Firenze nella Primavera Part 1

Florence City Centre ( (c) Life in Italy)

6 min. read

Sometime in March, Karin shares that she’s returning to her old Tuscany stomping ground after Easter. She plans to spend a week at her Alma Mater in Florence to make some progress on her PhD. 

Japan is still closed to tourists. Hopes of visiting my sister in the Spring are fast vanishing.

Why not come out whilst I'm in Florence? Karin suggests.

Despite a desire to see more of Italy, I have a number of reservations. It’s one part of Europe I’ve never visited alone and for good reason. My limited experience – namely Sicily, and, on that occasion, with family – has made me very wary of solitary travell within Italy. Particularly as a woman of West African descent. The attention alternates between flattering and perturbing. Based on my Sicilian experience, it felt very fetishised.

Moreover recently, for reasons both personal and professional, my feelings towards Italy - or rather some of its people - are somewhat complicated.

On the other hand, it would be an opportunity to visit the Italian mainland for the first time. I hear only good things about Florence – at least to visit. One of my Teutonic darlings, Brenda, just returned and has been effusive with praise. My Auntie. J raves about the City when, during my last UK trip, I mention that I might visit. 

I bump into a sweet Italian lass at a social in central Brussels one Friday night. She assures me Florence would be one of the safest places to visit for a solo female traveller… The signs are promising. Plus, the thought of Karin being in town at the same moment is comforting. She lived in the city for three years before relocating to Brussels.

Thanks to a recent, healthy-sized tax rebate from the Belgian state, I’m thus able to book a long weekend in Bella Firenze on a reasonable budget. Although, my dates will overlap with Karin’s, she warns she won’t have much availability. Not to worry, I reassure. I’m pretty seasoned at this solo travel thing. Based on a few of Brenda’s suggestions, I waste no time putting together a busy itinerary, including several guided tours. I’ll thus be content if Karin and I can meet up for dinner once or twice.

My connection to Florence goes without a hitch. For once, I don’t camp out at the airport, opting for a more comfortable night in my own bed and an early commute for a 9am flight.

To my relief, masks are still mandatory on the plane. I'll observe that this precaution is taken far more seriously in Italy than Belgium or the UK.

I call a friend from the airport, to wish him happy birthday.

Say hello to the Medicis for me, he quips.

San Lorenzo Basilicum (courtesy of The Florentine)

The skies are sombre when we touch down. Mere weeks ago when I booked, the forecast was far more optimistic. For that reason, I’ve packed mostly light clothing. 

Whilst negotiating the Florentine tram and bus system, the sun makes an encouraging appearance. 

In all my planning, I forget to research how to commute around Florence.  I'm apprehensive about asking for help. My two years of  GCSE Italian have evaporated. Blame it on only blagging my way to an 'A' based on prior knowledge of Latin and modern Romance languages, as well as lack of practice. I still have some passive knowledge. However, if I try to speak Italian my brain defaults to French, or more likely these days, my pre-intermediate Portuguese. I’m thus reliant on Italians whose linguistic palate overlaps with mine. With Florence being a major tourist destination, that turns out not to be a problem.

Moving around the City, my first impression is that it’s more multicultural than I presumed. I wouldn’t be a novelty here. During my short holiday I'll meet émigrés from the Philippines, Bangladesh, Francophone West Africa and the Middle East, to name a few. Many of the Africans I come across are  street vendors. It calls to mind something Karin said about the limited socio-economic prospects for migrants from that part of the Global South. She's experienced it first hand through her husband's travails.

Once I’ve pegged the transport system, I find my way to my accommodation without issue. Save for the disconcerting ammonia smell associated with urine, it appears to be a decent neighbourhood.

My host, Sandra, has already informed me she’ll be out of town. I find a Dental surgery when I rock up at the address. I study again my printed AirBnB information and Google Map instructions. It’s the correct address, all right. I ring the bell. A smiling brunette pokes her head out of the window. She introduces herself as Sandra’s daughter, Anna. Her dad is indeed a dentist. They live next door to his surgery.

Anna shows me around the capacious premises. The house is high and narrow; the guestroom too far from the shared bathing facilities. There are also no suitable European-standard plug sockets, which will be a small headache as far as charging my devices are concerned. 

I’ll be staying in Anna’s old bedroom; nicknamed the Sweet Cherry Room for its red and pink motif.

I compliment Anna on her command of English. Her maternal grandmother is from the West Country, she reveals. Anna has no problem understanding English but always responded to her mother in Italian as a child (A phenomenon I’ve never quite understood, although witnessing my mother do the same when my Nan spoke to her in Efik). Anna speaks English well enough, but not with the ease of someone who grew up fully bilingual.

I have a couple of hours to nap, freshen up and grab a bite before I head off to my first walking tour.

As I leave the accommodation, the weather is taking a turn for the worse. I arrive at the designated stop in good time. Except my Google map instructions don’t account for diversions. I’m far from the meeting point. With a few minutes to spare, I stop at a Middle Eastern Street Food café for refreshment and directions. The Palestinian waiter, with dazzling blue eyes and fluid English, assists with both. Alas, it’s not as straightforward a journey as I anticipate. I call the guide but he’s not responding. 

There are a number of multilingual groups in San Lorenzo square when I eventually reach. Hopeful, I join one. I’m told mine have already set off. I improvise and accompany a group led by Amanda, a Brazilian settled in Italy for many years.

Ponte Vecchio (courtesy of Florence Tips)

Not surprisingly, the tour focuses on one of Western history's most infamous families, the Medici, their dalliance with the equally well-known Hapsburgs and their sponsorship of oeuvres by various Renaissance greats. Amanda mentions in passing other sites on my itinerary such as the Palazzo Pitti and the Dome’s famous Clock Tower with its 400+ steps. The tour draws to a close at one of many great landmarks; Piazza della Signoria, where stands a replica of Michelangelo's iconic David, much larger than I anticipate. According to Amanda, the original is even bigger. Still, I don't have the overwhelming urge to visit the Uffizi gallery to see for myself.

After the tour concludes, I do a circuit around the Ponte Vecchio area before heading back towards San Lorenzo Square; recommended by Amanda for good eateries. She advises us to steer clear of the Ristorantes in favour of the Trattoria or Osteria, where we can find local food that won’t break the bank (tourism aside, eating out in Florence is not as economical as I’d expect from this part of Europe). 

In spite – or maybe because of – the rain, Ponte Vecchio takes on a romantic, if melancholy, charm as the sun slowly descends. 

I congratulate myself on tracing my steps back to San Lorenzo. I’m drawn to one establishment, partly because I spy an elegant young African waitress; some unconscious solidarity at play. I guess correctly that she’s from Senegal and avail myself of the French practice.

From experience, Italy is not the easiest place to watch one’s waistline. There’ll be no daily consumption of pizza or gelato for me. I remain vigilant, factoring in one ‘treat’ day over the weekend.

I order some stodgy traditional Fiorentine soup – closer to a thick casserole – and delicious Ricotta. For a change, I’m not the only person dining alone that evening. An American sits at the adjacent table. I assume he’s waiting for a friend. When I ask for the bill, I note he’s still on his own. I wonder if I should make conversation or if it will be misread. The moment passes.

I don’t see my Senegalese lovely when settling the bill. I’m left in the care of her icier colleague. I ask for directions to the Stazione Nazionale. They’re so vague and suspiciously simple, I don’t have much confidence in them. Rightly so. I spend the best part of the next hour, wandering around central Florence, relying on the (un)help of strangers; locals and tourists. Even when using their smartphones, some misjudge the instructions. 

En route, a couple of drunk young leery types call out, in broken English:

Mama Africa! I love woman Africa.

Almost at my wits end, I ask yet another passer-by. He's also heading to the station. I reluctantly follow. When he proves legit, I regret my initial trepidation. 

I reach the accommodation close to midnight. Anna is waiting for me with a smile. I explain sheepishly why it’s taken me so long to come back. Not that she asks.

 Part 2 & 3

Soundtrack: We Are the Children of the Sun - Various artists: compiled by Paul Hillery (BBE records)