Florence! The City Not The Maid

Because I posted my trip to the Aran Islands last night instead of posting the rest of Monster Holiday 2005, I’m feeling terribly guilty. Also, I’m home sick today with nothing else to do because Irish daytime TV is much worse than American daytime TV. Not that I’m an expert or anything…

So when we last left our intrepid adventurers we were in Rome, exhausted, standing in too many lines and saying Ciao to Silkman. We pick up our story today at the apartment on our last day of Rome. We tried to find another taxi that would take us all to the station with our luggage, but no dice. One guy loaded us all up and then refused to take all of us. He threw us out of the cab, unloaded our luggage and then drove off. We were standing by a taxi rank, so we decided to throw Hippie and the parents with the luggage in a cab and Melanie and I would walk it. Good idea. Oh wait… the terminal is about 2.5 miles from our hotel. So we grabbed a cab after a quick sprint/walk and then had him drop us off a block or two short of the station so we could tell them we walked it in record time. And they bought it. Ok, Hippie remains suspicious (until now that is). We grabbed tickets, boarded the train and pulled out of the station a mere 4 minutes later. Perfect timing.

The train ride was really lovely. When I went with UT-A we took a bus to Florence, so it was all autostrada, which does show quite a bit of the countryside, but the train just goes in more scenic routes. Melanie studied for most of the trip, she’s getting her MBA and had to bring some books along in order to be able to make the trip. Hippie helped her and Mom and Dad slept. I think they were awake for about 30 minutes and then nodded off, which is a shame because the landscape really changes dramatically, tunnels excepted. I wandered off to find some drinks and ended up in the restaurant car where people were lined up and just this side of open revolting; no order, no system, just shove up and shout out your order. Somehow I managed to be on the least crowded side of the car,(take that first class!) so I got right up to the bar and ordered. As I drank my espresso I chatted with a woman who is a lawyer in Florence but lives in Rome. She makes the 2.5 hour train ride daily. I ordered in Italian so she started speaking to me in Italian and I’m proud to say, I kept up. Until, that is, her caffeine kicked in and she went from 60MPH to 120MPH. That’s when nodding and smiling goes a long way. As does shooting the rest of your espresso and running into Mom and Dad who’ve just woken up and wandered down for some drinks. As soon as she saw them she realized I was an English speaker, said goodbye in English with a rather amused look on her face and left. The rest of the trip was uneventful, but pretty. Florence is pretty much in the North Central part of Tuscany so we got a good bit of Tuscan landscape covered on the train. It’s just so beautiful there. Tuscany is what people who’ve never been there picture in their minds when they think of Italy. It’s probably the most photographed portion of Italy. Not sure if it’s rightly so, but I rather love it there.

We pulled into Santa Maria Novella station and my first thought when I got off the train was ‘Home at last’, which is odd because I’ve never lived in Italy and certainly not at the train station. But it did feel like coming home after being gone a long time. We had lunch and after much miscommunication we finally arrived at the apartment, which is ½ block from Santa Maria della Croce. Nice little apartment with too many stair cases. We walked up the courtyard staircase and then up the building staircase to the door or the apartment. And then we walked up the staircase that leads to the apartment. It was exhausting with luggage, annoying when tipsy. Lovely place, but not nearly as nice as Rome. Ah well… can’t have everything. We took to the streets our first night and had pizza by the Duomo. That’s when I realized that I forgot to impart the golden rule of ordering pizza to Melanie and Hippie: never order pizza you can’t see. They were much happier with this slice than anything they had in Rome. Although the pizza at Dreamview in Monte di Prochida was damn good! And cheap too. How often can you get 2 large pizzas for 10 bucks? Good pizzas, not that crap they hawk at Dominos.

Anyway, Mom and Dad went home while Melanie, Hippie and I waited for my friend Franco to arrive. He was enrolled in an English course here in Dublin a few months ago. We met at a tango exhibition and got to talking; very nice man, scientist of some sort, nutrition, vitamins, supplements, that sort of thing. Anyway, he arrived and holy hell, did his English take a nose dive. We could barely understand each other. Mel and Hippie just laughed. He corrects my Italian, I correct his English. Very important friend to have. We had a bit of wine at Piazza Strozzi, whose façade is finally finished with the renovation, and then went home. Unfortunately, I can’t remember what is important about the façade, so I just told them about the piazza instead. Not a great story, but it’s at least a bit of history. What I didn’t know before we got to Florence is that Franco was invited to a birthday party while I was there and that I was also invited. I, in an utter reversal of personality, didn’t bring anything nice to wear. I have no idea what I was thinking while packing. Oh right, the painters were in, I was packing for New York and trying to order a taxi to the airport. That explains it I guess. Anyway, the next day we were scheduled to take the bus out to San Gimignano, so I wasn’t sure I was going to make it back in time. He said that was fine, give him a call, the party wasn’t til 9 anyway. Love flexibility in a person.

The next morning we woke up and Dad and I boogied over to San Lorenzo to go to daily mass. He goes every day, something I didn’t know, and really wanted to go to at least once on the trip, so we walked there and arrived just in time to find out that the priest the day before told me 9 instead of 9:30. Good mistake to make, since we were 10 minutes late. Now, I’m no stranger to the mass, but I’ve never taken in a mass in another language. And one of the things I like best about Catholicism is that the mass is the same everywhere in the world, so you can follow along and understand it even if you don’t speak the language. What a naive thought. It was like some strange performance piece; put it in a museum and it would get a Macarthur Grant no problem. The priests (of which there were several, it’s a monastery after all) opened with chanting. Sort of like the Gregorian chants but with responses. That went on for 10 minutes while Bill and I glanced at each other, confused. An old woman came in late, took her seat up front and then the mass started, at least the part we found familiar anyway. Turns out Late Woman was a reader, which we all caught onto quickly (about 5 of us attending mass, most of us English/American) and watched her for cues about kneeling, standing, sitting, all of which are important in the service. She did a reading, the main priest did a reading, there was some more chanting and then I realized they were saying the Our Father. (Nostra Padre, italian, italian, italian) We both tried to follow along in our heads, but it was just impossible; I stopped halfway thru utterly confused and then just quit. Bill said after mass that he did the same. It was just stupid. We both know the prayer as well as our addresses, but for some reason… just didn’t work. They had communion, which I’m happy to report is easily recognizable and then a few more prayers before they launched into the chanting again. I looked at Bill, he looked at me and we both nodded with that “I guess that’s it?” look on our faces so we left. A long walk home, where I picked up a new journal because I’d filled my in Rome (whee! First one ever!), we had a chance to talk, which was really nice. Bill is a man of few words, but when he does open up, there is great depth there. I found out that he goes to mass every day, he has a firm belief that he is leading the life that God wants him to and that, if you let him, God will take care of you in ways you’d never thought possible. He’s a man of deep, deep spirituality and I really enjoyed our walk home.

Melanie, Hippie, Bill and I loaded up and headed out to San Gimignano for the day. Twila had foot surgery a month previously, which no one told me about, and she was having to nurse the swelling down. Had I known, I would have thrown everyone on a bus tour instead of hiking all over creation. These things are important… Anyway, SG is a hill town and the hiking/climbing is pretty aggressive, so she opted to rest for the day so she could enjoy the rest of the trip. It’s a very grown up decision which I would never had made myself. I guess that’s why I’m not a grown up at this age. (29 and holding strong. Again.)

SG just drips with atmosphere. It’s so impossibly lovely, you can scarcely believe that people live there normally, it's not a movie set. A large portion of it is given over to tourism, but once you get off the beaten path, it’s just breath-takingly lovely. It’s a walled city that at one time featured something like 30+ bell towers, of which 7 survive (something like that anyway). The whole city is on top of a hill, hence hill town, and has the most amazing views out into the countryside. The streets wind in a medieval pattern, the houses spring up where you least expect it; walk a bit further and the street curves, turns down and reveals a vista with the hills of another town in the distance. It’s just so, so…. You’ve just got to experience it to understand. It’s the most commercial of the hill towns, because it’s a mere 45 minutes from Florence, but I really don’t care. We went into the church, a first for me, and found quite a spectacular display of frescoes. It’s a working church, by which I mean they celebrate mass on the weekends, have baptisms, marriages, etc. (I'd get married there, it was a great little space) but they have it set up well for tourists to come in an have a look at a medieval church. All I can see in my mind is the light thru the windows, the royal blue on the ceiling and the fresco Hippie and I discussed, which we decided was about the 7 deadly sins. It was chilling. Honestly, if someone had shown me, as a child, these damnation images, I would have been a model child. They scare me.

Melanie and Hippie climbed the tallest tower and I wandered by myself, tasting a bit of wine, buying the local specialty of olive oil bath products. I looked for a shawl for Dan’s wedding, but found nothing so I took myself to eat. Sitting on a covered patio, watching the tourists on the main shopping street, writing in my new journal (red leather bound!) and sipping a local white wine; that’s my idea of a quality day in Tuscany. At the appointed hour, sadly, we boarded the bus back to Florence. But the group took good care of me and purchased wine for the ride home. Bill and I sat a few seats back with our own bottle and for the first time on the trip, I heard him say “Wow…” as we rounded a corner. I think that’s when he really started to watch the countryside.

We had a good talk and decided that I should go to the party with Franco. I felt guilty leaving them, but really, it was a great chance to practice my language skills and it’s not like they’re children or anything. So Bill and I hit every store on the way back to the apartment in a vain effort to find something to wear. I forgot the golden rule of European department stores: I can help you find something in my department, but no where else in the store. And by department I mean Brand. I can help you with Levis but not Guess jeans, even though they are next to each other. You can use my dressing rooms only if you’re trying on my clothes and don’t even think about trying to purchase anything else here. I stormed out of the store angry and without a skirt to wear. Luckily and against all odds, I ducked into the Chinese store next to the apartment, because they had clothing in the window; granted it was displayed like a 7-11 but I was desperate. I spoke just enough Italian to tell them what I needed (vorrai una gonna per la festa di compleanno per la mia amicha) and both the man and the woman jumped up and began scouring the store for me. Within 10 minutes I was leaving with a black corduroy skirt that fits perfectly and only cost $15. I changed, Hippie approved, call Franco and he came and picked me up.

Franco, I found out, is the responsible one in his group of university friends; the only one with a real career. He drives a Mercedes and wears Prada suits, something they make fun of him for in the way that only good old friends can. He also has a trunk packed with nutrition supplements. And the flowers that he got his friend for her birthday. We walked into the apartment, made the introductions and then I realized that it wasn’t a birthday party. It was a birthday dinner party. Seated. At a table. Of all Italian speakers. No way to excuse myself when my language fell short. Yeah… Luckily, the hostess spoke a little English and we chatted, but I really felt sorry that she was stuck with me instead of her friends on her birthday. I got a lot of thinking done at dinner. The food was amazing and I’m so glad I went. His friends are nice, except the one girl that has Franco in her sights. And really, after a bit of wine she wasn’t so bad. She wasn’t nice, but what can you expect? I was a surprise. Oh, I just have to tell you about this apartment, well one particular thing that I coveted. ok other than the Bulthaup kitchen. She’s just lucky I didn’t have a Swiss Army Knife with me! The walls were painted stark white and at the base were the orange electrical plates. Clear acrylic, back-painted bright orange. They were gorgeous!! And the dining room had gold ones. Such a small thing and it made such a big impact. It was just funky, which, when you think about it, is rather stupid. But it worked! I want colored electrical plates…

On the drive home he took me to Piazza Michaelangelo, which overlooks the entire city and has a replica of the David at it’s center. It was an amazing view. The dome was lit up in the center, the lights twinkling below, the river flowing and reflecting the lights of the Ponte Vecchio. Perfect way to the end the night.

We hit the leather market the next morning. Melanie, Hippie, and I had major shoe shopping to do, so we left the parents and hit every shoe store in Florence. Hippie was the first to find a pair. Lovely black stylish shoes. Melanie was next, absolutely beaming when she put the sandles on. I found the perfect oxford for me: burnt orange, my price range, suede. But I live in Dublin where it rains all the time. There isn’t enough scotch guard in the world to keep from ruining those babies. I actually whimpered when I set them down. And that was just the harbinger… I went with a shopping list that included: 1 pair black flats, 1 pair brown flats, a shawl (success) and shoes for the wedding, orange gloves (success), Harry Potter in Italian (success), rosary for Dan and Jenn (success), something for Sammi and Andy (double success), Vatican DVD for Mom and Dad (success), Limoncello (success), black and brown belts (success). See the theme there? Shoe capital of Italy and I couldn’t find one damn pair under 500 Euro that would be suitable. I feel like a failure. And I panicked because after Florence, we have 2 days in Venice and then I go to New York for the wedding, where I most desperately need the shoes!! I need to purify my shoe karma I think. I did find that I adore suede shoes. Every pair I pick up is suede. With the notable exception of the Italian shoes I found before the trip that are still perfect and still too expensive.

So we met up with the parents and while waiting for Mel and Hippie to finish bargaining for leather jackets, I sat with Twila, who purchased a new purse. She was busy transferring everything into the new one when an evil idea entered her mind. Honestly I don’t know where she got it, but it was genius. She took the old bag, stuffed it with the papers from the new and went over to a vendor stall where she set it down to look at some things. Then she came back and sat down so we could watch and see what happened. It took about 3 minutes before the fist people noticed the bag. They stopped, pointed at it, had a discussion about what to do and then moved on. We rolled with laughter. About 4 more groups of people stopped to see it, only one of which picked it up to see if it was full, and yet no one, not one single person made off with the bag, turned it in to the vendor or alerted the police who were a mere 10 feet away. So, while it’s easy to get your pockets picked, but it’s nearly impossible to get your bag stolen. It was fascinating to watch. I would have loved to sit there for longer but we had to go home and get ready for dinner.

I made reservations at Osteria del Rendola, my favorite place in the world. After talking them into an expensive dinner, and talking up the place, we were all excited about dinner. It’s a 45 minute train ride east of Florence in an unremarkable town called Montevarchi, where I had one of the best days of my life on a previous trip. When we arrived at the train station, my headache kicked in, so Hippie got me aspirin while I bought the tickets. That’s when he noticed that there was something wrong with our train. We stood in line at the information booth for decades (well it felt like it anyway) only to get to the front to find our train was 30 minutes delayed, which put us in Montevarchi too late for our reservation. Well, we could get there in time, but we’d only have 45 minutes at best to eat and then catch the last train home. By that time, my headache went from pounding to “please shoot me” migraine, so Hippie and Mel had to get our tickets changed/refunded, while I put my head down on the table in McDonalds and begged for death. Train stations are loud… They got it all taken care of and I poured myself in a cab and went home. Poor driver. No, dick driver. He was yelling at me for something, I can’t remember what, but just being mean to me when I rolled down the window and almost threw up. That shut him up; oh that’s what it was… he was upset that I only had a 50 euro note for my 7 euro fare. He counted the change quickly when he realized he had a sick woman in the front seat of his car. I made it up the stairs and passed out until my head felt better about 4 am. Franco had called to see if I wanted to have drinks after I got back from Montevarchi, since I was leaving the following morning. Sigh… Not how I planned my last night in Florence.

The next morning, the Stovers decided to go to daily mass at Santa Croce. Hippie and I packed and got ready to clear out of Florence. When they got back I asked how it was and Melanie gave me a wry smile saying that it was in English, since there was a tour group from Tennessee or someplace and they made arrangements to have mass said in English. Not how they planned their last morning in Florence.

On to Venice then.