Firenze nella Primavera Part 2

 

Palazzo Pitti (courtesy of Guide du Routard)

Part 1 & 3

7 min. read

On the second day of my Florence trip, I wake up to the demoralising sound of incessant rain. The squally weather has continued throughout the night. For some, poor weather doesn't impede their enjoyment of a holiday. I’m not one of those people. It’s a bitter irony that I’ve left clear blue skies and mild climes in usually rainy Belgium to be soaked in Italy. 

I have booked a place on a sunset tour. I can only pray it won’t be a wash out.

I’ve heard so much about the beauty of Florence. It could be my moodiness or the bad weather - or both - but I’m yet to be floored. Don’t get me wrong, the city has an impressive topography. It often reminds me of Nice. Travelling for pleasure is a privilege. I’m grateful to be here. However, from all I’ve heard I expected to be left breathless. Perhaps I need to see more.

On Brenda’s recommendation, I’ve set half a day aside to visit the Palazzo Pitti. Brenda has a soft spot for castles and palaces. I’m not habitually one for museums or houses of artefacts unless there’s a particular exhibition I’m eager to see. Nonetheless, on my friend’s suggestion, I give it a go. It’s also well-timed. I can at least shelter from the downpour.

I bus it to the Palace, taking in more of Florence’ cityscape. The streets are more dated than I envisaged. It might sometimes be on the shabby side but there’s a defiance to it that I respect. As if the City has pushed against a certain interpretation of so-called modernity. Of course, there are still the usual-suspect high street shops, luxury-brand boutiques and European supermarket chains but the Centre is not as glossy as some major cities. Then again, my interpretation could be romanticised and it has more to do with economic limitations than active resistance to a contemporary upgrade.

The majestic-sized Palazzo is tucked away behind quiet side streets. So much so that en route, I worry I’m mistaken. 

There’s some issue with my reservation that delays my entry. It involves me panic-searching for wi-fi to download the voucher on my laptop once again.

Once safely inside, I wander at leisure. I dutifully visit as many of the opulent rooms as possible in the Medici-Hapsburg's old stomping ground. I take special interest in the freschi depicting biblical scenes as well as Roman and Greek mythology. I contemplate how so many of these images – or similar – are ingrained in the collective conscience. If we have a tendency to perceive God in our own likeness, then the Eurocentric ideal has been imposed on us all. I look upon portrait after portrait of chinless (mostly male) white folk, with almost nary a brown face to break up the monotony. A notable exception is a depiction of Balthasar – one of the visiting Magi at the Epiphany, and the only of African descent according to legend.

Between rooms, I glimpse the inviting sprawl of the Giardino di Boboli through the vast windows. The rain has stopped and the sun is attempting to peep through. It would be an opportune time to head out to the grounds. Yet, for some reason, I feel obligated not to rush my visit, even if by now the Garden is of more interest to me than the exhibits.

Giardino di Boboli (Viator)

I study Raphael’s portrait of Medici-spawned Pope Leo ‘Indulgences’ X. I glide through an immersive exhibition of son-of-Florence, Father-of-the-Italian-language Dante’s Divine Comedy. By then, the rains have returned. I head to the Boboli Garden anyway. It will be my only chance to do so on my brief Fiorentine visit. I don’t spend as long on that expansive terrain as I would or should. The rain is literally dampening my mood. I also need to grab some lunch and check emails before my sunset tour.

On quitting Il Palazzo, observing the gathering crowds, I'm relieved that - by pure coincidence - I chose a calmer moment to tour the site. 

I have plenty of time before my next appointment. Neither is it too far away. I give myself an over half an hour window. I shouldn't need to rush. 

By chance, I board a bus on diversion that drops me tantalisingly close to where the tour group is supposed to meet; Santa Maria Novella Square. There's a few more minutes to go. I’m having trouble locating the exact spot. I think I’m in the right place but see no group. I ask a passer-by in the most basic Italian. She confirms with much certitude. I wait. Still no group. I ask another, gruffer stranger if this is indeed Maria Novella Sq. 

No, the other side, she says waving vaguely behind her.

I arrive to find only Spanish and Italian groups gathered. Usually, guides stick around an extra 10 minutes or so for latecomers. Not this time. I circulate the Square in desperation, fuming that I’ve been given misleading information. I ask one of the other guides for help, when I see a gap in his discourse. He kindly gives me his colleague’s number and points me to where they've headed. I have no joy locating the group, nor getting hold of the guide. When he does finally answer, he’s in a hurry.  I'm none the wiser concerning his whereabouts.

I’m royally pissed off. It’s too early for dinner. My late lunch is still digesting. Although the rain has stopped, it remains gloomy overhead. I’m in no mood to wander the streets of central Florence. I need to sit somewhere and calm down without the pressure to buy anything. 

I jump on a random bus and take it wherever it leads. This mini-city hop is just what I need to defuse. Bus 23 takes me far from the tourist spots, into the suburbs and back again. From the warmth and relative comfort of the bus, I pass through ‘real’ Fiorentine neighbourhoods; not unlike where my AirBnB is based. All over the city I notice rainbow flags with Pace – or Peace – inscribed in white legend. I assume this is in solidarity with the people of Ukraine.

My detour lasts longer than I anticipate. I journey back to the City Centre, ready for a delicious gnocchi and shrimp supper in the Piazza di San Lorenzo area once again.

Tuttomondo by the late Keith Haring
(Turismo Pisa)

The following morning, I awake to the optimistic sight of blue skies and some sunshine from my loft room window. It’s a marked difference from the prior morning.

I hear low voices and moving outside the bedroom; as I have done late the previous night. My hosts, no doubt. (Or their meddlesome dog, who prowls around at all hours). I’m yet to meet Sandra or her husband. My only impression is formed from ample photos dotted around the house of when they were both young and incontrovertibly beautiful.

When I step out for my day’s excursion, they’re nowhere to be seen.

I have planned an afternoon trip to another celebrated Tuscany town, Pisa. Before I catch my train, I treat myself to crêpes, overlooking Santa Maria Novella Square. As the café staff converse, I enjoy the exaggerated musicality of the Italian language. Throughout my holiday, I will sound out numerous signs and street names, trying to revive my once dormant Italian knowledge. If the grammar escapes me, most of the pronunciation remains intact. The voice in my head isn’t usually my own, however. Rather that of my erstwhile, currently estranged, Italian BFF.

The train to Pisa is clean, modern and comfortable. Zipping out of Florence, as the verdant hills that survey the city gradually fade into the distance, it grows cloudy once more. I dip in and out of sleep, disturbed by the pungent body odour of the man sitting behind me. I flinch when a passenger takes up the adjacent seat. Since the pandemic, I’m not at ease with strangers sitting next to me on public transport.

I arrive half an hour before the tour starts. I order what’s to be the most indulgent hot chocolate I’ve had outside of Spain. 

The waitress makes it clear she doesn’t want to serve me. She feigns attending to other -paler- customers, glancing in my direction whilst I stand at the till with cash in hand. Her kinder elderly colleague shoots her a quizzical look before accepting my payment.

I connect with the guide, Alice (pronounced Ali-che) and the rest of the group at Vittorio Emanuele Square. Our first stop is the famous Keith Haring mural, Tuttomondo, behind Sant'Antonio church. 

Alice is vivacious and the small group are mostly a friendly bunch. I get speaking to a woman from Manchester, doing a tour of Northern Italy for a couple of weeks with a friend. She’s accompanied by another Brit gentleman, whom she has apparently just met.

 I find Pisa more immediately enchanting than Florence, maybe also because the weather has improved. We walk unhurriedly through the high street towards Miracle Square, with Alice indicating her favourite food spots and where to purchase the best gelato. Unlike my previous Italian excursions, I’ve exercised restraint in my ice cream purchases thus far, not yet conceding to the abundant temptation.

We approach the famed tower, by way of Piazza dei Cavalieri. I'm caught off guard by the verdant surroundings. The Leaning Tower is also smaller than I imagined. Yet, I’m pleasantly surprised rather than underwhelmed. Alice explains how the proximity to water and its impact on the tower's foundation has resulted in the slanted quality, as well as what has been done to stabilise it through the centuries. 

Across the picturesque Miracle Square, tourists strike  derivative poses in front of the tower, pretending that they are holding it askew.

As the tour draws to a close, I regret not coming earlier so I could take more digressions. Brenda suggested it could all be done in half a day. I took the advice too literally. There’s no time to see the Cathedral; free of charge but requiring reservation with a waiting list of a couple of hours. I won’t be able to obtain a slot before I have to catch a train back to Florence. 

There’s enough time to perambulate the grounds, pick up some souvenirs from a nearby market and find something to eat; a wonderful swordfish salad at a health-conscious café. I drop into Sant'Antonio before hopping a train back to Florence. I enter just before mass is about to begin. A homeless man, his entire head covered in benign tumours of various sizes, comes in and out of the sanctuary, asking each and everyone for spare change. I’m distracted by my own thoughts as well as all the movement.

I leave as mass starts.

That evening, I’ll indulge my pizza craving for the first time on my trip. 

 After dinner, en route to Stazione Nationale, I stop to buy some Tuscanised meringue from a Gambian-Fulani man who speaks five languages, three of them indigenous. I’m envious. You’re blessed, I tell him.

I’m a lot more confident now manoeuvring around Florence City Centre.

For the only time on the entire trip, I'm back at the accommodation before 10pm.

Soundtrack: We Are the Children of the Sun - Various artists: compiled by Paul Hillery (BBE records) + I Wish I Knew Natalie Portman (Can't Really Make You Love Me) - by K-Os.