Wandering Through Florence On My Own

There were no morning activities scheduled with the tour so after sleeping in a bit, I left the apartment around ten. Returning to Piazza San Jacopino, I enjoyed a light cappuccino and croissant breakfast at Il Ghiottone. 

A family run business in the heart of the neighborhood, it was filled primarily with locals. Everyone seemed to know each other at least familiarly. The matriarch didn’t speak much English and seemed rather stern. Not in a harsh or mean way, but with more of an “I’m busy running things” kind of vibe. Fortunately, the daughter and husband appeared more tolerant of my poor Italian and knew a little more English. As I somewhat muddled through, a smile and a few grazie milles went 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 facing a roundabout made for fantastic people watching. Encircling the roundabout were 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 drew the community in from the radiating spokes of neighborhood streets.

I walked up the block and crossed Viale Francesco Redi to catch the tram to stazione Unità. It was a short walk to the Duomo and I wanted to get some photos while the morning light was still good. The facade was shadowed so I snapped several shots on the south side. Having seen many pictures in art history books, none prepared me for the experience of seeing this glorious 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 each intricate piece together mind boggling.

Leaving the Duomo with no particular destination in mind, I wandered through narrow back streets trying to explore places less overrun with tourists, and perhaps most importantly, to 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.

Approaching the Arno through the Uffizi, the tour yesterday 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 away from the river, a short distance from the Galileo Museum two sets of concentric brass rings were set into the street. It seemed too far for there to be any obvious connection from the line radiating from the sundial. I sat 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 was 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 would need to grab lunch before language class, but there was still plenty of time to wander before breakfast had been fully walked off. In one of the alleyways there was a small eatery that looked to be family run. A pair of two-tops 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 the restaurant proved fruitless. Too many turns along narrow streets that all looked quite similar. Disappointed after circling a few times trying to find what I imagined would be the best pranzo ever, 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 from flowing from brain to tongue, but “sandwich” and “questo qui” were satisfactory enough to be deemed worthy of being fed.

I sat outside surrounded by a mix of locals. At one table, three guys were smoking and drinking beers before returning to work. At another a young couple kept their eyes on a migrant toddler in between bites and a baby that was, fortunately for them, contained in a stroller. Two women were speaking passionately, catching up on what I imagined to be relationship drama. Four guys dressed in blue coveralls spattered with paint and plaster sat leisurely, and I hoped they had  finished with their labors for the day.

After eating, I sat back, sipped my drink and watched the 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 spot.

An hour after sitting down, I had finally cooled off and it was 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 asked our insegnante about the brass rings embedded in the street. She explained 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 continued, explaining that a recent construction project revealed the Roman fortifications and a section could be viewed by going to a certain location and asking nicely. Unbeknownst to me, a later adventure would lead me to the eastern gates of the medieval period.

Part of the cultural lesson was to order at Antico Caffè Cavour. We did our best and the baristas were 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 started to recognize us and we became a little less anxious with them as we practiced speaking. 

My favorite part of this particular lesson was sitting with our teacher Luca, over a beverage and dolce of choice while 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 managed 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 an invitation to all, the four classmates ventured out for dinner. A taxi dropped us off at Piazza Santa Maria Novella, where after a few minutes of vapid wandering, the hostess at Novella Osteria made the decision for us and promptly led us to a table. She was an absolute powerhouse, on point and completely in charge. Without writing anything down, she remembered every detail of each request made by 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. 

Later in the evening, the hostess sat down with us and told us she was Hungarian and that she had moved to Italy for a better life. While sharing more of her personal story, she unabashedly corrected our Italian. Once we decided it was time to go, she popped right up and snapped 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 version of a circa ‘67 microbus, 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. Being the sophisticate of the bunch, Bill chose Vivaldi. While Spring was relaxing and appropriately Italian, after several minutes, I had to change it to  White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane. 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 to a stop at the top of the street to the apartment.

The sliding doors on either side opened and as 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 always remember. 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.