Taking Florence's pulse and mine

Dante considered Florence a den of snakes, and I can see why, but he also lamented his exile from this bejeweled city and I can absolutely see why -- years into my own (voluntary?) exile from Florence.

It’s truly beguiling as cities go -- not one you can write off easily (though he and I have both tried!).

Beguiling describes its allures and also its current state, mired as it is in overtourism -- but can we blame anyone for wanting to visit this enchanting city I once called home?

(Not unlike the notion that Italy is familiar to me, I also revel in saying that Florence is a city I once called home. Maybe how native-born Manhattanites feel? Though that level of entitlement I could never approach). 

As I write, I’m sitting in a living room on Via della Vigna Vecchia – not #1 but rather #12, and outside, from a tiny terrace, there’s an up close-and-personal view of the tower in Palazzo Vecchio. At this moment, the churches are chiming out 7 o’clock and I feel compelled to go out on the terrace to hear the bells – like the world coming alive in surround sound.

We arrived on Monday, and as usual, I have professed my love for Florence -- and spent time getting reacquainted with her -- by walking her streets. That is the way for me to take the city’s pulse, and my own. Will you grow weary of reading that only when I have prowled the streets for hours each day do I feel as though I am truly visiting Florence? Speriamo no.

Denise posted on Facebook that she was at the Shore for her birthday, and I had a serious case of FOMO.

And yet, while she was at the beach, I was meeting with my one-time roommate, Irene, and her husband, and reveling in the joys of old friendships. We chose to meet up at this ridiculously cool bar by the Sant’Ambrogio market, where Mike and I found seats outside while we waited but when Irene arrived, she said, “Well, have you seen the internal courtyard?” I had not and let’s just say the nuns who once lived at the convent now converted into a bar had some nice green space (would they have enjoyed the glass of Bolgheri we had? Maybe).

Yesterday I found two books I’d been looking for at the Florence branch of Il Libraccio: Vita immaginaria by Ginzburg and Lettera da Francoforte by Edith Bruck (finally!). Who knows how many more books I’ll try to schlep home? The quantity I’d like to buy is probably a number in the low three figures.

I also shopped at my old market (in Italian, Il Mercato di Sant’Ambrogio) yesterday. Still authentic, still wonderful, still selling qualche etto di prosciutto (crudo, always crudo, for chrissakes) that I can’t resist.

State of the city: positively infested with tourists, and the main part of centro storico is now full of snack stops for tourists, as I wrote during an earlier trip. If back then, there were 15 snack stops (panini shops, wine bars geared toward foreigners, convenience stores) in a half-mile, now there are 40.

State of Leonardo (as he is known here, not far from Vinci, home of the other Leonardo): Well, we saw my old friend, Chiara, last night for a walk through centro & then dinner, which was lovely until we said our goodbyes and Leo yelled at me, “Three hours of you talking in Italian!” But what was nice: I suggested we go to a bookstore (so Chiara could pick out a book for her upcoming vacation) but instead she said she wanted to find Andremo in città, (i.e., the book I translated) which they didn’t have (alas).

I spend my days taking an inventory of what was and what is. My old tower of course is still there but now at the base, there’s yet another restaurant for tourists (meanwhile our bread bakery not far away is long gone; oh the focaccia you could get there!). At Vivoli, there’s a line out the door – not so surprising, as even at 8:30 a.m., gelato is yummy (apparently) – but they’ve also expanded and taken over the corner grocery Paola used to run. I guess no one needs gorgonzola anymore.

Morning coffee with biscotti: enjoyed on the tiny terrace while the Torre di Arnolfo looks on (see above). The only cool respite in a city baked by the August sun.

My church is open most days and more gorgeous than I remember (just a neighborhood church) plus the ‘Crazy Drycleaner’ (our nickname, not the name of his shop) is still there – but the macellaria (butcher) where we bought the Thanksgiving turkey one year is gone.

This morning, I wandered around town in the early morning hours while Leo and Mike slept and managed to get across the river to Piazza Santo Spirito where I had a cappuccino at Caffe Ricchi – a sign by the macchinetta del caffe read, “Cappuccino di Soia: 1.80,” and when I asked about it, the barman said, “Sa di cartone.” (Soy cappuccino/‘It tastes like cardboard’).

Other spots I’ve visited on foot: San Niccolo a tiny bit. Via dei Serragli (the door to my old apartment building isn’t green anymore. Was I consulted?). Borgo Pinti/Via degli Artisti (to visit the Giuntina publishing company).

Most of the time when I stop to write something in my journal, I’m completely unsure where to begin but completely sure five days in Florence will not be enough in any universe I’m a part of.

We’ve also been walking in the mountains with Giovanni and his wife, Veronica. The mountains above the city of Pistoia, which Giovanni knows like the back of his hand. We set off on foot from his family’s mountain cabin, and they even brought along a dog – called Dante!!! – with whom Leo almost immediately bonded. He took Dante’s leash and was frequently the one walking him during our long-ish hike. After we left Florence, he had been sullen and seemed tired in the car but when the dog appeared, he was the Leo of old. He kept saying, “Hi, Dante!” “Here, Dante.” “Oh, Dante you’re so cute.”

I don’t fully know what Robert Frost meant when, poised before two roads that ‘diverged in a yellow wood,’ he said he was “sorry I could not travel both/And be one traveler,” but I feel quite certain he would appreciate my dilemma. Would that I could be one traveler – but I cannot. I can only keep up my Italian back in the US, and be a minor ambassador for Italian literature, buoyed by the sheer ecstasy of knowing another language (and not just any language) – all the while biding my time until I am reunited with il paese dove il si suona.

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