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.

Bari

From the time I arrived in Bari until the time I left, I feel as though my time was something of an eclectic mix determined in large part by the strangers to acquaintances to friends with whom I spent my time. Traveling alone, I often make my own current through the wide waters of the world, but while in Bari, I let myself flow along to the currents of others.

I arrived in Bari in the morning after an overnight ferry that took me from Montenegro to Italy. I stepped off the ferry with a new friend, a middle-aged Russian woman named Tatiana, who had chatted happily to me the night before we fell asleep in the cabin we shared. We spent much of our first day in Italy together, checking into out hotels/hostels, getting lunch, and window-shopping at the myriad fashionable outlets lined about the stone-paved streets.

Like a boat carried along a river, I let her lead me through the streets she knew far better than I did, through the shopping districts and into Old Town, where we sat quietly in the Basilica of St. Nicholas. It’s a quiet place, with a strange calm and peace that does seem somewhat mystic.

She left the day after that on a ferry back the way we’d come, to Montenegro, but we had lunch one last time before she went.

Fortunately, I got picked up by a group of young people at my hostel, lead by the youngest of the group, a French girl studying architecture outside of Paris. She invited me to go out with her and two guys from Australia the first night, and as our time together grew, so did our numbers, such that it began to pull in other hostel-goers—the gravity of camaraderie.

I leave Bari a little sad to see the camaraderie forced apart, but the memories stay. I will remember perusing the shops of Bari, exploring the nearby city of Polignano, and taking late into the night while taking shots of Tabasco sauce from tablespoons. It is remarkable, the delightful experiences that come with letting go and letting yourself be carried by the currents of those around you. You never know what you will learn about a city, a culture, a person, or yourself.

Now I again set about my course and look onward to Florence.