Even though I’ve been in Italy for almost nine months now and I ostensibly came for work, if I’m honest it feels like I’m on an extended vacation sometimes. This past weekend was no exception. Ah, I can see ears pricking-up. (Or would it be eyes?) You’ve flocked here to find out what I chose to do over the weekend – Florence or Mugello – haven’t you? That is the question that bedeviled your every waking moment lo these past few days. Well, out with it! I went to Florence on Saturday. I love typing sentences like that so let me do it again. I went to Florence on Saturday. Whew. Feels good to get that off my chest.
Giordano was on a two-stop tour with the Gomma Gommas so Valentina decided to visit her parents in Bologna for the weekend and generously offered to let me tag along and proposed we spend Saturday in Florence. The night before she made that offer, Raimondo’s friend called him and offered up a free ticket to the MotoGP race in Mugello (Valentino Rossi! Ben Spies! Nicky Hayden!) on Sunday. Faced with trying to decide between the two options, Valentina suggested I could do both. Take the train to Bologna with her Friday night, see Florence on Saturday, and then take the train to Faenza on Sunday morning to meet Raimondo and ride with him to Mugello in Tuscany to see the race. Perfect. It would mean missing Sunday lunch at the Cristoferi house but the chance to see the Texas Tornado and Kentucky Kid soothed that disappointment. All I had to do was buy the ticket to the race.
We checked online Friday night and there were plenty left in the same section as Raimondo’s ticket but I couldn’t make the online purchase because the only delivery option was by mail. No problem. I’ll buy it in person on Saturday. Saturday morning in Bologna, before leaving for Florence, we go to the ticket office. No tickets left. In that section? At all. Are you sure? Completely sold out. Oh. Interesting. Amarezza!
I guess I am really assimilating into Italian society. We wait until the last minute to do something, arrive somewhere, etc., and then we’re surprised by the resulting traffic jam, crowded restaurant, or sold out tickets. Bravo! I sent an SMS to Raimondo in the afternoon with the news that I wouldn’t be joining him. No problem. Turns out Rossi (9 time World Champion, born in the same hospital as Raimondo and Raimondo’s hero) crashed during qualifying and was out of Sunday’s race so Raimondo wasn’t interested in going. Glad I hadn’t bought that ticket! Sunday lunch, back on!
Friday night after work we caught the regional train to Bologna and then an even more regionally train to Valentina’s village where her dad was waiting to pick us up. The second train was a hoot. While it looked like a regular train, it sounded and operated more like a train body that had been stuck on an truck platform that had been found lying around. It literally accelerated like a truck with the engineer up-shifting and downshifting through the gears of a manual transmission as we arrived and departed each station and while there was a train whistle at all the crossings I fully expected to hear an air horn each time.
Saturday morning I awoke early to a bright sun and blue skies. I’m no fan of the heat and everyone has been warning me about what to expect from the Italian summer, and this looked to be a day for my first true experience with it. I had a sexy sheen on my forehead by the time we reached Bologna and I knew I was in for a long, moist (you’re welcome for that Jenn) day. Rather than take a train directly to the main Florence station from Bologna, Valentina had saved us about 50% on the cost of the tickets by routing us into a minor station on the city outskirts with a transfer and short ride into downtown on the commuter line. We boarded the train into Florence and it was standing room only, a first for me, with the aisles clogged by fellow day trippers and the soulful sound of English pinging off the walls. Floppy hats, Titleist caps, lobster skin, and casual but sturdy and comfortable walking shoes were in abundance. More than one copy of “Experience Florence in Less Than a Day” were seen.
Florence was hot (it’s literally in a cauldron, situated in a river valley, surrounded on all sides by the Tuscan hills and lacking any prevailing winds), crowded with tourists, and suffocating. It's beautiful but it is so hard to really appreciate anything because you can't get any perspective on it as the streets are narrow and close together with everything packed in tightly.
As we stepped from the dark of the train station into the searing heat and light of the city we passed a flock of bewildered Americans milling about like a group of robot vacuum cleaners whose guidance systems have been disabled, plaintively crying, “Now what?”. No such problems for me as Valentina had already mapped and highlighted our route on a map, cross-referencing the best places to see with the suggestions from three different Italian guidebooks. Our first stop was the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, site of the Basilica Santa Maria Novella.
From there we would go to the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, and then to I Giardini di Boboli, followed by the Piazzale Michelangelo, and finally, the Basilica di Santa Croce (where all the most famous former residents of Florence are buried). I told you, with Valentina there is never any, “Now what?” coming from me. Using these attractions as anchor points, we planned to wander the streets of the city and take in as much of the overwhelming amount of things to see as our feet, picnic lunch, patience and curiosity would allow.
Appropriately wowed by the statues, suitably awed by the churches and stomachs rumbling we arrived at the Boboli Gardens (named after the smash hit pizza crusts) ready to find a shady spot to eat our picnic lunch. At EUR 10.00 per person to get in we amended our itinerary and went in search of another option. Which is how we came to find a secluded square in the Natural History Museum where I drank the coldest bottle of water I’ve had yet in Italy, we shared a picnic with a couple other tourists who hailed from Spain and a class of Italian high school girls studying in the skeleton room, and we saw this delightful sign.
After lunch we were determined not to let the disappointment of the Boboli Gardens get us down, and just as determined to do less walking and more riding as the sun was in full melting phase by that point. People scurried from sidewalk to sidewalk seeking refuge in the shady sides of the streets and those that hesitated would flare briefly before dissolving into greasy, gelato tinged mist. We boarded the magical number 13 bus from just past the Ponte Vecchio and were whisked into the hills outside the city, amongst the villas of the new Medicis, where we deboarded at the Piazzale Michelangelo. This is the spot to see the views of Florence that end up on postcards and the cover of books and tour guides are.
Just above this little bit of perfection was the San Miniato al Monte, an even more little bit of perfection. Situated at the very top of a hill, I was a hot, sweaty mess (you’re welcome for that Olivia) by the time I had clambered up to the top of the hill, but inside the church we found a cool and beautiful place which I proceeded to sweat all over. The floor is made up of individual marble panels that look like tombstones with details of various deceased people although there is only one actual tomb in the church.
The less magical number 12 bus brought us back down into the city and conveniently dropped us in front of the last, formal stop on our itinerary, the Basilica di Santa Croce. The tombs of some of Florence’s most famous past residents lie within but an EUR 8.00 entrance fee lay without so we did without. At this point, it was time for us to navigate, shove (yes, you have to shove your way through the crowds along some of the sidewalks – why oh why do the tour groups insist on assembling in the most ridiculous place), and trudge our way back to the train station for our escape, er return, to Bologna.
Thoughts on my visit to Florence and a Communist Party party in Part 2.
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