No, I’m not in Florence, as this lovely lady has been recently,
.
but, I am still remembering my honeymoon there over a year and a half ago…
Firenze
Worn stairs climbed from a walled off city to us
until now
The domed city capped the night off
in a spectacular array of people and gray
brilliant orange over a sparkling river.
The rain fell swiftly around three
the night was misted, no longer wet.
We ate papa pomodoro at Theatro Restaurante
late that evening before returning to our room on piano 2.
Two days and one night in our favorite Italian city so far, Firenze.
That morning
we’d stepped off of an early train and found our hotel easily.
The heavy wooden door unlocked
a green dim courtyard open to the sky
up two flights and through another
keyed entry is where we found our
beautiful comfortable room, red clay tile floors,
a sink, a big bed with a Michelangelo painting
of the Sistine chapel hung over it. The heavy key,
a window with shutters out to our quiet courtyard.
I did laundry in the sink and packed for our bike ride adventure
onward to Sienna the next day.
We walked to the Duomo and climbed to see the city
from there and then went to eat an early lunch at a pizza place on the piazza.
There were places around many corners where I felt I’d been
I’d taken photos in this same place eight years ago
where there was a replica of Michelangelo’s David.
There were rioters and posters telling the ‘truth’ to tourists of people who
Florence didn’t want.
We walked aimlessly, came back to rest in our room for the mid-afternoon rain
We found a beer festival in front of a church, on a Sunday, no less
and tried the Atlantic Oil dark beer, watched young children
drink, watched the interaction of so many people talking
outside in the open air.
From there we walked across the Ponte Vechio bridge into the working man’s
neighborhood. We noticed locks on the chain link -looked like love letters with heart-felt inscriptions.
There was a sunset to be found, before it got too late and if we continued to climb we’d have the promise of finding it.
And we did.
Through the neighborhood where Sunday sales were held
houseware goods and garage sale items were
displayed on the neighbors sheets in the street.
We climbed the last stairs. The grand cafe had closed.
(Ristorante La Loggia ~ Willie Wandrag Photo)
A man played his guitar like a keyboard
vendors were closing up for the night
Michelangelo’s sculptures and paintings were now
trinkets and prints for sale, made in China, shipped to Italy and sold to the Americans.
Maybe that’s what was being debated in the festivals before the church.
We stood in the dark, taking in the lights and the sky,
the murky river and other couples taking pictures of one another.
