Firenze nella Primavera Part 3

(NomAdvisor)

Part 1 & 2

9 min. read

Over half way through my holiday, and I bump into Sandra, my AirBnB host for the first time. I’m on my way out to meet Karin for a special one-off service at her old church, Tapestry. I’m worried I’ll miss my bus but don’t want to be impolite. It turns out that Anna is the spitting image of her mother. Sandra apologises for all the issues with the sporadic wifi.

I just manage to catch my bus to town to link up with Karin at Tapestry. She’s warned me that, although based in Italy with an international congregation, it’s very much culturally American. Tapestry hires an arthouse cinema for their Sunday services. 

 Karin does the rounds, introducing me to some of her old church family. I meet Ron, who will be taking the sermon. He seems nervous. I assume he’s just an extreme introvert.

Karin anticipates that I might not find the musical worship segment inspiring. It’s a part of corporate worship with which I’ve always struggled for some reason I'm yet to understand. More recently, the cultural hegemony of the song styles makes me disengage all the more. I don’t want to approach it like Christian Karaoke, only singing what pleases me. At the same time I've found the monotony discouraging, particularly at my Belgian church. 

 I sit and try to contemplate whilst the singing continues, occasionally joining in. I perk up at the Italian translation of the lyrics. After announcements, Ron takes to the podium to preach from Acts. The message is tepid, his communication of it wooden. I sense too limited an interpretation of -and thus expectation from -the role of prayer in the Christian life. Karin will explain to me that Tapestry don’t much believe in miracles or healing.  The whole atmosphere is quite staid. 

It’s only after the service, that things liven up. Karin asks me to join her in prayer for one of her friends, which is an encouragement all round. Before we leave, we speak to the only Afrodescendant regulars, Nathaniel from Cameroon and Aline from Congo, who will be shortly taking a sabbatical in Belgium. Karin and I insist we all meet up when she’s in town.

It’s raining again. That Sunday will be the worst weather day of the holiday; almost relentlessly wet and chilly. We walk into town to an establishment Brenda suggested for lunch. Despite it being Sunday, and a soaked one at that, the streets are crowded.

This is nothing, says Karin. You should have seen Ponte Vecchio before the pandemic. Packed like sardines, she claims. 

 There are numerous markets in session, something I’ve not paid much attention to on this trip.

When we arrive at the restaurant, it’s already familiar to Karin. She’s somewhat underwhelmed, having also heard it talked up by Brenda.

The restaurant is nonetheless inviting, with a good view of the Arno river. Over panini, salad, apple tart and hot drinks, Karin shares more insight into the spiritual climate in that part of Italy. It paints a grim picture of hierarchy, authoritarian forms of church leadership and beleaguered missionaries. She sheds some light on Ron’s dour sermon. She believes he’s lost his spark; under pressure to conform to the style and personal theology of the (currently absent) senior pastor.

It’s hard to have hope for the positive impact of the worldwide Church when I hear of leadership so set in their patriarchal, not to mention, monocultural ways. I believe God is ready to do a new thing but are we? The ripples of change will - must - come from below and not above, as another church sister recently posited.

Lunch ends up being on Karin.

The rain is torrential. We try to wait it out but there’s no let-up. Karin has come by bike but suggests we walk back to her friend’s flat, where she’s based. The downpour is so bad, she has to abandon the bicycle in town so we can catch the bus.

When it arrives, I realise it’s the same that I use to commute to and from my accommodation. It dawns on Karin that we’ve been staying in the same neighbourhood the whole time. We regret the days and nights that have passed when we could have reconnected more easily than we thought. We vow to make up for lost time in the last couple of days of my visit.

The flat is spacious, luminous and clean. Better still, Karin has it all to herself whilst her host is away. It’s one of the very few times since marrying that she’s had extended quality time on her own.

I spend a leisurely few hours at Karin’s temporary pad. I had considered an afternoon near the coast in Livorno. The awful weather has put paid to the idea. On the plus side, it means more quality time with Karin.

She has an engagement in the suburbs and I’m returning to town for dinner. We plan to see each other once more before I fly back to Brussels.

So much for a Sunday lull. Piazza di San Lorenzo seems busier than ever. There’s no room at the Inn when I ask for a table at a Trattoria I’ve had my eye on. I manage to talk my way into a cosy joint with a swanky Jazz soundtrack, where I order a traditional Tuscan red meat stew.

I move on after dinner; once again for a food-related trek on Brenda’s recommendation. I’m finally permitting myself a gelato break at an artisanal parlour the other side of Ponte Vecchio. 

Tour guides have advised which are the trustworthy establishments. The more mountainous the ice cream display, the lower the quality. The best places keep their wares out of sight in covered refrigeration. Brenda’s recommendation fits this description. I order a brioche stuffed with white chocolate and cinnamon and lavender iced dessert. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting but the experience is a tad anti-climactic. It’s not helped that I can’t enjoy my iced bounty in the shop itself, still under COVID-precautions. I have no choice but to eat whilst roaming the streets, romantic as they are whilst the last strains of sunlight leave the sky.

I feel I need another go at the gelato. I capitulate and buy some treats at a dessert bar where they serve eye-catching, tourist-bait mounds. Maybe because my expectations are lowered, I prefer the experience. One punter keeps giving me the eye. I make a swift and discreet exit.

Back at the accommodation, Sandra is up late. She introduces me to her husband, Pietro for whom, contrary to my assumptions, age has not diminished his dashing good-looks.

The following morning, I bump into Sandra again on my way out. It’s my last full day in Florence. The weather is forecast to be mercifully dry with sunny intervals. It's also a national holiday, as it is in Portugal, commemorating the end of fascist rule in Italy. Businesses and attractions will either be shut or heaving with people.

I optimistically don my sandals for the first time. They’ll come in handy. I ask Sandra for directions into town by foot. It’s supposed to be a relatively short jaunt from the house, according to the AirBnB reviews. 

I pass the neighbourhood where Karin is staying and only get temporarily lost at a junction. Apart from being harassed by a homeless man in an underpass, it's smooth sailing-or walking - once I find my bearings. I’ve already become fairly well-acquainted with central Florence since my early experience of being hopelessly lost.

I set out in plenty of time to make my first appointment of the day; an express tour of the City's jewel, the Cathedral Dome.  I stop to make brief conversation with a Senegalese street vendor. Strapped to her back is an adorable baby boy, his skin like deep, melted chocolate.  Before I even confirm her origin, I instinctively address her in French. Life is hard in Italy, she laments. She presumes it's easier in Belgium. I disabuse her of any illusions of a multicultural, egalitarian utopia. If racism is pervasive, I've found it takes on a strong flavour in mainland Europe, wherever I live. The racism in Belgium might simply be less flagrant than what she's experienced in Italy.  She generously offers me a free small bracelet. I insist on at least giving her a token amount.

Inside the Santa Maria de Fiore dome

Back at the Dome, the tour group gather in front of the Museo della Misericordia - The Museum of Mercy.  The ticket allows us to bypass the depressingly long queues to access the Cathedral Santa Maria de Fiore.  Our guide wizzes through the history of key features; the influence of geometrical advances on the marble floor design - commissioned by the Medici family - as well as portraits donated to the church. We're told it's built wide rather than high, in contrast to Gothic cathedrals, in order to accommodate more people.  The guide emphasises the innovative genius of the Dome's designer, Brunelleschi. Neither an architect nor engineer but a goldsmith by trade, his construction method still baffles the experts. Whilst we manoeuvre around the building, austere organ music follows us.  Visitors wave cameras aloft, snapping the Dome's fresco, apparently the largest in the world.

As I look up, I'm conscience of a numbness within me.  It has characterised much of my trip. It could be the miserable weather. It could be that Florence has been hyped up beforehand to such an extent, that a level of anti-climax is inevitable. It might be that much of what Florence is most famous for isn't normally of great interest to me. It could be remnants of the light depression in and out of which I've dipped for several months.  Or all of the above.

At the end of the tour, we're encouraged to visit the crypt downstairs, where lies Brunelleschi's remains and relics from bygone iterations of the Sanctum. The tour pass does not, as I thought, permit access to the Bell Tower but it does gain entry into the grounds of the Museo della Misericordia. 

I am fortunate enough to have the adjacent Chapel to myself. The tranquillity is a welcome respite from the hoards of tourists outside. I take my time in the chapel, left alone with myriad thoughts. The ceiling's intricate oak design calls to mind similarly elaborate motifs at the Palazzo Pitti.

Next door, in the bright and airy museum itself, more artefacts and masterpieces await. Dating back to the 13th Century, the Mercy Brotherhood are a group of volunteers engaging in health and charitable missions. (It's ironic that the former uniform of the Brotherhood -hooded to ensure humble anonymity-resembles that of an executioner rather than a saviour). Their courage and benevolence has attracted admirers over the ages, hence the many donated works.  

I have a couple of hours to spare until my last touristic amble in Florence; the rescheduled sunset tour.  I take a pause for lunch and to write at a Palestinian café I discovered early on in the holiday. When I enter, a young American woman is pontificating loudly to a friend about the ethics of bringing children into the world, or not.

The chef remembers me from my prior visit. The service overall is attentive.

After lunch, I step out into bright sunshine. Finally. I hurry to Piazza di Maria Novella for my farewell tour.  It will be conducted by the charismatic Chiara.  As well as an opportunity to see Florence at dusk on a clear day, Chiara's version of the tour covers a different side of the city.  It's not the carbon copy experience I feared. Although there are unavoidable overlaps with earlier expeditions - Ponte Vecchio, for example - she has her own intriguing selection of sites, facts and legends.  Beyond being the home of the Italian Renaissance, the region from where the 'standard' language originated and one-time Capital city, I learn that the first pianoforte was produced in Florence, as was the first commissioned opera.

My experience is heightened by the fine weather. The City is completely transformed in the sunlight. Alas, so late in my short sojourn.

Once the tour concludes, Chiara shows me a short cut to Stazione Nationale, where I need to catch a bus to meet Karin.  We have plans to eat locally. She's sacrificed her usual early dinner time to wait for me.

 The restaurant she has in mind is closed for the public holiday.

We improvise at an Osteria, apparently frequented by locals. We're the only non-Italian customers. Usually a good sign. 

Whilst we wait for our order, I'm distracted by a large flatscreen TV playing cynically-titillating promos.  

Karin and I exchange pizza slices as she fills me in on how she's progressing with her PhD.  The conversation takes a turn toward the more personal and profound.  Karin enquires about a recent first session I've had with a new, faith-based therapist. Promising, I reply.

Somehow, this segues into a heated discussion over sensitive - often divisive - theological issues and how the church is - or isn't - measuring up. 

The bill paid, we head in the direction of our respective accommodations.  We're stood on a street corner having a back-and-forth until almost midnight. We're both emotionally exhausted by the end. It's not how I'd have liked my last night on holiday to go, particularly in the company of a dear friend.

I regret not walking away sooner, with the intention to resume at an opportune time. When it's not so late or we're both tired. I can't afford another close friendship to go to the wall.

As I shower and prepare for bed, I pray pensively. After a couple of hours, I fall into a fitful sleep.

I awake to more of the bright sunshine that has evaded most of my Tuscan excursion. I prepare to leave for the airport. The house is empty, the lingering scent of long-finished morning coffee the only sign of life. 

Mockingly clear blue skies greet me as I make my way to the bus stop.

On the tram to Peretola Airport, I notice Karin has sent a heartfelt and conciliatory message. I'm overwhelmed with relief.

As I draft my reply, mum drops me a line to pray and wish me Buon viaggio.  

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.

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)