I really enjoyed my first night sleeping on a soft mattress. I slept so damn well. The first two rooms I had stayed in, one in Rome and one in Salerno, both had firm mattresses. At first they were fine, but after six hours or so, my shoulders started to ache. Maybe Europeans just prefer a firm mattress, or maybe the entire world does and Americans are truly the weird ones with their soft, pillow-top like mattresses that swallow you up.
Either way, I slept very well during my five-day stay in Florence, or Firenze, which might have contributed to it being my favorite city in Italy so far (and still is one month later as I write this).
When I first arrived in Firenze (can we take a second to appreciate how lovely that word is, “Fear-en-say”), I walked five minutes from the apartment that my room was in and saw the massive Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, or the duomo for short. It took my breath away with its unique marble walls of green, pink, and white, and with its red-bronze dome. The entire exterior of the Duomo was covered in art, which reminded me of the Vatican Museums and the Sistine Chapel. I could, and I did, stare at the Duomo from some cafe in the square surrounding the Duomo for hours, sipping on a cappuccino and munching on a brioche. I never went inside the Duomo, as every time I walked through the busy square, the line to go inside snaked it’s way around the exterior of the building, and the people always looked so miserable, standing, waiting for probably an hour or so in the hot sun. No thanks, I’m content just seeing it from the outside.
I explored all over Firenze’s pedestrian-friendly city center. I loved that the city felt so big and spacious, but that it only took ten minutes to walk from my room on the North side of the city center, to the Arno River on the South side. I loved the wide piazzas and Renaissance artwork. And the food…. oh my god, the food. From endless glasses of wine, to a simple panino stuffed with salami and soft cheese, that would be so boring in any other city on Earth but was somehow extraordinary here; to truffles, tagliere or a meat and cheese platter, to the gelato in it’s purest form (apparently gelato originates in Firenze)… the food was spectacular.
I spent an afternoon in the Uffizi Gallery and loved soaking up every room filled with Renaissance art. I listened to Rick Steves’ free audio guide on his app that you can download. This has been a good pro-tip I got from Reddit, so you don’t need to pay the 10 euros for an audio guide at the museum. Rick walked me through Uffizi and pointed out all the interesting differences between the countless Madonna and Child frescoes, marble busts, and tall statues of perfectly-sculpted Greek gods and goddesses. But the pieces that stood out the most to me were The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli and Annuciazione by Leonardo da Vinci. Neither of these works were obviously religious like the other art in Uffizi (at least not obviously religious to a non-religious person) and they both had bright colors and depicted scenes that were revolutionary for their time. In The Birth of Venus stands a naked woman, posed in a somewhat-promiscuous manner, and I think it radiates a powerful feminine energy that must have stunned viewers in the 15th century. Annuciazione stood out because of it’s extreme horizontal composition, with lines pulling you to the trees and mountains in the landscape behind the figures in the center of the piece. And the colors are so dark and vibrant, so ominous and mysterious.
Of course I had to pay a visit to the Galleria Accademia to see Michelangelo’s David one day. It was definitely impressive, David is massive, 17-feet tall, and incredibly handsome, for a statue. I also spent a morning in the Bargello museum to see more sculpture work and more Michelangelo masterpieces. As highly regarded as Italian sculpture is, I think it’s still an underrated art form. All of these pieces, including David, started out as a regular block of marble, where they were transported (can you imagine transporting a 17-foot tall block of heavy marble into a busy city center just so some dude could carve a body out of it?), and chiseled into perfect pieces of art. Michelangelo always said that he wasn’t a sculptor, but was working for God to expose beautiful human bodies and faces in the stone. I honestly don’t think that’s too crazy of a statement.
In Firenze, I quickly became aware of a type of Italian food establishment called an enoteca, or a wine bar. We definitely have them in the US, but I’ve never been to one and it’s hard to imagine that they can compare to the enotecas that I’ve been enjoying in Italy.
One night for dinner, I walked about twenty-minutes or so from my room, and headed South through the city center, across the Ponte Vecchio, or a medieval bridge lined with gold jewelry shops, to a little enoteca, tucked away in some discreet corner, called Le Volpi e l’Uva. I sat down at the bar and told the barman that I’d like a glass of Tuscan wine that is a good place to start for a beginner wine connoisseur, someone on the beginning of their lifelong wine journey. After all, I was in Tuscany, a region known for their wines, in a country known for their wines, and I’m the daughter of a guy who is a bit of a wine nut.
In the last year or so, I’ve gone through many glasses of wine, scanned many bottles on Vivino, successfully attempted, and sometimes failed, to pair my wine with a meal that I just slaved over, and I’ve started learning about the types of wine that I prefer (a daunting task). But if you were to ask me now, what my favorite type of wine is, I’d probably answer the same way that my dad does (which is really quite annoying) and say, “good wine is my favorite type of wine.” But it’s true! I LOVE syrah. I love a nice crisp Chardonnay, but I also love a sweeter Sauvignon Blanc. I’ve learned in Italy that I love big beautiful reds like a Rosso di Montalcino or a classic Cabernet Sauvignon. One time I had a glass of Spanish Rioja at the Spanish-Italian restaurant that my Dad and I love in Basalt, Colorado, and it blew my freaking mind. And sometimes, a glass of really, really good rosé just hits the spot. To sum it up, there’s way too much good wine in the world for me to pick a favorite. And I’m currently living in wine paradise and it’s pretty awesome.
So the barman at Le Volpi e l’Uva brought me a glass of rosso di montalcino and a wooden tagliere with a sausage and cheese crostone to pair. It was lovely. We started chatting as I salivated over this epic trio of meat, wine, and cheese. Ciro, was his name, and Ciro had been working at this enoteca in Firenze for 25 years. About three years ago, he started making his own wine. Wine is his life. He brought me a glass of his own next, a trebbiano, which is a unique white wine aged with the grape skins in the barrel (white wines are usually aged without the skin). It was orange and heavy for a white. But it smelled like oranges, tasted like oranges, but wasn’t overpowering. It was amazing, and became even more amazing when he brought out another crostone for me, this one topped with artichoke, capers, cheese, and lemon zest. Hands down, fantastic.
By the way, I just gazed over the menu and the list of wines by the glass on the blackboard inside. I had no idea what to order. I told Ciro, “mi fido di te” or “I trust you” and he made the difficult decisions for me. I’ve done this a few times ordering food in Italy, and it hasn’t let me down yet.
Crostone with cheese, artichoke, capers, and lemon zest. AKA heaven on Earth.
The day that sticks out the most to me from my time in Firenze, was the day that I bought the dress. I spent a whole morning looking at David and other sculptures in the Galleria Accademia, stopping by the Cordon Bleu Culinary School just to check it out, and sipping on an amaretto cappuchino and eating a chocolate-cream filled brioche in a cafe. I had no plans for my afternoon.
Lately, I’d noticed at just how fashionable Europeans, and specifically Italians, are. Americans can certainly be fashionable, but I spent the last five years of my life in Boulder, Colorado, where “sockos”, jeans, and Melanzana hoodies are perfectly acceptable attire. I am not fashionable by the European standards.
The street I was walking down, the Via dei Calzaiuoli, is one of the oldest streets in Firenze, where merchants used to hustle and bustle up and down the street between the Duomo and the Piazza della Signorina. Now, it is lined with high-end and elegant shops, and is one of the main touristy streets in town. I randomly decided to go into one of those high end, elegant shops, just to poke around for a bit. I had no intention of buy anything, I was simply looking.
Immediately, a bright, orange, floral dress caught my eye and I was peeking at it when a very pretty Italian saleswoman walked up to me wearing the same dress. Ugh, she looked so good, and with some convincing, she grabbed one that was my size and had me try it on.
Before I knew it, she and the other saleswomen (who were all equally fabulous), had me in the dress and were accessorizing me with belts, sweaters, and coats, showing me how versatile this dress could be. I was soon in a pair of Mary Jane heels, walking around, admiring myself. Heels? Orange? Flowers? Me??? Now, pre-Italy-trip Katherine would have never, ever, ever, even thought about wearing something like that. All I knew was that I had reddish-blonde hair that orange simply doesn’t work with. And I don’t do flowers. But as I stood there looking in the mirror, I had to admit to myself that I looked stunning. Who the hell is that girl looking like she’s about to go out and conquer the world? I imagined myself talking to clients at my future law firm in this dress, being a badass business woman in this dress, and going on countless dates in this dress. I remembered the conversation I had with my Dad over breakfast before he drove me to the airport a few weeks ago, where he told me not to worry about the money on this trip. He said, obviously not to get crazy, but to experience Italy as much as I could. And that meant splurging on tours of the Vatican, meals with views overlooking Positano, and that meant to buy myself a nice dress if I found one.
So, I did. I spent more money on that one dress than I have probably spent on 99% of the articles of clothing I have ever owned. I felt no shame. The saleswomen told me that all women deserve to feel beautiful like that every damn day. I think she’s right. And I walked out of that store and down the Via dei Calzaiuoli feeling like a million bucks, and feeling that incredible sense of freedom that was becoming more familiar to me as the weeks went by in Italy. It was the same feeling I felt running to catch my plane in Denver International Airport, the same thing I felt watching my last sunset in Rome at the top of the Spanish Steps. I felt it in the restaurant, eating clams and drinking prosecco and overlooking Positano, and I felt it floating in the Mediterranean, looking up at those beautiful limestone cliffs.
And now here I was, walking through Firenze, the city where the Renaissance all began, with an absurdly expensive dress in my hands, and feeling absolutely liberated. Now I just needed to find some shoes that I could wear with it.
