return

I felt I hadn't finished with Florence. Just one day wasn't enough. Rain or shine, I would go again.

But it didn't rain. Instead, I woke up to this sunrise out my window:






I know the clouds are going to roll in, but it looks like once again, I'll be spared the wet weather.

But it is a cooler day. Maybe in the 60s. So I'm going to get a more autumnal immersion in the city.

And immersion it is: I hike over to Rignano sull'Arno -- oh, and did I tell you? I found a partial short cut through the olive groves, so now the hike is down to 50 minutes!






...and apart from the fact that I don't like having to step off the road every time a big vehicle comes barreling down the hill, it's a hike with quite lovely scenery. Let me pause on this a little:












Okay, let me return to the narrative. About immersion. Oh, one more digression -- I wanted to note that I have concluded that Italian men have more fun than their American counterparts. I have seen too many animated conversations, like this one to think otherwise:






Now, about the immersion, which simply refers to the fact that on my reliable (I'm a regular!) 10:10 to Florence, I take my seat on the upper deck, plug in my iTunes and listen to Fiorella as we speed toward Florence.

Once I'm in the city, first thing's first: breakfast. I'm at the Piazza della Repubblica again, only at Cafe Galli -- the competition to yesterday's Paszkowski. My verdict, based on the entirely reliable sample of one: yesterday's vibe and waiters were better, but oh, that ricotta pastry today!











A glance at the coffee drinkers standing next to me:






Okay, let me now take you again on a walk, though this time, I'm less focused on the splendid stuff that really does distract you from the Florentine everyday. I'm trying to keep away from the monuments. Or at least to mix them up a bit. Like this one - because somehow it never struck me that Florence should have a movie theater just a block from the Piazza della Signoria.






Predictably, I cross the river pretty quickly. Here is a view looking away from the center, toward the hills (in the distance) in which my olive farm is nestled.






Florence itself is hilly here. And empty.






But I actually don't quite want empty. I want a mix. So I head toward a neighborhood that offers it: the Santo Spirito blocks on this south side of the river, named after this church:






There's a small market here today. Nothing extraordinary. Just simple stuff you'd pick up if you were cooking at home.






People pass through the square in front of the church, pausing for a rest on one of the benches...






The buildings in the Santo Spirito neighborhood are somewhat more colorful than in central Florence.  Here, someone inadvertently matched the laundry to the colors of the building:






I pass what must be a school on recess for lunch. I can't really be certain that it's high school. It could be the first year of university. They all look about 18, which makes it hard for me to fit them into an academic slot and I saw no sign on nearby structures indicating what scuola we're dealing with. I quickly snapped three photos of the three groups mingling on this block. Did you notice that here (as in France), all young women seem to choose to keep their hair long?
















Further down the block, I came across this woman, somewhat agitated at her husband. Possibly because he is not helping her with the bags...






I do a lot of this: walking, looking, often times not photographing at all. And very soon it becomes lunch time. My one real meal of the day!

I go to Osteria De' Benci. It's a place that swirls in my mind with memories! Of eating with daughters. Of eating alone, while Ed slept in the hotel room. And especially of the most wonderful dish that completely breaks my habit of not eating red meat: it's the Florentine steak. I love this so much and I cannot get it across the ocean: it's maybe a quarter inch thick, smothered in garlic and olive oil, generously sprinkled with oregano and salt and pepper.  So this is the place to come for that. But  luck is so with me because today, they also have on the menu an arugula salad with raw artichokes and slivers of parmesan. Again, a real favorite of mine and I do not understand why I cannot replicate it back home. We have the arugula. We have the artichokes. We have the cheese. Why can't I do it? It's something about the artichokes... So, my two beloved dishes:










...and now a comment on my surroundings. The outside tables are stuck somewhere between the sidewalk and zooming traffic (we're outside the pedestrian zone). So you have to learn to shut out the city. Easy: focus on what's taking place at the tables around you. I am very surprised that until the bitter end, all the tables are occupied by Italians. In the days gone by, this restaurant was a real mecca for Lonely Planet or Frommer guide book readers. But guide books fizzle and fade. Probably Rick Steves has introduced different players on the culinary scene (he has THE top selling book -- I see it again and again here). In any case, I'm enjoying this suddenly Italian moment. Here's a photo of a  lovely couple. What's especially warming is that he is so affectionate with her, even though they already have a child -- a three or four year old that is darting about on the sidewalk as they concentrate on their intimate moment.






Toward the end of my meal (and everyone's meal actually), a small group comes in. Three couples. Americans. You can see them gather in this pic, while the waiters are sort of smiling between themselves.





The issue is that the Americans aren't satisfied with the arrangement of the tables. They want them to be perpendicular rather than parallel to the curb. I didn't quite catch the reason for it.

The waiters are willing. The group sits down. The review of the menu begins.

And here is an editorial comment from me. A rather long-ish one. And I feel that I have credibility in making it because it cannot be said that I do not pay attention to those around me when I travel. Since I am most often alone, that's all I do: watch and listen.

Based on all that I've seen in the past years, I'm giving Americans abroad (in Europe) a real thumbs up. (Caveat: I have little experience with the back packers out there and I have no experience with the high enders. I'm talking about the middle.) I like watching them, listening to their observations. There'll be the exception, but most often, I find Americans to be genuine, curious, open, ready to experience something new. Sure, they sometimes misinterpret. That happens when you switch cultures. [From this group: Look Ray, it says service is added at 10%. That means they don't want you to leave anything..]. Sometimes they're not comfortable with what they find. [From this group: Anyone needing instructions on the bathroom? I found it! It's downstairs! Is it okay? It's strange. Dirty? Not that. It's shared.]

Gone, really gone is the "ugly American" (or maybe they're staying home?). Truly, I think our people are heroic in their efforts to be friendly and outgoing. [From this group:
Look, Meg, right next to us! A Harley! He point to a motorbike just at the side of the eating space. The owner comes up to ride it away.  
Excuse me, but do you speak English? -- our American diner asks.  
No, mi dispiace...
Undeterred -- where do you buy a Harley here? Our American shoves a map at the guy on the bike.
The Italian relaxes a bit. His mind is no longer on getting away. He points to a street on the map.
Could you write it down? Here's a pen! Obligingly, the Italian scribbles the name of the street on the map.
The American thrusts a camera at his wife: here, take a picture of us! He leans in toward the Italian and says, by way of explanation -- my son, he has a Harley!

I just have one big grin watching this exchange. You rarely see such genuine appreciation for the similarities coming from other nationalities.

I have only one tiny little issue with Americans: I wish they wouldn't feel so compelled to always comment -- usually in negative ways -- about the service. I see it mostly in restaurants. We are a nation of eaters who like service. Wait staff that checks in on us. That scribbles their name on the paper table cloth. That asks if you want another refill just as you slug down the last sip of the one you had. Americans like that attentiveness. And they don't like it when the wait staff has a different approach elsewhere. But that's minor stuff. Americans in Europe are an obliging, friendly lot. And to prove my point, I ask the waiter this same question -- do you like American guests? Sure!  - he says. Not all, but mostly, yes, very much. Very friendly people.  So, another scientific survey with a sample of one!


One more walk toward the more crowded epicenter of the city...






...with a stop at the same ice cream store, this time sampling their pistachio...





...and I'm done.

At the train station now... So long Florence...





Hello train ride, with Italian music in my ear.

We approach Rignano sull'Arno and I see from the window that there is a bridge over the Arno here, too. That's tomorrow's task: to look at life here again, on both sides of the river.






It's cool tonight. Mid sixties at most. Still, I don't want to break my routine. I drop my backpack in my little studio and plunge into the (very unheated) pool.

I'll take it!

I'll take Florence any way at all! I will!

An article in the paper suggested that traveling to obvious places (off the hit parade of travel destinations) will perhaps give you nothing more than a glimpse of others doing the same.

It doesn't matter. I can look at Florence through crowds. Or despite crowds. Or with crowds. I'll look at her any way at all. (Disclosure: it is my second most favorite city.)

It's true that I approach Florence differently than I do Paris. With caution and some trepidation. No matter how many times I come here, I don't feel totally at home. Florence is bewitching, austere, pretentiously artsy, crowded, confident. I can take a stab at guessing about a Parisian persona. I have far less intuition about the ways and mores of a Florentine.

I have no doubt that my very favorite trips to this city were in the past, with daughters. From when they were little, to the last time we came here as a family, when they were in their teens, each step was a total delight. We wrote postcards together in the Boboli Gardens, we searched out the very best gelato on the planet (so the claim goes, but I have no argument with it, I went back there today), we ate pasta until it came out of our noses, and there was a thrill when I could point to a Boticelli painting and say -- I had this very picture on a pendant that I wore when I was a teenager like you.

On the other hand, one of my least favorite trips to Florence was the most recent one. With Ed. It was crushing to see that this city meant nothing to him. I didn't see then that our days of coming to Europe together were numbered, but I should have known from our short stay here: he couldn't see Florence through my eyes. It was a cold and wet visit and still, I did not fall out of love with the city. I stayed as loyal to her as I did to the person who found little to rave about here.


Today dawned with a pale mist that hugged the hills as if it couldn't let them go.






But I knew that it would lose the battle. Every forecast said sunshine and so I took this morning display to be merely a tease.






And even as I began my hour walk to Rignano sull'Arno, I saw the beginning of what would be the most glorious (weatherwise) day of my trip, I'm sure.






The train ride is a scant 40 minutes, but I doze off nonetheless. The predawn posting had sucked some hours of sleep out of me. I make up some of it coming into Florence.

Now, do not expect me to photograph the Real Florence for you. As I said, I don't even know what the Real Florence is. Even in my travels here in winter, when it's bleak and quite empty, I couldn't really see much beyond the stone facades.

So all I can give you now is my day in Florence, on this most beautiful, brilliant, exquisite September day.  That's all. Nothing more than that.

Follow along, okay?


The Florence train station is always so crowded that you want to be out of there very quickly. Easy. I'm out. And it is just a short walk to the heart of the city. Within seven minutes, you can see this:






Even as I am looking more for this:






Or something like it. Breakfast! I haven't had breakfast!

I'm going to be fussy now. I want the perfect coffee experience. With the perfect Italian croissant (which inevitably will be filled with apricot jam and that's okay!).

I get it right here, at Paszkowski's. (This place is 150 years old, though it used to be a brewery before morphing into a bakery and cafe.)






And this is actually a good way to rub shoulders with Florentine people: eat standing, at the counter. Tourists always want to sit down and idle away the time. Who can blame them -- they've been on their feet, they need the pause. Me, I don't need the pause. I'm with these guys.






Alright. I'm feeling more bouncy after that coffee. And playful. You'll see a bunch of selfies from this day. Like immediately after leaving Paszkowski's.











And now I am about to enter bedlam itself: THE most crowded public space of all -- the Piazza della Signoria. I mean, it's crazy crowded! But I don't mind! I'm rather amused and touched by the resilience of travelers -- following their guides, waiting in line to get into museums and churches, listening, looking, learning.






(I loved this group from a Scandinavian country, though I'm not sure which one. Neptune standing tall behind them must think it to be quite the show of legs!)






Here's a secret (perhaps not that much of a secret) about tourist crowds: they are like rats in Brooklyn. They keep to their designated trails. And so one minute you'll be in the thick of it, with barely room to crack your knuckles, but then, step off their trail (and it's pretty much the same trail for all) and you are faced with sanity. Streets, suddenly looking quite normal.  

And here's another wonderful truth about Florence: most of the center is, by now, closed to city traffic. That's a huge change for the better. Sure, there'll be the privileged taxi or the delivery van, but it's lovely without the roar of buses and the impatient snarl of drivers.

I walk along the Via dei Neri -- which is where you want to go to if you are in need of a food fix. I can't say that I need that ice cream at the Gelateria dei Neri, but I surely do want it. I have a flavor that I love and cannot easily get on the other side of the ocean -- frutti di bosco (fruits of the forest -- the red and blue family of fruits). Here I remembered a commenter's words about a son taking a selfie with gelato in Italy. Given the mirror in the store, I thought it would be fun to play with that idea as well.
















Alright, time to cross the Arno to what is in fact my favorite part of the city: the lesser bank. Well, actually it's called the Altarno or the south bank, but it's less frequented by visitors. It's very easy to find quiet spots here.






I want to look for a lunch place. Again, this will be my meal for the day, so I want to make it count. I walk from one spot to the next -- all evening eateries.  I pause in my search, because I see a sweet and somewhat funkier leather goods store. It has what I need -- a change purse. I had been wondering why I never seem to have any coins in mine, until someone at the cafe where I had a cappuccino pointed out that mine was leaking money. It had come unglued and un-stitched. Time to get a replacement. And as I pay for this new little thing, I think -- this woman behind the counter appears so on top of things, surely she'll recommend a good lunch meal. She does. Her choice place is the Trattoria 4 Leoni.  Just down the block and around the corner. Here, in this quiet, simple square.






I ask if they'll have a table for me in an hour.
Inside? 
Oh no, definitely outside!
Well... okay! Come at 2.
I will!
Oh, alright, come before 2.


It's a very genial place. I can't say it's totally for the locals. I can't say that anything here right now is totally for the locals, but this place surely has a nice, small menu and a very welcoming vibe. I'm delighted to book the table.


I have an hour before that. Where to?  No, not museums for me today. No churches, no sights at all. That was yesterday. Today, I'm heading for the Boboli Gardens.

But wait, what is this? Closed? because of the storm on September 19th? What storm? I am so clueless when I travel. Oh, I read my paper, from across the ocean, but I don't really follow local news. Only later, back at the olive farm, I read about this most damaging hail storm that hit Tuscany the day before I arrived.

Somewhat chastened, I walk a bit of this south bank...







...and I cross back over to the right bank too, in search of a Prosciutteria that I'd recently read about; yes, it sells prosciutto, but it also makes and sells sandwiches. I consider buying one for evening supper, though in the end, the spinach focaccia wins. It's not hard to find good food here!






I walk the blocks of this beautiful city without any greater plan. I pause at an infant clothing store and go inside, thinking that perhaps I should learn what Italians call appropriate infant wear. The sales clerk shows me this outfit and that outfit and I think she will never stop producing things for me to look at, but no -- in a few minutes she sniffs her nose and says -- oregano.
Whaaat? I'm puzzled.
Oregano. Don't you smell it? 
I sniff. She is right.
My nose is sensitive when I am hungry! She says. It's time for my lunch.

It's time for my lunch as well. I stroll back to the 4 Leoni. Again I start with a salad. A very excellent one, benefiting, too, from the glorious eating venue and from the deeply blue heavens above.





Following this, after much deliberation, contemplation and tribulation, I pick a pasta dish: little pockets stuffed with bits of pear and cheese, in a heavenly cheese sauce, with added bits of asparagus. With a star at the side of the menu, explaining that it is their house specialty.

And my goodness, is it good!






That's a taste that will stay with me for a long time.

I sit back and look out on the small square. I have to smile now: I have convinced myself that I can't spot a Florentine in a sea of people, but here I have two benches, nearly next to each other and even though on the right one, the couple is sipping the telltale Aperol Spritz (now where did that come from??), I can tell they're Americans. Can you? (It's the shoes.)






And the people on the bench to the left-- surely Florentine, no?






I beg off dessert. It's time for me to slowly head back to the station. Clear blue skies notwithstanding.






And today I have a fabulous return plan: since I knew I would be taking a later train back, I thought I'd chance knocking on the door of the olive farm caretakers and to ask for a lift back from the station. It'll save me 55 uphill minutes and it's just a wee drive for him. Being an agreeable sort, he tells me he'll be there to meet the train.

And so I am back at the farm just after 5 and though it surely is not hot (at most mid seventies), I feel warm enough to go swimming. Impossible to resist!





Tomorrow may well be the one rainy day of the trip. There have been threats here and there but, up to now, I have had no need for an umbrella. It seems right to go to  the city again, don't you think? Tomorrow. I'll decide when I lift the shade and look out at the morning hills.