It was the start of winter; I was freezing, and the mood wasn’t exactly joyful—Ukraine, 49.3...
So I self-medicated: a week in Italy to hear laughter and that melodic language, and of course, to immerse myself in beauty for a while.
I was looking for a destination: Florence. The choice was biased because I wanted to revisit *Primavera* and *The Birth of Venus*.
Then came the choice of airline: Vueling flies directly to Florence, but you’ve got to know how to handle Vueling—sometimes you make it to your destination, sometimes you’re left at the gate. It’s not expensive, but that’s about all it’s worth. Best to know their rules of the game. Plus, Vueling leaves from Orly, which is super easy to get to by metro.
The gods were with me that day—Vueling actually got me to Florence. On arrival, the temperature was better than forecast, and I knew the days were slightly longer in Italy (and shorter in Stockholm). And the Italian language was floating in the air...
I took the new tram that takes you to the heart of the city, near the great "cheesecake" that’s said to mark the superiority of the Renaissance over Europe’s sublime Gothic cathedrals. I walked around the big pastry and turned onto *my* street, Via dei Servi. Along the way, I stewed over my guilt for not admiring the sublime *Duomo*; I hoped no police had detected my rebellious, deviant mindset.
I’d chosen a hotel on the stunning Piazza della Santissima Annunziata—I’ll even share its name, that’s the VF spirit: it’s the Hotel Due Fontane.
And that’s the real point of this post: until Easter, you can treat yourself to a room in a very charming hotel for around 60 €, breakfast buffet included! To do this, book on Booking.com and make it clear you’ll return the next day with a new reservation at that price. You’ll have left your things in the luggage room to move into a new room in the evening. I didn’t have to play that game since the reception gave me a long-term stay at a reduced rate.
The next day, the kind barista drew a perfect, beautiful flower on my cappuccino. That man was the smile and good cheer of Italy.
Florence had more to offer, and this time I wasn’t being picky like I was with the big white pastry: I had a date with *Primavera* and Venus. Off to the Uffizi; the weather was decent, much warmer than Paris, and the girls were laughing.
Arriving at the Uffizi: had I bought a skip-the-line ticket? What for? I walked in subito and even got the winter discount rate. You’ll agree that when visiting a museum, it doesn’t matter if it’s hot or not. When I got to Botticelli’s room, I love being alone—I have the illusion of owning two of the most beautiful paintings in the world. There was one tourist there that day. We admired *Primavera* and *The Birth of Venus* without getting in each other’s way; those young women painted so long ago show such beauty and radiate such elegance, especially in their faces.
I hesitated about going to the Accademia, but David is worth a revisit. If a skip-the-line ticket is ever needed, it’s here. But no! I walked in subito! Usually, women don’t openly show their attraction, but you might hear "He’s cute" about a man. Around David, it’s amusing to see they’re not immune to the sight.
Off to the Medici Chapels; entrance subita. I felt humbled by the princes’ munificence and the master’s works.
Then it was time for a stroll—maybe a Mannerist painting at Santa Felicita (oh, miracle, it was open), or playing the game of comparing the two crucifixes, including Donatello’s, sipping a Spritz in a little bar with a view of the Ponte Vecchio, wandering Via Roma in the evening among the cheerful crowd and shops decked out for Christmas. Seeing the Church of Santa Maria del Carmine for its frescoes and the Italian Pantheon at Santa Croce (Napoleon’s first girlfriend is buried there). Italy, land of frescoes!
Every evening, until I exhausted my pasta card, I enjoyed spaghetti on *my* Via dei Servi.
The point of this post: you can visit Florence at a very low cost, without impossible queues, and without tourist pressure, in reasonably warm weather until Easter. In May, the Due Fontane charges 220 to 250 €! For the rest, I may have rambled a bit.
PS: Vueling stranded me on the way back; my punishment was staying an extra day in this incredibly welcoming city.
Women usually don’t show their sexual interest too openly; you might sometimes hear "He’s cute" about a man. Around David, it’s funny to see they’re not immune to his physique.
That’s because the *freschina* chill at the start of winter wasn’t quite warm enough to unleash those hormones—come summer, some really let loose.
Catherine
PS: In Italian, Lexomil is called Xanax.
By this, and this only, we have existed. Which is not to be found in our obituaries. (T.S. Eliot)
Do you mean you take one but not the other?
In France, both exist—they’re from the same family of drugs, I think, but not the same molecules.
That said, I’m not sure this potion would suit me; when I read Zorba’s story, I can’t help but pinch myself in disbelief—nothing about it feels calming to me.
I’d hate to take such a trip, I sigh.
You mean you use one and not the other?
In France, both exist—they’re from the same family of products, I think, but not the same molecules.
That said, I’m not sure the potion would suit me; when I read Zorba’s account, I can’t help but pinch myself a little incredulously, since nothing soothing in it speaks to me.
As I wouldn’t want to take such a trip, I sigh.
What I mean is that, lexically speaking, the Italians’ medicinal raft is Xanax. Because it’s also their preferred anxiolytic (though whether Tuscans consume as much as the Lombards, who live under the patronage of Saint Invoicing, I don’t know).
That you’re not sensitive to Italy’s grace (or Greece’s sovereign balance) isn’t exactly news.
The dexterity, the art, of the man who sketches a swan in the foam of your cappuccino in two seconds before your sleepy eyes is a delightful detail.
And I remember Venice, long ago. First in line at the ticket counters when they opened, running through the late medieval halls and conversing alone, in absolute silence, with Titian’s *Pietà* in the semi-darkness—it was half an hour of pure enchantment with the world.
When I read Zorba’s travel journal, what comes to mind is that sometimes, during the year, Florentines get a little respite.
Catherine
By this, and this only, we have existed. Which is not to be found in our obituaries. (T.S. Eliot)
Hey François,
Your -Florence- is truly aesthetic. Did you find the diversion you were looking for?
I know nothing about art—more specifically, painting—and sadly, when it comes to cultural baggage, I travel light.
I don’t feel humble in the face of the princes' munificence and the master's works; I feel stupid. I don’t tremble with emotion; it leaves me completely indifferent, and I’m in awe of those for whom art makes the heart vibrate.
What moves me, what shakes me, are your words—especially -Catharsis in Poland-. There, I *felt* it.
And… avoid Lexomil—it’s chemical stuff.
Good timing, though—you’ll be able to sow valerian starting next month. It’s also called St. George’s herb (patron saint of knights, fencers, archers—how cool is that!) and this pretty little flower will bring you calm and sleep, a takeoff without Vueling!
I completely understand your mindset and Tatra’s, since I have a son who’s totally indifferent to art. Don’t admire those who love art—they don’t deserve any credit; it’s intrinsic.
Besides, I’m not trying to show off: art is an essential need, and it’s a truism to say my Florence is truly aesthetic, because Florence is a global hub of beauty. In fact, travelers supposedly suffering from Stendhal syndrome faint in front of so much beauty in Florence, or so they say.
A little anecdote to show how essential art is for some: One of my friends is completely obsessed with Caravaggio. He’d seen almost all the visible paintings except the one in Malta—another beheading. He *had* to see it, which is totally understandable, but his wife is claustrophobic on planes. So they set off: they traveled through Italy by train, then Sicily, and finally the crossing to Malta. When they arrived at the cathedral in Valletta, they were told the painting was being restored in Italy!
As for the Medici Chapel, it’s truly grand for a mausoleum. It’s not on the scale of the Taj Mahal, but still. As for the "master," he’s an enigma to me: how could such a human being exist, creating so many masterpieces with such a steady hand? My favorite is the Pietà in Rome: Mary is first and foremost a ravishing Italian woman; she may be the Mother of Christ, but that’s not what strikes you first.
For *Catharsis in Poland*, I was overwhelmed with emotion like never before, and I was accompanied by Irène Némirovsky. I’m glad if I managed to convey that emotion. That’s exactly the kind of place, like Italy, that you should visit with as few people as possible. It’s become a circus, apparently.
Of course, I love nature, and I’m lucky to come from Brittany.
My main goal in this post was to share a great tip: staying in a nice hotel at a reduced price and visiting all the museums *subito*. Yes, I went through a bout of optimism, but I wouldn’t mind relapsing to heal even more somewhere in this beautiful country.
I knew Florence up close—she was already like you describe her. A cheesecake lover, yet sculptural. Even more sublime when, at the end of the night, we’d leave *her* street lined with bars (the so-called "thirst street") and she’d lean more toward the Leaning Tower of Pisa than the Duomo.
Every morning, it was the Birth of Venus, and she thought I was cute.
Thanks, my friend Giovannus Lucius, but no carrots cooked here!
Actually, I can't pick up where you left off in that Florentine night you described so briefly but which tantalizes us so much. What happened for you to place the Leaning Tower of Pisa in Florence? The innkeeper must have gone heavy on the grappa.
Now I'm watching the girls go by and allowing myself a little escapade, as I wrote, to admire a springtime silhouette with 500 springs in her step.
VF is sluggish and struggling to wake up from hibernation: a detailed account of your Venus would rekindle the passion. And you wield the language so well.
My father and mother, parents with modest incomes, were determined to make seasoned travelers out of us. So one year, when I was fourteen, they hitched the caravan to the car packed with an uncountable brood of kids, heading for Italy.
What an adventure for the time.
I was a thoroughly obnoxious young girl and spent my days sulking.
The stop in Florence is unforgettable for me.
Exasperated by my constant bad mood (I stayed polite to avoid my mother’s quick hand), my parents somehow found a private pool where they decided to leave us all so they could explore the city in peace.
I was ordered to watch my brothers, but I couldn’t have cared less.
I jumped into the cool water wearing an electric blue swimsuit. I felt irresistible. Young Italian guys swam around me, and sometimes I felt hands or legs brushing against me.
What a thrill—a completely new sensation that filled me with exhilaration. I was euphoric, as if drunk on the femininity I was discovering.
For the rest of that long summer trip, I kept asking for a pool. There weren’t any more, and I continued sulking.
From up above, forgive me, dear parents.
That’s my Florence—the blue water, my blue swimsuit, the young Italian guys with tanned skin, and my heart pounding, my blood pulsing.
Please excuse me and carry on with your banter. [:)]
I love your ramblings. It's so nice to read you.
Not pompous like some others but so convincing...
« Tout le monde s'interroge sur comment laisser une meilleure planète à nos enfants, mais on devrait plutôt penser à laisser de meilleurs enfants pour notre planète. » Clint Eastwood
It's Pentecost, maybe May 8th, or maybe Ascension Day, I can't remember.
It's spring and I'm 17.
Mom and Dad stuffed us into the car and took turns driving the 1,200 km straight from Florence to Bordeaux.
San Miniato, Florence bathed in a pink twilight, ecstasy. True ecstasy, absolute upheaval. Also the last moments.
Before that, there were endless yet fleeting hours brushing past works of art, living immersed in astonishing beauty, indulgent breaks, a language unknown yet singing and enchanting, a joyful energy.
In the night, the car strings together tunnels and viaducts, racing toward the border, toward foreign lands. I fall apart, crumble, collapse. Not entirely, though—a nuclear certainty remains: I will live in this country. It's certain because it's mine.
I only returned to Florence once, smiled at it, and whispered in my heart of hearts grazie, di cuore.
By this, and this only, we have existed. Which is not to be found in our obituaries. (T.S. Eliot)
This is a forum, not a private space—why not contribute? We’re not in the old VoyageForum sections like aviation, where you had to toe the line if you weren’t part of the club, or Vietnam, where two leaders were locked in a merciless battle.
There’s no need to apologize for interrupting an alcohol-fueled erotic conversation. Besides, you’re on point, just like Catherine: Italy *hits different*! Should I admit I married a half-Italian who brought Mount Etna into our home?
But really, what’s the point of a pool if there’s no Italian in it?
Sunny afternoon in Brittany. Silent for months (he only agreed to uphold the tradition at Christmas by letting out a goat-like breath), the neighbor’s donkey brays non-stop, sounding like a deer’s call (another effect of climate change, no doubt). This isn’t the time to bring him cooked carrots.
(Oh, and now we can hear him from here.)
A detailed account of your Venus would rekindle our passions.
Unfortunately, I can’t fulfill your request here. But rest assured, unlike her venerable counterpart, she wasn’t one to hold back.
And you wield language so well.
Thanks. [:)]
That’s what she used to say too. She studied Languages O’
