Under the Tuscan rainclouds
It’s already been several days since I left Florence, and I’m only just getting around to writing about it now. I’m going to go ahead and blame this unfortunate little lapse in blogging on the pasta, wine, and gelato-induced coma I slipped into after my first day in the city and am finally just beginning to emerge from now. Because, to be honest, my time in the capital of Tuscany was basically a string of really excellent heavily carbohydrate-based meals accented by the region’s best red wines and punctuated by perfect cappuccinos, intense espresso shots, and mountains of gelato so completely mouth-watering that I’ve actually dreamed about them. Such an extensive period of gluttony left little time to sit down and write – although oddly, I did manage to find enough time for long, gruelling runs along the Arno river, which were an incredibly necessary counter-balance to the week’s nearly non-stop food worship session.
As it turned out, Florence was a very different city than what I was expecting. I had initially pictured something relatively similar to Paris, only with foccacia bread instead of baguettes and Chianti replacing the Burgundy – and then I found myself in the middle of a city that felt positively medieval. Every time I wandered down a dark, narrow, and twisting street in the city’s ancient centre, with the buildings leaning in around me and a turret or two visible high overhead, I felt like someone had picked me up and deposited me into the Middle Ages. Except this time around, the Middle Ages happened to include Prada and Gucci boutiques and enough designer shoes to send any girl into a frenzy.
I took in most of the city’s sights from under the canopy of the gigantic black umbrella I hastily purchased from a street vendor during a torrential downpour at the start of my second day in Florence; for the entire week, the weather fluctuated indecisively between blue skies and apocalyptic thunder storms complete with hail the size of golf balls. Most people would consider this kind of weather to be quite unfortunate. I, on the other hand, chose to look at the bright side: The rain did an excellent job of clearing the most annoying species of tourist off of the streets and sidewalks, leaving me to explore a blissfully uncrowded city. And it goes without saying that a rainy day makes espresso taste so much better – after all, when you’re ducking into a caffè to dodge a particularly violent cloudburst, you can’t not order something.
By this point, most of you are probably wondering whether I did anything except eat and drink while in Florence. I can assure you that while all things edible did play a fairly large role in my time there, I also spent a significant amount of time shopping (translation: lusting over designer shoes that cost nearly three times my monthly rent then tearing myself reluctantly away from the store before being lured into the one right next to it), wandering through the Tuscan countryside while silently freaking out over how gorgeous the fall colours were, and dodging the attempted advances of some very persistent Italian men.
The thing about Italian men is that they are all incredibly attractive and well-dressed, but they are also incredibly intent on practicing and mastering the art of seduction. It usually went something like this: I would be walking along the sidewalk, minding my own business and attempting to look look as Italian as possible (hint: always wear high heels), when I’d pass a pack of men. Inevitably, one of them would detach himself from the group and approach me, saying something entirely incomprehensible but decidedly romantic-sounding in Italian as he did so. I would offer up my standard “non parlo Italiano” and an apologetic (albeit slightly wide-eyed) smile; he would take this as a cue to turn up the charm a few more notches and step into place beside me on the sidewalk. Inevitably, he would know how to speak nearly flawless English, and he would demonstrate those linguistic skills by asking where I was from, what my name was, and then, without missing a beat, whether I would go out for drinks with him so that he could “practice his English”. I’ll admit it: I may have allowed a few of them to buy me a scoop of gelato. Drinks are overrated; the way to my heart is through chocolate and hazelnut gelato.
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