Florence felt more like home than the other cities we visited in Italy. This was mainly an issue of time (we spent the most nights here) and location (we opted for an apartment over a hotel). It allowed us to get into the groove of the town. Each morning, we lingered over cappuccino and pastry at the bar across the street (they had a signature donut that ruined me on the idea of any other donut) and shopped at the neighborhood market for produce and necessities (ask Jimmy about his Italian underwear). In the evenings, after we played tourist all day, we’d duck into a café for a drink or two, stop by the grocery and gelateria, stroll through the piazza on the corner filled with people enjoying conversation and a nightcap, and return home to finish the night lounging on our patio. It was a great routine.This, however, paints an all-too-quaint picture of our stay in our Florence apartment. While hotels offer a cheery, English-speaking concierge to make transportation and other arrangements, we had no such advantage. Instead, we humiliated ourselves daily in a language that could only be described as Spanitalgish. No nearby restaurants offered menu translations; the local market didn‘t bail us out in English like the tourist one did. But I really dug this! It was an interesting -- and humbling! -- experience to flail about in another language. I used what little Italian I knew to attempt conversations, I carried my guidebook and phrase book with no shame, and I tried to feel at peace with appearing like a simpleton. At least I was a simpleton who earnestly tried. My self-administered final exam was wandering the local market alone, shopping for clothes, produce, and attempting small talk with merchants. This little exercise was exhausting, but I came away with one shirt, two tomatoes, two cloves of garlic, and half a pound of mozzarella di bufala -- all of which, luckily, I meant to ask for.
Then there was the issue of unexpected apartment guests: the mega-bugs. Picture a giant beetle wearing patent leather armor. The singular qualities of these mega-bugs was their assertiveness and resistance to death. We would wail on them with heavy shoes and no mercy (sorry, PETA), yet they would go on, dented but undaunted. One night, I awoke to find one climbing on the sheet atop Jimmy’s shoulder, scampering toward his face. (Note to self: waking Jimmy by tapping his forehead and whispering, “Don’t move” alarms him.) The next morning we shopped for mega-bug death spray. No big deal, right? Try shopping for insect repellent without knowing the language! The directions never included our handy memorized Italian phrases (“We would like a bottle of red wine,” “Where is the bathroom?” or “Yes I am American, but I voted for Obama.”). Luckily, one can offered an illustration of our culprit with a red line through it. Bingo.
It’s interesting to see how a week’s worth of vacation experiences become condensed into a few key tales to tell friends back home. It’s interesting to see which details are included, which omitted, and which will be slowly forgotten over time. I’m ashamed to admit that when I reminisce over Florence, it rarely is about the art, palaces, or cathedrals, which were stunningly beautiful and reason enough to visit the city. I usually smile and describe what it felt like to be in Florence, to slow down, to stroll streets lined with incredible architecture while eating my third gelato of the day, to attempt Italian with dubious results, to sit each morning with a cappuccino and world’s best donut while watching the neighborhood around me slowly come to life. And somehow, I laugh the most over those damn bugs. My apologies to Raphael.
