Rome in the Rearview, Florence Ahead

While I was on the food tour in Rome, the guide shared a few crucial tips about eating out in Italy:

   •   Never go into a place that proudly displays dried pasta in front of the restaurant.

   •   Never trust a menu that’s longer than a novel.

   •   And never trust a gelato shop with towering, whipped-up piles of ice cream on display, as that’s not how proper gelato is stored. More often than not, it means it’s NOT fresh.

Very interesting.

Very interesting, indeed.

I also heard that in some spots, they water down the Aperol Spritzes for tourists... to pinch a few pennies.

Scoundrels!

The audacity.

At least tipping isn’t customary in Italy, as I could hardly afford it. Although maybe if tipping were more of a thing, some servers might put a little more effort into being kind. Probably not, though.

As I was leaving Rome on my final morning, everything was packed and ready to go. All I had to do was take the elevator down and head to Termini Station for my train to Florence. Simple enough... except, of course, the elevator was broken.

Naturally.

Thankfully, I was going down rather than up. I noticed the elevator was stuck one floor above, and it looked like the cage door had been left open by someone. Errrr... jerk! Who had left it open? I was instantly annoyed. So up I went, bounding up the spiral staircase that wrapped around the elevator shaft, hoping to quickly close the cage door... and send the lift back down to my luggage, waiting on the fourth floor.

But when I got there, the door wasn’t open at all. The elevator was jammed between the fourth and fifth floors... almost at the fifth, but not quite.

Didn’t I say this would happen eventually? I called this.

No button I pressed did anything. The thing just sat there, wedged between floors and refusing to budge. Thankfully, no one was inside. Even more thankfully, I wasn’t inside.

That would’ve been classic.

So, with no other option, I hauled my luggage down four enormous flights of stairs... spiralling around the elevator shaft. And these weren’t typical floors. Regular ones are, what, eight or nine feet high? These felt closer to twenty. By the time I reached the bottom, I hadn’t even left Rome yet, and I was already exhausted.

But honestly, it felt like fitting penance after all the red wine, cheese, and carbs I’d inhaled the day before. Penance and a workout... two birds, one stone. Since I was slightly ahead of schedule and had plenty of time to catch my train, I decided to skip the metro and walk... forty minutes to Termini Station... roly-poly-olie luggage in tow.

And... I did it.

Look at me... Wow! Saving money. Getting my steps in. AND getting some pretty impressive hand cramps along the way. Hauling that luggage is going to give me tendinitis from the repetitive stress and awkward pulling motion. Back to the eternal debate: roly-poly-olie carry-on or burdensome backpack? I don’t really like either option, to tell you the truth. I think I would prefer to hire someone to follow me around and haul my luggage. #LifeGoals

One day...

Eventually, my silly luggage & I made it to the station... boarded the correct train (after triple-checking with a few random passengers), and for once, I was right. I know it sounds odd for a seasoned traveller, but I've ended up on the wrong train many, many, many times. MANY. Just a couple of days ago, actually! I'm seasoned... but not so smart at times.

The ride was blissfully uneventful, and I arrived in Florence in one piece… with a slightly sore hand, still muttering curses at my luggage, and thoroughly exhausted. The trains in Italy aren't exactly designed for sleeping... comfortably, anyway.

I can’t even begin to describe how over-the-moon I was to leave Rome’s madness behind.

Words fail me...

ZC (my cousin I was meeting) was at the station when I arrived, and let me tell you... the invention of smartphones, Google Maps, and photo & location sharing is nothing short of miraculous when you’re trying to find someone in a strange place.

Florence, Italy

Florence, Italy

Florence, Italy

That said, despite following that dumb blue Google Maps dot all over the world for years, I will never be an expert at it. It tells me to go one way, I try to follow, and somehow I always end up spinning myself in circles.

Maybe it’s just me.

I don’t know.

But when I get home, I’m applying to be CEO of Google Maps so I can dedicate the rest of my life to making that little blue dot more "followable." I will not rest until I’ve saved travellers everywhere from being frustrated and hopelessly confused.

Speaking of being confused, our rented accommodation wasn’t far from the station... but somehow, I managed to take ZC on a full-blown tour of Florence, trying to locate it. The disastrous blue dot sent us weaving through malls, underground alleyways, up stairs, down stairs... “turn left here”... “recalculating”… you name it. Eventually, I surrendered and let ZC take over because clearly, I am not meant to follow that blue dot.

It's not my destiny.

The Florence Duomo

The Florence Duomo

The Florence Duomo

Our place turned out to be quite centrally located and... meh... pretty ok.

I guess.

Nothing extraordinary.

You opened the main door and were immediately met by a steep staircase... the kind where you had to slip inside quickly and start your ascent before the door could properly close behind you, because whilst open, it quite literally HIT the bottom step. At the top of the climb, another door with a finicky little keypad/key holder led us into the apartment. I hadn’t spent much time checking the amenities (rookie mistake), and unfortunately, there was no terrace. No Florence Cathedral view. Just one very small, slightly uncomfortable couch and some truly terrible pillows. Not exactly the luxury to which I intend to grow accustomed, but it did the trick for a couple of nights.

I was beyond ecstatic to see the Florence Duomo (Cathedral) once again. Anyone who’s ever talked to me about travel knows that the Duomo in Florence is one of my all-time favourite places in the world. In fact, I call it one of my “Nessun Dormas.”

What does that mean?

Well… It’s my name for a small group of places around the world... manmade wonders or natural landscapes... that I can’t stop staring at. They fill me with such overwhelming joy and awe that I feel like Pavarotti should appear in the background, belting out the triumphant final chorus of Nessun Dorma. The power of that music perfectly captures what I feel when I see places like this.

Other Nessun Dorma places for me include the Sydney Harbour, Temple Mountain, Dune 45 & Sossusvlei in Namibia, the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa, Victoria Falls… just to name a few.

Yes… obviously a Catholic church.

But did I go inside? Nope.

Did I contribute financially? Nope.

I just stood outside and admired.

It’s fascinating to watch tourists round the corner and catch their first glimpse of the Duomo. The reactions are priceless. I once saw a woman throw her arms up in pure delight... only to smack her husband and son right in the face in the process.

Honestly, it’s the most jaw-dropping piece of architecture I’ve ever seen.

If you have the chance... do not miss this on your travels throughout the world.

The Florence Duomo’s dome, dreamed up by Filippo Brunelleschi, was the biggest in the world when it was finished in 1436. Fun fact: it’s still the largest brick dome ever built. Brick. Not concrete. Just bricks. Brunelleschi built the massive dome without scaffolding. He used a herringbone brick pattern and some sneaky horizontal ribs. Even today, people still aren’t 100% sure exactly how he built it. The guy was basically a 15th-century wizard. Locals just call it the Duomo, and it’s been a symbol of Florence’s wealth, power, and artistry for over 600 years. Basically, this city wouldn’t be Florence without it.

BUT... always a but...

I was walking along, happily soaking in everything Florence had to offer... and admiring the majestic Duomo... I glanced down and noticed that the right sleeve of my jacket looked extremely dirty. I laughed it off and blurted out something about cleaning myself up when I got back to the flat.

How embarrassing!

I looked like a dirty hobo!

Then... I looked down at my sleeve again.

Not only was it DIRTY... it was RIPPED!!! The entire sleeve, from elbow to wrist, was shredded. It looked like I’d been attacked by a rabid dog.

My first thought? It must have happened when I fell at the Vatican, and I didn't notice it.

How could I not notice that for 2 days???? Absurd!

But... when I fell, I fell on my left hand side... not my right. The plot thickened...

Then it hit me.

I’d had my jacket draped over my roly-poly-olie silly suitcase carry-on... while I dragged it forty minutes across Rome to reach the Termini train station that morning! So the entire time I was trudging along, my sleeve must’ve been scraping against cobblestones or caught under a wheel... slowly being destroyed.

This is how I travel.

I ripped apart a perfectly good jacket without even realizing it.

So there I was, wandering around Florence — dishevelled, shabby, and ragged. Like any good Canadian, my first instinct was to find some duct tape and patch it up. The thought was fleeting, though, as I imagined my future... traipsing across Italy in a dirty, draggled, duct-taped jacket.

Stylish.

Thankfully, I’d packed another one.

Still… I’m a clown.

ZC had never been to the Ponte Vecchio, so we headed over there. The Ponte Vecchio is basically a living piece of history in Florence. It’s been standing since the 1300s, somehow survived World War II because Hitler apparently thought it was pretty... and it’s still packed with tiny jewelry shops and art stalls... so you can walk across a 700-year-old bridge while buying overpriced souvenirs and feeling like a Renaissance royalty.

Hard to feel particularly regal when you’re rocking a filthy, shredded jacket.

I try...

Did you know that K-Way is Italian? Well… kinda. Apparently, it started in France, but now Italy claims the fame. I only mention it because everyone around me was walking around in these jackets, and I couldn’t help thinking, "Why is everyone wearing a K-Way?" Finally, we stumbled across a store, and I went in to see if I could grab one to replace my sad, ripped-up, grotty jacket.

Spoiler alert: it was way, way out of my price range.

Back to being a lowly subject. Peon.

Anyway...

One of my favourite discoveries in Florence this time around has been the wine windows... tiny openings in ancient walls where you can order a drink straight through the stone. Apparently, there are approximately 180 of them scattered around the city. Not all are still in use, but the history is fascinating.

Back in the day, Florentine families who produced wine could sell it directly from their homes through these tiny windows. Since they weren’t officially storefronts, they could avoid paying certain taxes. Pretty clever, right? 

ZC and I in Florence

ZC and I in Florence

ZC and I in Florence

This went on for centuries, mainly from the Middle Ages through the Renaissance, until the practice mostly faded away. I think they got told they had to start paying taxes and basically closed up all the windows. Fast forward to 2020... during COVID... and some of these wine windows were reopened to serve drinks safely to passersby. Now you can wander around Florence, find a wine window, ring a tiny bell, and order your drink through the wall... usually wine, Prosecco, or an Aperol Spritz.

The menus don’t offer much, but the experience?

Epic.

I had marked several of these win windows on my map and was determined to see (and experience) as many as I could. Realistically, two days in Florence wasn’t going to get me to all of them, but I was willing to give it my best shot.

***Much, much more interesting news to follow...