My
Florence
But Not At First ~ by
Victoria Lucia
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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.
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. 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. |
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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. 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.
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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. 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. 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. |
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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.
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.
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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. |
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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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