Firenze

10/20 - 11/9
I like to think of myself as an honorary Italian. I may not have any Italian in my blood, but a week in Rome and three weeks in Florence have given me a newfound appreciation for all things Italian.

In one month’s time, the boot stole my heart and my stomach. I immersed myself in the Italian lifestyle, enjoying afternoon siestas and generally slowing down the pace of life. Mimicking the Italian way of life meant I enjoyed a diet of pasta, pizza, and gelato. What was wonderful about these three food groups was that they never got old. Never. I was always excited to eat (who isn’t?), to find a restaurant and order gnocchi or carbonara or some random pasta dish that I couldn’t pronounce. I became a great fan of bruschetta, as well, and completed my gelato challenge with gusto (gelato every single day, for 31 days. Woot woot!) We had class a bit, not a lot, and it feels like we visited every church and museum in the entire city. We felt like locals after a few days, dodging the crowds of sludge (our fond term for tourist groups) and finding our rhythm in the city.

One of Florence's many churches

Our home for three weeks was right on Florence’s main street, up 108 stairs every time we came home and every time we left to grab a scoop of gelato or explore the city. Stepping out of the hotel, you’d turn left and reach the Duomo in less than a minute. Turn right, and after a few blocks you’d find yourself in the Palazzo Vecchio.

I’m a numbers person, so I’ve been keeping all sorts of lists the past few months:

Our church count up to this point? 56.

Our museum count? 41.

That’s right, we’ve been in 56 churches and 41 museums these past 87 days in Europe. Our time in Florence added to that list, and our study of art helped us look at cathedrals a little differently than we might have without the course. We’d take our time in each church, trying to give it the justice it deserved. Ceilings embedded with high relief scrolls surrounded by intricate gold detailing. Archways covered in mosaics or intricate roses, richly colored stained glass, paintings of the Madonna with Child, eerily similar to the last Madonna with Child (believe me, we saw quite a few in three weeks), yet entirely unique, another part of another sanctuary where the Lord’s name is praised.

We walked past craftsmen with their studio doors open, peeking in at the wooden toys or furniture or leather products they were making. We took notes on Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise and braved the throngs of tourists to position ourselves smack dab in front of the doors, with our diagram of quatrefoils in hand, determined to decipher these doors.

We took a trip out to Assisi one cold Sunday and enjoyed the view of Italian vineyards and orchards from its perch on the hillside. St. Francis’ city of Assisi is angelic and pure with its white and pink stone buildings. We wandered down tiny winding streets bordered by iron gates and Italian villas. St. Francis’ church fits right into the landscape with its many frescoes and blue and maroon mosaic tiles. The dark blue ceiling peeled to aqua in certain parts, creating a swirling Mediterranean sea. I sat and stared, thankful to find shelter from strong blow-you-over winds in such a beautiful church.

When browsing the artwork outside the Duomo or by the Uffizi Gallery, artists would ask if we were studying art. At first caught off guard by the question, we’d answer yes with some apprehension. As the weeks went by and we became more comfortable in our role as artists, we soon answered without hesitation. Yes, I’m studying art here in Florence. Is this real life? For three weeks, this was real life. Studying art and working on our different projects, walking to our normal lunch place and laying down roots in the city for a few weeks. Three weeks might not sound like a long time, but for us it was time enough to feel like a local.

One of my goals for Florence was to become an honorary local, at a restaurant, at a coffee shop, somewhere and somehow because this was our one shot to get to know a city for more than a week. This goal was met with wild success as I found myself a regular lunch spot and an Italian grandmother. We stopped in Sogni e Sapori our first week in Firenze, drawn in by its cheap sandwiches, pasta, and lasagna. The food was great, and cheap, and the hole-in-the-wall place catered to locals as well as tourists. Needless to say we were hooked, and went back almost every day for the rest of our time in Florence. After a few days we got to know Rocco and his family, little by little, until they expected us to come everyday and greeted us with an enthusiastic “Ciao!” upon our arrival. Rocco gave us Italian lessons when we couldn’t pronounce the menu right and recommended his favorite dishes. My go to dish in Europe, and especially Italy, has been the caprese. Tomato and thick slices of fresh mozzarella, with good olive oil and thick balsamic, always hits the spot.

After lunch at Rocco’s, we’d walk next door to a little grocery store and I’d scoop banana chips into a little bag, only buying enough for one day so I would have to come back again the next. Why? Because I’d found myself an Italian grandmother. She had long grey hair, a warm smile, and owned the grocery store next door to Rocco’s. She had me at ‘Ciao, Bella’ the first day I left her store and I was determined to go back, because the banana chips were so fresh, and because she just made me smile. We’d make small talk in broken English with a little Italian thrown in the mix, always leaving the store to her smile and ‘Ciao, Bella’. I’d leave with banana chips and a soaring heart, not sure why this little old lady brought me so much joy, but embracing her role in my life for a few weeks. Needless to say, I know exactly where I’ll be going next time I’m in Florence.

My Italian grandmother

From my bedroom window, I could see the very top of the Duomo (Florence’s massive cathedral) and Campanile (the bell tower). Throughout the day, from early in the morning to late in the night, the bells of the Duomo would ring, Sometimes they’d give one resounding gong and be done, and other times the bells would ring and ring and ring. When my patience was tested and I was tired of hearing the bells at 6 am, I reminded myself that these bells were ringing out our salvation.

The bells are ringing our salvation.

Every time the bells toll, they proclaim that Jesus is Lord, that He is alive and with us on this day and forevermore. I grew to love the bells, the constant ringing of our salvation for the world to hear.

Here’s to new perspective, to the ringing of bells and spaghetti alla carbonara and the lessons one can learn from a month in the boot. Thanks for the memories, Italy.