| My Florence |
| But Not
At First |
| By Victoria Lucia |
| To study
abroad or not to study abroad? I wrestled with this question on my
way to class, in class, and before I fell asleep, only to find that no
matter how many times I weighed the pros and cons, the pros emerged victorious.
Florence had a reputation for being alive with culture. There would be
churches, museums, pasta, debonair Italian men, and enough wine to fill
the Grand Canyon.
If there were
no drawbacks to this Renaissance adventure then why was I disappointed
when the pros constantly triumphed? Because I was a creature of habit and
put as much effort into avoiding change as Peter Pan did to remain a youth
in Never-Never-Land. But being “cultured” is in these days so I
bought a travel journal and made it through four rounds of airport security
to Delta’s terminal. |
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Shortly after
arriving in Florence I longed for suburbia as I breathed in the not-so-fresh
air that smelled vaguely of garbage and nicotine. My feet got caught in
the cobblestone streets as I gazed at the monstrous Duomo. Even though
parts of it looked like someone had coated its facade with sewage water,
there was something charmingly vintage about the way the faded reds and
greens decorated the solid marble.
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It exists as the
center of the city and peeks around every corner, waiting patiently for
you at the end of the block with an invitation to spend a lazy day in its
piazza sipping a glass of red wine and savoring every bite of bruschetta.
Lightly toasted bread, ripe pieces of tomato, a few drops of olive oil
and a pinch of parsley make for little slices of heaven inside your mouth. |
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| To satiate
my afternoon munchies I have always turned to pretzels, but after spending
an hour in the grocery store, I realized that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore
– Italians don’t have Snyder’s, Utz, or even Bachman! Perhaps it’s the
elegant way the name rolls off your tongue, pronounced broos-ketta that
makes it a favorite among Italians and foreigners. Or maybe it’s the waiter’s
proud march from the kitchen to your table and his perfect placement of
the platter amidst wine glasses and conversation. Whatever the reason,
bruschetta’s ingredients found their way to my shopping list and onto my
plate every night.
Back home
I was used to lounging on my couch for re-runs of Friends or Seinfeld
as an after-dinner pastime, but Italians prefer to stroll through Piazza
della Signoria or Piazza del Duomo after “cena,” or a light meal
at nine o’clock. |
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| At first,
walking through the streets of Florence was just a way of getting from
point A to point B. After living in New York for twenty years I mastered
the art of weaving through passersby with the speed of an Audi S4 owning
the open road. But once I discovered the best way to get to class or the
supermarket I began to notice that I was the only one walking as if I were
being chased by an axe murderer. While the Florentines enjoyed “the
moment” by meandering along narrow streets engrossed in conversation
or spending hours at an outdoor café sipping cappuccinos (sprinkled
with chocolate shavings, NOT cinnamon like we use here in the USA), I hustled
by. Realizing how freakish my “on a mission, don’t get in my way or
else” haste appeared, I decided to bring my speed down to 10mph. Once
I noticed how packed the streets were with fruit markets, shoe stores,
butcher shops, and an occasional sculpture or fountain, I wanted to see
everything, which often led to me frantically turning my head from side-to-side
and the onset of a headache.
A quarter
couldn’t squeeze between the brick walls of two shops found on a street
wide enough only for a shopping cart. I often frequented a fruit and
vegetable market, which was the size of a small bedroom but filled to capacity
with a myriad of assorted nuts, dried fruit, cookies, and canned sauces. |
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| Once a
week I’d stock up on snack food and munch on dried coconut cubes while
walking home- I could never wait to pop one in my mouth. The shop on
Via Dante Allegheri was owned by an old signora dressed in a long cotton
smock and thick black shoes, who watched me carefully not out of suspicion,
but curiosity for Americans, and spoke to me in rapid Italian.
I responded
with enthusiastic nods and my limited Italian - “Si, signora.” Six
of these Florentine women stood in the corner with empty baskets around
their wrists and were more interested in conversing loudly with each other
than actually buying something. After three visits I quickly learned that
this was where they liked to spend time, surrounded by delicious aromas
and favorite ingredients.
I wonder
if they knew that they played a role equally important to the Renaissance
artists in contributing to Florence’s seductive nature. |
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| I walked
through Piazza della Signoria feeling the presence of the city’s protectors-
Michelangelo, Lorenzo de’Medici, and Dante Aleghieri. Marble replicas
embedded in the architecture of the Uffizi art museum gazed down upon the
streets and watched their memories come alive through animated mimes. Two
rows of artists occupied the cobblestone road leading from the piazza to
the Arno River. Not particularly caring about how much money they collected
at the end of the day, the painters arrived at sunrise and conversed with
each other over a casual cigarette. They found contentment amid this Renaissance
ambiance, with no greater satisfaction than creating replicas of famous
Botticellis and Michelangelos or trying to capture the beauty of Florence
in their own original watercolors or charcoals. Classical music streamed
from the speakers of the museum and life was good for these artists. Reverence
towards the ancient artists keeps the city alive with pride and reminds
Florentines of what makes them distinct from Romans or Venetians; even
though all Italians do have one thing in common – they drive like they
are in a NASCAR race.
I almost
got killed in Florence at least two times a day. Vespas, small motorcycles,
flew down the street, motors buzzing loudly and horns honking for you to
move – pedestrians don’t have the right of way - not even Pavorotti or
a small group of old signoras, walking arm-in-arm wearing heavy coats and
skin-colored stockings. After a month I developed a knack for predicting
how far away a vespa was based on the volume of its motor. I knew precisely
when to run for cover and not to trust any of the drivers whether they
were 11 years old or 80 (experience doesn’t make you a safe driver in
this country). One night, after a few too many glasses of wine at Salemanca’s,
a local bar with a Spanish accent, my friend Giuseppe managed to convince
me to take a ride on the back of his vespa. Within seconds I was screaming
louder than the noisy motor, wanting him to drive faster. I waved to the
vespas on either side of me and gazed ahead at the rolling Tuscan hills
illuminated by the starlight. My helmet was too big for my head and I used
one hand to hold it in place while the other was wrapped around Giuseppe’s
waist. Great Adventure was for kids – the streets of Florence got my adrenaline
moving faster than the Batman ride.
After returning
to the bar, the rush of my excitement only accelerated as I watched the
bartender make a muito. First he smashed four ice cubes, one at a time,
with a fist-sized wooden hammer. Then he added sugar, three different types
of liquor, and mint leaves. It only took a few sips of this sweet Italian
creation before the Latin music danced with the flickering candles and
hazy cigarette smoke.
Pitchers
of Sangria were passed around and the conversation buzzed around me.
I didn’t find Salemanca’s in a tour book but around the corner. The music
drew me and my roommates out of our apartment and down the street.
We walked through the doorway to find a bartender juggling beer bottles
set on fire; his hips never missed a salsa beat and a drink was never dropped.
Young girls were standing on their chairs holding capiroscas, a strawberry,
liquor, and sugar concoction, while screaming song lyrics to the bar. There’s
no drinking age in Italy so good times in local places were open to everyone.
I became
a regular at Salemanca’s just as I became a regular of Florence. As
I stood on top of the Duomo, a chill ran through me. I wasn’t cold or scared
of heights, but overcome with a feeling of possession as I gazed down upon
the quilt of terra-cotta-colored roofs and green Tuscan countryside; the
colors that the Duomo once were meant to be. Miniature vespas sped down
the narrow streets, maneuvering through crowds of people (almost as
fast as I could walk through Manhattan). I got a caffeine craving and
headed back to the piazza, where I had to push my way through hordes of
tourists gathered around the Duomo, who were furiously taking pictures
rather than actually looking at the beauty of its Gothic architecture.
All I wanted was to sip a cappuccino in my favorite café, Piansa,
and for these people to get out of my city. Wow, when did Florence all
of a sudden become my city? Maybe it was between appetizers and the main
course or after my third glass of wine? Maybe while riding on Giuseppe’s
vespa or watching the animated signoras? I don’t know when I made myself
an honorary citizen but I do know that Florence’s pros still triumphed.
To contact
Victoria Click Here |
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