegiata. For tourist-watching – which is its own kind of fun – the piazzas around the Duomo, the Palazzo Vecchio, and the church of Santa Croce are delightful. But since we lived down a couple of bridges from the city center, we often took a leisurely detour home that led us down two pedestrian-only streets, the Via Pietrapana and Borgo la Croce. At a café on the Piazza dei Ciompi (Woolworkers), we watched kids playing in the square, supervised by their moms (who themselves were chatting away, sometimes while puffing on cigarettes). We observed elderly couples strolling arm in arm, younger couples meeting with a kiss after work, people jogging with their dogs, and a few suit-clad office-workers striding home.

Another fine time for observing Italians enjoying their lives is Sunday afternoon. It’s even got a name: la passegiata domenicale. On Sundays, the walkers clump into multi-generational family groups. They’re heading down the street to eat together in a restaurant, or they’re walking off a big lunch.

The scene is delightful and foreign to me. I live in Amherst, a small New England town where most people run errands in their cars, exercise at the gym or park, and relax in their own homes. Because of our many local colleges, coffee-shops do flourish, and friends or work-colleagues do sometimes meet there, especially in nice weather. But most people at the tables stay firmly in their private bubbles, eyes fixed on their laptops. (I’m often one of those people. It’s great to take an hour to enjoy the background buzz while I scribble away, and the occasional cute kid or dog makes me smile.) Now that I’m retired, I’ve started meeting friends at coffee-shops more often. And there’s the Farmer’s Market on Saturday mornings, where I sometimes run into friends or acquaintances. But it’s not the passegiata.

And that’s okay. Because home has its own pleasures. But that’s a topic for another day.