Apologies (again!) for taking so long to continue my Italy vacation blog. Since my last posting, I have finished writing the manuscript for my next book, gone to Nashville with Tom and his band for a music festival, and done a whole lotta tarot jobs. This week, I’ll be traveling again to Maryland to read cards at the Illuminate Festival in Ocean City.
But enough about that! Here are my notes (thank goodness I kept a journal, or this would all be gone):
I had heard that Florence was one of the prettiest towns ever. This was where we met up with our friends from England, Bernard and Jenny. Back in 2013 (?) we first met this delightful couple on a train to Yorkshire, where we were headed to visit Sylvia Plath’s grave in Heptonstall. Our new friends so wonderfully drove us up the mountain so we didn’t get soaked in the cold rain, met us later for dinner at the Stubbing Wharf (where Plath and Hughes ate when in Hebden Bridge), and took us into their home for tea. We exchanged information and met again in London the next year. It seemed right that we should reconnect in a new country and all be tourists together.
Our initial impression of Florence was just “OK.” We had been spoiled by Rome, and the weather continued to not cooperate with frequent showers, clouds and unseasonably cool temperatures.
We had a beautiful AirBnB there–an entire, modern apartment with room to entertain our friends. It was not without a couple glitches, however: There were eight flights of stairs just to get to our front door; the Co2 detector went off in the middle of the night (I dreamed it was a swarm of crickets and kept sleeping through); and on our first night, we had the skylight open, enjoying the lovely cool night air. I heard a noise like a cat and thought that I was just missing mine at home and imagining things. Then, I heard it again, looked up, and there was the cutest little face peering down at me from the roof, looking for a way to jump down onto our bed. As much as I would have loved to cuddle the little guy, who knew if I could ever catch him to get him out again? We closed up the roof and hoped the little guy had a home. I attract cats everywhere I go.
On our first night, we walked over Florence’s infamous bridge lined with shops, Ponte Vecchio, into the Spiritus neighborhood, voted one of the coolest neighborhoods in the world by Lonely Planet. A very grumpy waiter served us a good dinner of Riboletta (which soon became my new favorite food–it’s a hearty vegetable soup with cabbage, white beans, potatoes, carrots and more. Incredibly delicious and a regional specialty that everyone seems to do a little different).
I practiced my Italian–the very little bits I was picking up. Spelling may be wrong: Molta for “very.” Prego for “You’re welcome.” Our tour guide told us to say Grat-zee-uh to distinguish ourselves from the clueless travelers who say only Grazie for “thank you.”
We all decided to get on a Rapida bus for a 1 1/2 hour ride to nearby Siena, a lovely Medieval town encircled by an ancient stone wall, and we were not disappointed. While on the bus to Siena, we got some nice views of incomparable Tuscany, a place I must return to for a longer visit. I dreamed of seeing artist Nikki de St. Phalle’s Tarot Garden, and also of hiking the steep steps of the colorful coastal town, Cinque Terre, but there was not enough time. To be gone for 14 days sounds endless, but over four of those days are travel (USA to UK to Rome, and then Venice to UK to USA, and then all the long train rides between the Italian cities), means that time is precious.
In Siena, we walked the steep cobblestone streets and steps, toured their astoundingly beautiful Duomo, ate a simple lunch of sandwiches and fresh strawberries in the famous Piazza del Campo, where horse races still take place (neighborhood against neighborhood!), climbed the 400 steps of the Torre del Mangia for a view like no other, and visited the Cathedral and Baptistery, looking at Renaissance sculpture and frescoes. But I shall not write too much about these things, because these are the things that everyone does, and this blog is for my more personal experiences.
It was chaos meeting Bernard and Jenny in the morning as we had unclear directions that had us in two different town squares for our tour of the Accademie and the Uffizi Gallery (despite paying for the service, we could not get our phones to make foreign calls, and we could send and receive only some texts). We finally connected, avoiding the Romani beggars in their long velvet peasant skirts, traditional shawls, and most curiously, fancy metallic platform shoes like one might see in a 1970s discotheque. The beggars motion toward their mouths and stomach as if they are hungry, but when you hand them food they look angry because what they really want is money. I soon got an attitude about helping them. They will soon make you cold-hearted, especially when the same person approaches you two or three times. In the meantime, the tour company worked our schedule out and they all bumped us to a later group so we could all see the statue of David and the rest together.
By the time it was afternoon at the Uffizi, we were already exhausted and Tom had begun to get the first signs of a cold. We ate twice at a restaurant called Mosa– the first night I had tagglietelle pescatore (seafood pasta), the second night, tagglietelle funghi (mushroom pasta). Great bread and amazing, very custardy tiramisu. We talked and laughed with Bernard and Jenny: we are all Sagittarians and Jenny and I have the same birthday, and Bernard and Tom are just 9 days apart (plus a few decades). You know that you are having fun with people when you are already planning to see them again. Where to next? Hawaii? Las Vegas? India?
Our time went by so quickly. Too quickly to eat all of the amazing leftovers. Back at the apartment, I had a refrigerator full of calzone, tagglietelle, plus extra strawberries and bread, that I could not bear to throw away yet we had no time to eat it. I had seen homeless people rooting through trash cans at the train station, and so I decided to bring the food with me in case I could pass it on to someone who might appreciate this feast.
What do you know? In our last minutes in Florence, there, collapsed against a brick wall was a homeless man and an excitable dog. I said one of the only words in Italian I know: “Mangia?” and held the bag of food toward him. He happily received Tom’s half a calzone, the bread and the strawberries, nodding “Grazzi, grazzi…” It made me happy to keep the joy going.