Another April

In the morning I made my way to Gare du Nord to catch the Eurostar back to London. Every flight from Paris to Pisa was booked for the next week and I still had two flights to catch in Italy, so I figured it would be easiest to take a flight from London. Thanks to Ryanair, there were still cheap flights for the next day. So I had a rescue mission in place.

This should have brought me relief. But in the pummeling pitch of the Chunnel, I suddenly felt very alone. In retrospect, I should have recognized that I had solved a very difficult situation on my own, which is an occasion for celebration. But, I could not avoid the sense of complete isolation: not knowing anyone on the train, nobody knowing where I was or why I was heading back to London. Though I had everything in place for the rest of my trip, everything somehow felt very uncertain.

I neglect to mention that this was the day before my birthday. I think it might have been the prospect of traveling on my own even more than I had anticipated that was exhausting me. When I arrived at St. Pancras, I took on tunnel vision of a different kind-rather than feeling the darkness of isolation, I felt I could only go forward, back to my flat to calm down and prepare for the next day's trip.

The short interlude in London was actually wonderful-the gusts now graze over blossoms on every treetop, and the sky, as Caliban might say, has opened and shown riches. I spent the day lazing on my bed like a cat. It felt strange to have some time in my flat to reflect on the trip that technically was not yet over.

I did spend about eight hours of my birthday in transit, but I really could not complain about this-I was going to Italy. I arrived in Pisa just before sunset, and on the train to Florence I watched small villages rising over the vast Tuscan hills. I remember two images of the countryside I glimpsed from the train: an elderly couple picking grapes from their vineyard, and a group of Italian boys kicking a football around on a dusty field. To my eyes, these moments seemed too romantic to be real.

My friend Liv met me off the train; we have been great friends since high school, and I knew we would have a fun weekend. Since I lost one day of my trip to Florence I cherished my time there.

For the night of my birthday we had dinner at Osteria Santo Spirito, a ristorante tucked in Piazza Santo Spirito. We drank a bottle of Chianti and I ate a very rich and redolent truffle gnocchi. After dinner, Liv caught a picture of me in a distinctly European state:

We wandered through Oltrarno on the southern side of Fiume Arno, what seems to be the more authentically Italian and less touristy part of the city.

From there, we had drinks at Nof, a live music club. The bartender, who misheard us when we ordered, gave us glasses of a mysterious liquor that took effect in no time. The music was great, and after another round of lighter fluid or whatever it was we were drinking, we headed to Liv's flat on Via San Zanobi.

We began the next morning with cappuccinos and croissants at Nabuko, one of Liv's favorite spots for aperitivo, which we came back for that night. On our initial walk through the city, I dragged Liv into one of those floor-to-ceiling bookstores I am always longing to find.

Liv took me to the leather market from there, which we would come back to a few more times during my visit. Fresh leather has such a taste, it almost felt like I was drawn back there just to smell it again.

We walked to the Duomo, where we found an enormous ticket line, and then an even longer entry line. We decided against pursuing this quintessential Florentine experience; Liv told me the view was better from Piazzale Michelangelo, so we headed over there. On the way, we crossed the hectic Ponte Vecchio.

The view from the bridge

 On the other side of the river, we bought cheap meats and cheese and wine for a picnic. I think in total it cost about €5. An interruption: right now, at my desk in London my stomach is growling for that kind of cheap and delicious food; I actually dreamed about an endless aperitivo buffet last night.

Alongside the river are many collections of small houses and churches. This side of the river has a more local flair than the other side, as I mentioned before.

We climbed to Piazzale Michelangelo, which was probably my favorite spot in the city. In the sunshine, groups of friends were all eating lunch and gelato, drinking bottles of wine, appreciating the view.

If I lived in Florence I would aim to do this as often as possible. It was probably a better meal than any other I have had in Europe so far, just for its simplicity and deliciousness...and the view was pretty amazing.

From there, we continued climbing up to Abbazia di Santo Miniato al Monte, a quiet cemetery with another beautiful view. I know, I've visited a few cemeteries recently. I think it can be enlightening to observe not just how people live in the places I visit, but also how they die. Some of the headstones were simple, with names and dates carved into marble. Others had faces of the deceased on the headstone; Liv informed me this was as much an effort at eulogizing the dead as an opportunity to demonstrate wealth.

From the cemetery we could see a small hamlet on a hilltop not far away, just the kind of Italian village I imagine when I think of Tuscany: a few rooftops gathered around a modest church tower. I wanted to get closer, if not to the place itself. We wandered further, though could not find the town I had seen.

We crossed the road, which winded down the hillside back toward Florence. In London, I am used to crossing the road whenever I please. However, this habit is not compatible with most places. Hopping across the street, a Smartcar came rushing toward us, and we made it to the other side untarnished, though not without some momentary trauma.

Liv after the Smartcar incident

From this sidewalk, we found a wooded area just over the side of the tall stone wall beside Liv in the picture above. I wanted to jump over but Liv refused to assist me-understandably. So we kept on walking down until the wall ended and a small dirt path opened up. We followed it, against Liv's best intentions, through some underbrush and a few thorny thickets. It did not lead anywhere too pastoral or wild, but rather just down the hill to the main road. Still, it was a detour worth taking.

We had gelato back at the foot of Piazzale Michelangelo and headed off to the other side of the river for some more sightseeing. We walked with our gelato to the Basilica di Santa Croce, a beautiful Franciscan church decorated with many frescoes and grand monuments to great Italian thinkers and artists-Machiavelli, Galileo, Michelangelo, Da Vinci. We lingered for a while, then sat in the cloister.

By this late afternoon hour we wanted some caffeine so we sat at a small cafe across from Plazzo Pitti and drank espressos, observing the public square packed with locals and lively conversations.

In Forster's great Florentine novel, A Room with a View, he writes about such moments of observation:

"Over such trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip away, and the traveler who has gone to Italy to study the tactile values of Giotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it."

The sky sank in a haze and, inevitably, I saw the kind of beauty I had hoped to find in Italy.

We browsed through the leather stalls again, and passed by a street artist who had just begun replicating a portrait when we had been there in the morning, so by this time he seemed close to finishing.

We ate aperitivo at Nabuko: an endless buffet of appetizers and a beverage for €7. We ate several pastas, salads made with fresh peppers and artichokes, hot pizza, and, of course, bread with meat (mortadella, salami, prosciutto, capicola, sopprasetta) and cheese (provolone, mozzarella). All day I had seen people drinking an orange cocktail at the trattorias we passed by. Liv told me about the Aperol Spritz, an Italian novelty I had heard of before. I ordered one with my aperitivo and enjoyed it. Not everyone seems to like them though, for their strong and bitter aftertaste.

The next day we had breakfast at a cafe across the way from Piazza San Marco, a church converted into a museum, which I had hoped to go into; however, I was leaving that afternoon and did not have enough time to go inside. If I had had another day I would have made it there-another time I will!

I had my eyes on a pair of leather shoes at a nearby shop we passed by the day before. We went there to try them on and negotiate. I bought them, knowing a pair of real leather shoes bought in Florence would be a great keepsake. 

We had lunch at Liv's favorite trattoria, Enoteca, splitting another bottle of wine and ordering a plate of antipasti. 

I have to say, I would be perfectly satisfied spending most of my days like this. Anything resembling this meal in London is probably twice as expensive as in Florence. 

It was later, in the airport that I began to reflect on my new age, twenty-one. April is always a nostalgic time of year for me, my old selves passing by in sequence as I grow older. It was pure coincidence that I found this poem by the American writer James Merrill when I returned to London a week later:

"Another April" (1971)

The panes flash, tremble with your ghostly passage

Through them, an x-ray sheerness billowing, and I have risen

But cannot speak, remembering only that one was meant

To rise and not to speak. Young storm, this house is yours.

Let our eye darken, your rain come, the candle reeling

Deep in what still reflects control itself and me.

Daybreak's great gray rust-veined irises humble and proud

Along your path will have laid their foreheads in the dust.

My ghostly passage across Europe continued as I boarded the plane to meet my good friend Kenny in Sicily. Flying over the Mediterranean at sunset was magnificent. Shades took shape in the sea as the night became darker, and another change in myself became clear: how suddenly the appearance of darkness seemed not so isolating as it had in the train, but now exciting and full of adventure on my way to Sicily. I shirked the stress of traveling in the knowledge that I have the best of friends here and everywhere, and that these months have been just as joyful as I could have wished them to be.