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Florence, pausing to dwell on several life-
changing panini.
After settling our absurdly cheap tab,
we stepped out into the glorious sunshine
and found ourselves blinded by the sight of
the Duomo, its pink, green, and gray-white
marble slabs radiating geometric perfec-
tion and a sense of predestination.
The true size of Florence was confirmed
to me later that day while walking around
with Jessica, one of my art-student friends.
Strolling away from the Pitti Palace, we
came to the Arno River. A dark-haired
guy with a beard walked by in a leather
jacket and waved to her. “God, it’s my ex-
boyfriend,” she whispered. “That always
happens here. Florence is so tiny. Everybody
knows everybody and you can’t help bump-
ing into people you know all the time.”
As she spoke, a vintage Renault 4 zipped
by and honked at us. “That’s Ricardo—also
my ex,” Jessica said, with a laugh.
Savoring the synchronicity, we floated
along the city’s cobblestone streets, oblivi-
ous to the tour groups holding things up.
Eventually, inevitably, we ended up withthe rest of the student gang at their eno-
teca. As I sat at Alla Sosta dei Papi, sharing
coccole and wine, I listened contentedly
to the painters’ debate about lighting and
perspective, as well as about the best tor-
tellini en brodo and the best gelato and the
best lampredotto. And it occurred to me
that the same disputes and delights illu-
minating their enoteca were happening
at the enoteca down the street, and at the
enoteca a block over, and at all of the eno-
tecas the city over.
The more time you spend in Florence,
the better it gets, the deeper you enter its
radiating circles of pleasure. This is a jewel
case of a town, filled with edible marvels
resolutely of this place and still relatively
undiscovered. It may seem impossibly
refined but it is also seething with entrail
sandwiches and repurposed stale bread
soups and cheap barrel-pulled wine and
truffled cuddles. Those fortunate enough
to find themselves here, however briefly,
know that Dante was right. Pedestrian
congestion be damned, this place remains
what it always has been: an ideal city. The Ponte Vecchio
overlooking Florence’s
Arno River at sunset.