My dazed eyes turned to the train window, seeing but not aware of the fleeting images of a less than picturesque Italian countryside. I pressed my hands against the glass and stared at my faint reflection, thinking. Will I miss Rome? I adore this city—the art, architecture, food, fashion, people, the list never ends. Will I love Florence more? Skepticism mingled with controlled excitement, I daydreamed about this new city warmed by a late morning sun. The day held the pale blue promise of a golden day. I drifted awake after the churning wheels slowed along the tracks. I dream of Firenze, a city quietly waiting for you and for you to love.
The walk from the Santa Maria Novella train station to Hotel Giada entailed a rather rhythmical clanking of luggage wheels on cobblestone footpaths. Make way! The racket shamelessly announced our arrival. Such conspicuous tourist we sounded and looked. Pulling my baggage along stalls after stalls of identical leather pieces amid shouts of vendors in English, I admit I was less than fond of this city. How can it rival my Roma?
Then came the rush of storing luggage, rummaging for passports, and bolting out the door. Now began Florence’s slow seduction. The morning sun sprayed a classy cityscape in a honey tint. Within the first ten minutes, the magnificent Duomo, sinful sweets, and charming shops delighted my eyes. The fragrances of warm vanilla and faded leather lingered in the Florentine air. I must be in a dream, in one of Monet’s paintings. This place, a delicate beauty kissed by touches of quintessential romance, bewitched even the most jaded of travelers. Hours passed before I noticed the soreness of my cheeks from involuntary grinning. I can’t help it. Just like the locals, I love this city with a justifiable intensity although I show my emotions through nonstop smiling. The seduction continued as I spent the next three days strolling through Florence collecting favorite moments and tucking them into my handmade leather bag. The frescos, paintings, sculptures, and architecture of Michelangelo, Donatello, Botticelli, Giotto, Ghiberti, and Brunelleschi were everywhere. Wandering into room after room in museums, opening doorway after doorway of palaces, and passing tomb after tomb in chapels, I thought to myself, so this is where they keep all the famous art.
I did not miss Rome. Rather, within a couple of hours, I decided that one day I will live here. I steal glimpses of a life, maybe imagining mine. I am a journalist, living in a white apartment with a stone balcony that brims with pots of pale yellow lilies and overlooks the river. In the mornings, I munch on waffles wider than my mouth and sip a foamy cappuccino from the café below. I converse to locals in a torrent of quick Italian on philosophy, art, and politics from steps that frame the ancient plazas. As darkness cloaks the city, I would venture into my favorite gelateria to order crème caramel and lick every last drop as the street corner artist sang my favorite Pavarotti operas. I may at times feel alone, but I know tomorrow’s sunset will make me fall in love once again.
The sunset was the final seal of my adoration for Florence. On the second day, I braced myself against the piercing wind and climbed a zigzag path that culminated to a breathtaking view of Florence atop Piazzale Michelangelo. So this is where snapshots of Firenze postcards are taken. After a few minutes, a crimson ink stained the sky, wrapping the Florentine horizon in surreal hues. In an instant, rows of lamplight flooded the riverside with a candlelight glow. I couldn’t stop taking pictures as my camera cried in exhaustion, no more batteries. Still I stayed long past numb fingers, breath clouds, and frozen cheeks. I did not want to leave.
The next day, I had to leave Florence. The thirty minute train ride to Prato depressed me. The gray rain clouds cast a bleak aura around this industrial town. Where are the artworks, colors, and delicious aromas? I was surrounded by a stark cityscape of concrete buildings covered in dirty plastic. Despite the dreary view, I found a pair of gorgeous boots. I decided to go back to the shop after visiting Prato’s Duomo, but yet again, my sense of direction failed me. Naturally, this translated to circling streets and landmarks. I tried speaking to a few Italians but either they didn’t understand me or I didn’t understand them. An Asian guy passed. I recalled hearing that Prato had some of the most Chinese immigrants. I approached him. Me: Do you speak Chinese? Him: Yes. Do you speak Italian? Me: No. He was on his way to the post office near the train station. He offered to take me there. I followed him, knowing that my shoe shop was only a few minutes from the station. We spoke briefly, mostly me asking him some basic questions about his profession and life. Then we parted ways. Here I was in Italy, lost but eventually found my way through communicating in another language that was neither Italian nor English. A pleasant relief and surprise.
On the Prato trip, I kept on asking, where are the rolling Tuscan hills and villas I see in pictures and movies? There were no lush green hills when you drive through valleys of golden wheat fields. Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed and quickly falling out of love with Tuscany. However, now when I reflect on my two hour Prato adventure, I appreciate how it juxtaposed a dream that is Florence. Prato was real, not a gilded Italian façade for tourists.
A romanticized Italian landscape continued in Cinque Terre, my weekend destination after Florence. The sleepy coves with waves exploding in foams against a cliff of pastel houses lulled travelers into a deep dream, never to awake or leave. Scenic hikes, seafood dishes, and more pictures ended my adventure at next day’s twilight.
A week after, I welcomed the mask of Italy. From Lido to Venice, the rainy romance ensued. The labyrinthine passages reminded me of Campo’s alleys. I’m lost again like in Roma! The city of lights and old world charm, Venice will never cease to enchant all beauty lovers. Yet, after a couple of days I longed for the comfort of Rome.
I was tired. Florence, Cinque Terre, and Venice merely whispered and I fell in love, but I wanted to go “home.” And that was Rome. I didn’t realize my attachment to Rome in just five weeks. I suppose it was the familiarity of my surroundings compared to the rest of Italy. Strange. I only felt the absence of home, Rome, after leaving it. In another way, it also applies to my home in Seattle whenever I travel abroad for extended periods of time. One must leave home to feel the loss of familiarity, a void that grows with each passing day one is away. Home, no matter the allure of the outside world, will always be your refugee, comfort, a piece of your heart left behind. You will come back or long to return and end a vagabond life.
Dove è la tua casa?
Alexis
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