Wandering Through Florence On My Own

There are no morning activities scheduled with the tour so after sleeping in a bit, I leave the apartment around ten. Returning to Piazza San Jacopino, I enjoy a light cappuccino and croissant breakfast at Il Ghiottone. A family run business in the heart of the neighborhood, it is filled primarily with locals. Everyone seems to know each other at least familiarly. The matriarch doesn’t speak much English and seems rather stern. Not in a harsh or mean way, but more of an “I’m busy running things” kind of vibe. Fortunately, the daughter and husband appear more tolerant of my poor Italian and know a little more English. As I somewhat muddle through, a smile and a few grazie milles goes a long way. Somehow, I think kindness and gratitude go a long way no matter where you are.

Il Ghiottone is situated directly on the piazza and the outside tables face a roundabout, which makes for fantastic people watching. Encircling the roundabout are numerous other shops—a pharmacy, bank, wine shop, pizzeria, gelateria, markets specializing in fresh fruit, fish, and vegetables. All the necessities of daily life arranged around a relatively quiet hub that draws the community in from the radiating spokes of neighborhood streets.

I walk up the block and cross Viale Francesco Redi to catch the tram to stazione Unità. It’s a short walk to the Duomo and I want to get some photos while the morning light is still good. The facade is in shadow so I snap several shots on the south side. Having seen many pictures in art history books, none prepared me for the experience of seeing this magnificent cathedral up close. Every ornate detail, carved from marble and stone, with layers of symbolic meaning, was awe-inspiring. I tried to imagine the scene during its construction and found the sheer number of highly skilled guildsmen it must have taken to fit intricate piece after intricate piece together mindboggling.

Leaving the Duomo with no particular destination in mind, I wander through narrow back streets trying to explore places less overrun with tourists, and perhaps most importantly, stay in the shade. It was a deliberate intention to get lost on this trip. To let things unfold naturally, to discover hole in the wall shops and eateries, family run perhaps for generations and frequented by locals. To see, smell, and taste authentic Italy. One could argue that all of Florence—at least the area once bounded by thick medieval walls—has become overly commercialized, catering to foreigners and that one would need to leave this resplendent city for such an experience. Several encounters during my visit brought this reality sharply into focus. More on that later!

Approaching the Arno through the Uffizi, yesterday’s tour had gone right, so I turned left. On the opposite corner of the same block, was the Museo Galileo. A sundial in front of the building leapt skyward. Set into the light gray pavement stones were signs of the zodiac in marble and travertine on either side of a brass radial that extended towards the entrance. Feeling more in the mood to explore than be indoors, I mentally bookmarked the museum as one of the first of many must sees that I would return to before going home.

Heading down the street and away from the river, a short distance from the Galileo Museum, there are two sets of concentric brass rings set into the street. It seems too far for there to be any obvious connection from the line radiating from the sundial. I sit on some narrow but quite cool marble steps for a few moments just to take it all in.

Continuing to wander through the warren of narrow alleys southeast of the Duomo, it is pleasantly quiet. No crush of pedestrians intermingled amidst the fray of bicycles, cars and mopeds vying for their claim to the street. Much of Florence is pedestrian-only, though as a living, breathing city it must allow some—albeit minimal—vehicular access.

I’ll need to grab lunch before language class, but there is still plenty of time to wander before breakfast has been fully walked off. In one of the alleyways there was a small eatery that looked to be family run. Two tables for two flanked the doorway while a modest number of tables sat inside. The menu featured an array of authentic dishes. Small but inviting, this was the experience I was after! It was still too early for lunch so I kept on meandering. Once I was ready to eat, my attempts to relocate it proved fruitless. Too many turns along narrow streets that all looked quite similar. Disappointed after circling a few times trying to find what I imagine will be the best pranzo eh-ver, I happened upon a small piazza. I couldn’t retrace my exact steps even if I had to, but there were several options that looked good.

Deciding on lighter fare, I chose John Borno Caffè on Piazza Gaetano Salvemini for a sandwich and a mojito. Similar to Il Ghiottone, it felt like a neighborhood staple rather than a tourist attraction. Attempting to order in Italian, the guy helping corrected me, non è panini. The heat and sore feet seemed to prevent any useful Italian flowing from brain to tongue, but “sandwich” and questo qui were satisfactory enough to be deemed worthy of being fed.

Sitting outside, I was surrounded by a mix of locals. At one table three guys were smoking and drinking beers before having to finish their workday. At another a young couple was keeping their eyes on a migrant toddler in between bites and a baby that was, fortunately for them, contained in a stroller. Two women sat at another, catching up on something they both had passion for. Around another sat four guys dressed in blue coveralls spattered with paint and plaster, who had hopefully finished with their labors for the day.

After eating, I sat back, sipped my drink and watched a swirling scene go by. As the traffic light cycled from green to red, alternating surges of traffic and people streamed past. Busses, bicycles, trucks, cars, and mopeds swept around the curve as if out of a slingshot. Followed by hordes of pedestrians pressing urgently towards destinations that required them to funnel through this very spot.

An hour after sitting down, I had finally cooled off and it’s time for class. The short walk granted plenty of time to wipe egregious amounts of sweat from my brow, and cool down once more. During the lesson I ask our insegnante about the brass rings embedded in the street. She explains they mark the location of ancient Roman towers. Being round and knowing a little about Roman construction, this must have been the guardhouse where the eastern gate of the city once stood. She continues, explaining that a recent construction project revealed the Roman fortifications and a section can be viewed by going to a certain location and asking nicely. Unbeknownst to me at this point, another adventure would lead me to the eastern gate of the medieval period.

Part of the day’s cultural lesson is to order at a nearby caffè. We do our best and the baristas are always kind, certainly used to a mix of visitors, and undoubtedly informed ahead of time of our intended visit from the school a few paces away. As one of our usual spots during classroom breaks, they start to recognize us and we get a little less anxious with them as we practice speaking. My favorite part of this particular lesson was sitting with our teacher Luca, over a beverage and dolce of choice, and getting to know him a bit more. It doesn’t take long, or much, to start establishing a sense of familiarity in a new place even with linguistic and cultural differences. Throughout the world, whether over coffee or spirits, new friends and acquaintances are rarely hard to come by.

On our way back to the tram and the apartment for a presentation on the Renaissance, the four of us manage to stay together. This time, I was paying attention! It had been another busy day and despite the presenter being thoroughly engaging and knowledgeable, some—including myself—were starting to nod. It was decided amongst the group to break this activity into smaller chunks.

After extending invitation to all, the four classmates ventured out for dinner. A taxi drops us off at Piazza Santa Maria Novella, where after a few minutes of vapid wandering, our hostess at Osteria Novella makes the decision for us and promptly leads us to a table. She was an absolute powerhouse, on point and completely in charge. Without writing anything down, she remembered every detail of every request from her guests, while delivering excellent, courteous service.

Over dinner the conversation was rather lively as we talked about our experience in Florence so far, our lives in the States, and dreams of the future. While we weren’t exactly boisterous, I was aware of glances from other tables occupied by seemingly more austere patrons. Sitting down with us later in the evening, the hostess tells us she is Hungarian and how she moved to Italy for a better life. While sharing more of her personal story, she unabashedly corrects our Italian. Once we decide it’s time to go, she pops right up and snaps her fingers twice to hail a cab.

The vehicle that pulled up was far more than a ride home. Unbeknownst to us, it was also the most famous taxi in Florence—Milano 25. Like stepping into a modern microbus of circa ’67 Americana, it was brightly colored, with checkered flooring, balloons, toys, and decorations to the hilt. Wearing a delightful outfit—which I can only describe as a mashup of Kentucky Derby and Mad Hatter—the driver asked us to pick music. Bill, being the sophisticate of the bunch, chose Vivaldi. While Spring was relaxing and appropriately Italian, after several minutes, I had to go White Rabbit. Given the quasi-psychedelic environs, it struck me as fitting. The lawyer, the doctor, the diplomat, and I immediately burst into song. Each of us had the lyrics down pat and sang our hearts out. As if on cue, the song ended right as we circled onto the top of the street to the apartment.

As the sliding doors on either side opened and we started to get out, Deborah asked about a placard that hung on the back side of the passenger seat displaying a picture of the driver with Pope Francis. She told us about her service bringing children with often terminal cancer from their homes to the hospital for treatment. What appeared to us as a “party on wheels” was all about something much deeper and more meaningful. While ending on somewhat of a somber note, it was an experience I’ll remember always. I admittedly had to search “famous taxi Florence” before knowing her name, but that wonderfully unique taxi was driven by Caterina Bellandi. Dio lei benedica!

Saying buona notte, we landed softly in our beds.