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| Firenze, from the Campanile |
The final week of my time in Firenze was bittersweet. It was incredible
to think that my “stay” was coming to an end.
Had I really just spent nine full months living abroad in Bella Italia? It felt like I had just arrived yesterday!
But the tasks at hand in preparing to leave were making me sad because I had to
say goodbye to the people and places I had to come to love in the city I chose
to call my home.
The weather remained hot in late July, so preparing to leave took place
in the mornings and late afternoons, and ran smoothly thanks to the “run
sheets” I developed (thank you Geoffrey C!) which itemized my days and tasks
needing completion. I edited my wardrobe
down to two large suitcases, and the lovely cleaning lady at Cesarino became the recipient of a lot
of my clothes. She was a divorced mother of three from Tunisia so things would
come in handy for her growing son. There
were also a few trips to the charity clothing bin down the street. I cleaned the apartment from top to bottom;
brought my bike to the bike shop to get dismantled and boxed for shipping, and
went through a shoebox full of stuff I had collected over the months. I left
behind my guide books along with some maps for the next tenants so they could
benefit, as I had, from the resident library in the apartment.
I was not quite finished seeing everything Firenze had to offer, and
there were a few things left on the sightseeing to-do list I had made at the
beginning of June. One morning I walked
to the top of Giotto’s Campanile at the Duomo because I couldn’t bear to think that
I had stared at the tower for so long but had never ventured up. Finished in 1359, the bell tower has stood
like a faithful sentinel in the Piazza
del Duomo sounding its bells on the hour for 653 years. The trip up made me
sweat, but the views were spectacular and different, and it was interesting to
see the tower’s interior up close. It was worth every step.
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| Giotto's Campanile, Firenze, July 2012 |
Also on my list was the Church of Santissima Annunziata in Piazza SS Annunziata. I had walked by this unassuming church (on
the outside at least) many times and now was the time to venture inside. While most “famous” churches have a few
masses during the day, SS Annunziata is a going concern with mass ever hour
until 13:00hrs. I had come to be quite
respectful of not visiting churches when a mass was underway, so my visit was
wedged between the end of one mass and the start of another. While the outside might have been bland in
comparison to say, Santa Croce, it
was spectacular on the inside and filled with fabulous Renaissance artwork. The chapels along the nave were connected to
one another by a series of doorways, so you could walk to the altar without
interrupting the congregation. SS Annunziata was a late “find” but a true
Florentine jewel.
By now, the Galleria delgi Uffizi
really had become my local art gallery and it deserved one last visit. In late June, a bunch of new galleries
finally opened up on the first floor (in the wing that was damaged by a mafia
car bomb in 1993) along with the Tribuna
on the second floor (the renovation of which is spectacular.) I went late one afternoon, because the crowds
were now getting unbearable, and visited all my favourite paintings. I had read enough and see enough to know the
Medici lineage fairly well, so all the portraits on the 2nd floor
hallway finally made sense and had more meaning to me. Similarly with a lot of the Renaissance
painters and their work; Bronzino continued to be my favourite painter and
Giambologna my favourite sculptor, so I lingered a little longer in the gallery
with “my” Bronzinos saying goodbye to each one of them – admiring their exceptional
execution and truly timeless beauty.
Saying goodbye to the people I had come to see and know was an
iterative and deliberate process. When I
had my hair cut for the final time by my barber, Gigi, I told him that I was
leaving for Canada the next week. Like a bunch of the Florentines I had regular
interaction with, Gigi knew little about me except I didn’t speak Italian very
well, but was a regular and faithful customer. He carefully explained that he
was going to close his shop for the month of August and made a point of telling
me when the shop would open up again. Then he asked if I was going for a
vacation and for how long. In my very bad Italian I explained I was returning
home for good. His response was a
natural one: Vero? (truthfully?) and When will you be back? I laughed and said
I didn’t know – perhaps next Spring. I gave him a larger-than-normal tip, we
shook hands, and my first goodbye was done.
The barristas at La Loggia
where I had cappucino and a cornetto nearly every morning were next.
Over my final two days, I learned (because I finally got up the nerve to ask)
the names of the women behind the bar: Veronica, a short dark-haired young
woman, and her colleague Mary, who was a slightly taller brunette. I wrote a thank you card to each one of them
and enclosed €50 as a tip. That
gesture was unexpected and they were delighted and appreciative, but it only
worked out to a 10 cent tip per visit which I thought was the least I could
do. Like Gigi, they asked when I was
coming back, and like good Florentines, they didn’t make any big fuss about my
departure – they just said goodbye and carried on about their business. I was
going to miss seeing them every morning.
My final day at the gym was the day before I left, so I packed up two
bottles of nice chianti for Riccardo and Costanza and presented both with their
parting gifts and handwritten thank you cards. I had seen Costanza and Riccardo
at the front desk of the gym nearly every day for 9 months, and because they
both spoke better English than my Italian, we conversed regularly. Like the gym
itself, and one of the trainers there, Marco, they became touchstones for me -
friends, guides, and people I said ciao
to when I ran into them on the street or in a shop. They helped me feel like a
local, even though they knew I wasn’t.
But in some way, now I was a
local because everyone seemed a bit shocked that I was actually leaving.
The most heartfelt goodbye was on my final night and that was with Mrs.
Civai. Mrs. Civai lived alone in the
apartment below me and was a lovely lady in her mid-seventies. She was
considered “family” by my landlords and I was instructed to treat her
well. When I first moved in, I bought
her a flowering plant, and left it by her door with a note introducing myself.
Later that day, she came up to introduce herself, and for 9 months, we saw each
other regularly in the hallway of the apartment, on the street, or at the
market. She had an impeccable sense of
style and never went out without looking her best. She seemed pleased to hear about my adventures
and travels, and was always up to date on who was visiting me. And in that reserved Florentine way, she
shared details of her daily life that she thought I should know, and nothing
more.
Mrs. Civai was the recipient of a bag of food I couldn’t bear to throw
away and two bottles of wine. When I made my delivery, she invited me into her
apartment (a first) and we went through each item sharing a bit of a story on
each. I learned more about Mrs. Civai in the 15 minutes it took to empty the
shopping bag than I had in the previous 9 months of regularly seeing
her. It was a life lesson for me – and part
of being a stranieri (foreigner). We both shed a few tears and hugged a lot
when saying goodbye and I was sad to be leaving her behind. But I was happy to
have had her as my friend and neighbour. It really made living at Via Giovan
Battista Niccolini 8 my home away from home.
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| Via Giovan Battista Niccolini 8, Firenze |
It is interesting that I do not have any pictures of the people I saw
most frequently. Perhaps taking their
pictures would have meant that they were less significant figures in my
Florentine life – needing a photo because I might not remember who they were or
what they looked like. Maybe I just never thought to do it. Whatever the reason,
their faces are etched in my memory and can be easily and fondly recalled in my
mind’s eye.
