Florence

I can say nothing of Florence that hasn’t been said before. I cannot hope to capture in words the artistic pleasure of wandering through its Galleria Dell’Accademie and Galleria Uffizi where each turn ignites a firework of delight within me; the streets so filled with people to foster the simple joy of feeling small and light and ethereal as snow; the sudden, wide-eyed wonder of stumbling across the Basilica di Santa Marie del Fiore by chance and feeling overwhelmed with awe.

Florence is the favorite city of so many, and it’s not hard to see why. Looking out at the city from the Copula of the Duomo, which dominates the cityscape by its scale and height—or from the Piazzale Michelangelo just across the Arno River (in the fading lights of a striking sunset)—one finds the city holds its Renaissance-era charm: the panoramic is untouched by the tilting skyscrapers and dominating condominiums of modernity. The only indication of its presence in the world of today is the collections of solar panels laid across the brick-red tile roofs.

Millions of people come to Florence every year—young and old alike. My days here were few—only two full days to scrape the surface and see the major sites before being whisked away on another adventure. It was difficult to get here, to the this city, difficult to find a place to stay the night, and the largeness of everything, the pure bold majesty of it all, makes me feel a bit like a child, and I somehow feel like Florence is too much for me. Maybe she’s too much for any of us.

I want to come back. Many of the cities I pass through I can say goodbye to feeling that I have seen what I needed to see, but Florence is one of those cities that still has secrets to uncover, mysteries to reveal, delights to discover. She is a city that bids me, in a knowing whisper, echoed in the rustle of her leaves and the quietness of her ancient stony structures, to return when I am ready.

Until then, she will be waiting for me.

Ciao, Florence. Ciao, Italy.

Bonjour, France.