Firenze

I’ve made a number of trips to Florence in the past couple months. An hour and a half by train, it can seem a world away from Rome. Smaller and quieter, a bit more reserved, Florence packs the tourists in come summertime but somehow the town seems to absorb them better. While areas around the shop lined Ponte Vecchio (literally, the old bridge ), the Uffizi gallery, and the Accadamia run thick with folks, most areas of the city remain passable. The streets and sidewalks seem wider, the traffic slower and the motorinos fewer.
In general the city carries itself with a little more dignity. A friend of mine recently remarked that Florentines seem to appreciate their city while Romans love theirs. She was making a point about the Roman’s joie de vivre (excuse the French) but the Romans do seem more comfortable in their city. They put their feet up on it, leave still burning cigarettes still burning cigarettes balanced on the woodwork, rarely curb their dogs (and that one’s literal). That Florentine appreciation includes a little more respect. A couple of years ago I climbed up to the Piazzale Michelangiolo to catch the sunrise. A cold and cloudy morning, the joke was on me but I did run into a young Florentine couple who had drifted by on their way to work just to spend some time looking at their city. I don’t think that happens in Rome, at least I haven’t seen it.

Actually, It’s much more common to run into a Roman who is longing for the Rome of a few decades ago when the government wasn’t as corrupt, the city’s little green space wasn’t quite as scrubby, and the graffiti wasn’t as thick, or a Roman who is still grieving (and stuck in that anger stage for that matter) for the empire. I was on a tour a couple weeks and our cabbie took offense at my reference to Castel St Angelo, saying “That is not the Castel St. Angelo, that is the mausoleum of Adriano, one of the greatest emperors of Roma. It was stolen by the Catholic church. We do not need the popes. I am not Italian, I am Roman. Rome is not part of Italy, Italy is part of Rome” But, I digress-back to Florence.
I don’t entirely trust my sense of Italian history but I’m pretty sure that while Florence didn’t enjoy the heights of power that Rome did, it also didn’t suffer the depths of the indignities: barbarian invasions, brutal sackings and all that. Romans still display an every man for himself philosophy. You make your own breaks and waiting for one’s turn is the sign of a sucker. Stand aside at a doorway and let a Roman pass, they won’t thank you. I’m not sure if it’s embarrassment or they think they’re getting away with something, but they won’t even make eye contact.
A Florentine will actually stand back and let you through, especially if you arrive moments ahead. There is a general sense of fair play. A friend of mine, a young Irish whip who works with hotels throughout Italy explained it this way- In Milan, the banking capital, they want to know that you’re thorough and precise. In Venice, long the trading headquarters, every conversation, every seemingly offhand comment, is, in some way, an attempt to make a more profitable deal. Florence is looking for fairness, and a Roman just wants to see that you have a pair.
Now, I don’t want to give the wrong impression; Florence can play rough when it has to. Prime example is the feast of San Giovanni which falls in late June. Rome celebrates the holiday with a candlelight vigil procession between two of the great Vatican basilicas. Florence marks the blessed feast with one of the most brutal sporting events on the planet.

They call it Calcio Storico, historic soccer, although it bears only a passing resemblance to the game as we know it and seems more similar to rugby only more chaotic. The game is played between two teams of 27 players. There is one 55 minute period. There are no substitutions and no time outs. If someone gets hurt (and someone always gets hurt), he is removed from the field of play while the game goes on and his team continues a man (or 2, or 3) down. Points are scored when the ball is thrown into the goal. Beyond that there don’t seem to be any rules and it’s no holds barred. Much of the time is spent trying to tire out the opposition by, well, beating them up. Teeth are loosened, bones are broken, there’s nothing particularly sporting about it. It is, though, immensely popular. I couldn’t find a ticket anywhere.

Like so many events in Tuscany, the game is preceded by a medieval parade. The town fathers dress in heavy period garb (don’t know why they always hold these things in the middle of summer). Dragging cannons and carrying crossbows, they precede the players. Borrowing a phrase from my nephew, the players look like Grade A badasses. They’ve been through a couple of preliminary games so there’s a fair number of black eyes, slings and bandages. The story I get is that many if not most have served prison time and all have the thousand yard stare down pat. The parade rounds out with some Tuscan flag throwing.
In general Florence is a carnivorous town. Menus run towards game, particularly boar, and steaks. Generally, Italians display an elegant brilliance in the kitchen but the steak seems to evade them. I rarely order steak in Italy (or anywhere else, for that matter) and when I have, the results are reminiscent of Ponderosa. Florence is the exception. Here they serve 2 to 3 inch think mammoth cuts that they price by the etto (100 grams) and cook perfectly. They are worth the red meat hangover.

Florence is also where I had my first encounter with lardo and while it can be found throughout the country, it seems to be more popular in the north. Restaurant menus describe it as fatty ham but only because the more accurate description, ham fat, sounds disgusting. It is milky white and silky to the tongue. I ordered it at a humble little sidestreet place that is run by a food historian and expert in Etruscan cooking, and it came on crostini, topped with walnuts and drizzled with olive oil and, of all things, honey (Tuscans do some surprising and wonderful things with honey). It was delicious, particularly that honey/olive oil mixture but, minding my cholesterol count, I figured it was a once in a lifetime thing (until I ordered a salami sampler in Verona and a few thin sheets of lardo showed up naked on the plank in all their unctuous glory. What was I supposed to do?).
Carnivores and semi-organized brawling aside, Florence is rightly known as the epicenter of the Renaissance and, of course, holds some wonderful museums. The previously mentioned Accadamia and Uffizi are worth braving the crowds to wander through, although the Uffizi is massive and can wear a visitor down with its sheer quantity of its contents. The Bargello, relatively small and devoted to sculptures, tends to be quieter and more easily digestible.
When museum torpor starts to set in, the city itself offers beauty enough. I already mentioned the view from Piazzale Michelangiolo and I’ve been told by a few people that it is a great place to catch the sunrise, the city virtually changes color as the air warms and brightens. I’ve tried to catch it a few times but either the weather doesn’t cooperate or I time it wrong and oversleep by a few minutes. Easier and equally impressive is sunset from atop the hill. Mark Twain called it “the fairest picture on the planet” and described the suns “pink and purple and golden floods…that make all fine lines dim and faint and turn the solid city into a city of dreams.” If it can make an old curmudgeon like Twain go all squishy, it is certainly worth the climb up the hill.