I wrote this as I left Florence a week ago, and haven't had internet since. I've been enjoying my stay in a 900 year old villa on the coast of the Mediterranean in Tuscany, taking day trips to medieval towns in the country, visiting castles and wineries and the island of Elba, but that's a post for another time...
There’s something romantic about riding a train. Maybe it’s
the scenery flitting by outside your window, maybe it’s the subtle feeling of
motion in your chest, that feeling of being carried and swept along as if
floating in a swift river. I’m on the train now, rushing away from Florence.
I’ve been there for five weeks now, and this morning I said goodbye. It’s been
quite the ride. Very busy, very hot, but decidedly memorable.
I love Florence. I love the art and
the history, the way the buildings are all the same yet somehow different, all
towering above narrow, winding, cobblestone streets. I love how you can walk
down some of the streets and feel as if nothing has changed in hundreds of
years. I’m not a city girl, but I got used to the hustle and bustle towards the
end. I got used to the crowded tunnel of booths surrounding Il Mercato
Centrale, which I had to walk through every day to get to class. After a few
weeks I blew right by the enchanting bundles of handbags, backpacks, belts,
journals, briefcases, boxes of wallets, bunches of scarves, magnets, Venetian
masks, dresses, sparkling jewelry, and bright purple soccer jerseys. I learned
the all important art of avoiding eye contact – something I’m not used to at
all in the states! In Italy, to lock eyes with someone, especially a
not-so-Italian street vendor selling “real” Italian leather (made in China), is
an invitation. “Signora, you like? I have different color, different size!”
“Look here, yes, you, wait, look!” By the end I kept my head up, sunglasses on,
and gaze held forward – just like a true Italian. I even got used to the cat
calls. “Ciao bella! You have a perfect eyes! Bellisimo! Signorina, you’re
breaking my heart!” These remarks, accompanied by kissy noises, whistles,
lowered sunglasses, and blatantly turning heads are simply part of the sounds
of Florence, as common as the sounds of motorbikes and shouting street vendors.
I learned un po’ Italiana too –
mostly the names for food, and by the end of it all I hardly even got lost anymore.
I found the best gelato shops (after plenty of experimenting), checked
everything off of my to do list, saw beautiful sunsets, drank good wine, made
even better friends, spent time listening to musicians play in ancient and
enchanting courtyards, beside towering churches, marble statues, and splashing
fountains. I visited the hills of Fiesole, walked along the river Arno, saw
tombs and relics and works of art, cooked Italian food and was able to do some
writing, and had the time of my life.
But five weeks later, despite
loving every second, I have to say I’m ready to leave. Florence is a city of
stone. It is a hot, brick oven that bakes in a valley until it is crispy and
brown like a hard loaf of bread. The summer sun hammers at the city until the
stones drink in the heat and spit it back in your face. The sun draws out the
awful city odors of trash and dirty water; it kicks up dust and exaggerates the
exhaust fumes of Vespas and Fiats. Sure, there are plenty of places to take
refuge. There are breezes that wash the streets with relief, cool cafés that
serve a cappuccino freddo, and there are the churches, museums, and cloisters
that offer refuge from the simmering noise. But in the end the heat can be
suffocating, and left me longing for the cool air by Lake Champlain back in
Vermont.
I started to miss the natural
beauty of Vermont and Colorado, my two homes. I missed the green, green hills,
the open sky, and grass. Florence is the city of the Renaissance, a time of
control and order. In a city of the Renaissance there is no room for nature,
which is wild and tempestuous and all too unruly. Trees and flowers leak in
through the cracks in the cobblestones, find a place in quiet courtyards, and
can even flourish in designated parks – but they never seem to belong, and are
often wrestled into geometric shapes. For all the aesthetic beauty in the
marble statues, carvings, paintings, and architecture, Florence is decidedly
lacking in natural beauty. I’ll admit it - I’m a bit of a hippie child. I grew
up in the mountains of Colorado and left for the rolling hills and lakes of
Vermont – so Florence, the city of stone, was a little bit much for me. I’ve
learned I’m not a city girl after all, and as much as I appreciated my time in
Florence, I’m ready to head for greener pastures.
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