Bumbling

She wants to listen to the vespri at a cathedral we passed while walking through Florence. I think vespri are a version of liturgy which is sung instead of spoken.

I have no interest in such things. Besides, I’m a heretic. I might burst into flames and ruin everyone’s day.

We walked to the cathedral and she finds a seat. I bumbled down the street and found a noisy corner bar labeled “Bar” in gold letters painted on glass. These Italian bars are part coffee shop, part bakery, part pizzeria, and also a bar. They are noisy and busy; full of locals and dimwit tourists alike.

I approached the counter and buono serra’ed my way into finding out I could just take any open seat. A dark haired young woman took my order. I had learned that, in Italy, pizza by the slice is typically a sheet pan pizza cut into rectangles. It’s often sold bt weight. Does it have a different name? I clumsily pointed and asked. She explained that this was a margarita pizza.

I felt foolish. But I’m a fool with a slice pizza and a glass of Chianti.

My pizza reminds me of school lunch. But the crust is crisp, gently fried in the oil from the sheet pan. The cheese is delicious and salty and the tomato sauce is rich with depth. It only superficially resembles the cardboard and government-cheese pizza from grade school. I am nostalgic and satisfied but worried that they might not accept credit cards. I only have €15 in cash and I want more wine.

I’m having mixed feelings about Florence. I have seen the most beautiful things here. The city is great. But when I play the travelers’ game of “could I live here” I can only imagine myself transferred here for work and making the best of it.

Now, if I find myself in a job which transfers me to Florence, Italy, and I complain? Shoot me dead. I don’t deserve to live.

But Florence is full of tourists in a way that is very different from Venice. There are too many Americans. Too many bumbling parents with strollers, and just too many. This city would be great if you could empty it of all the people for the weekend.

As I write this, I suddenly remember the book “The Brief History of the Dead” by Kevin Brockmeier.

In this book people who die find themselves in a city which grows and shrinks to accommodate the total number of dead. I realize now that my mental image of this city is (was) Florence. Prognosticating travel through literature.

I have eaten my pizza sqaure and I’ve ordered another glass of wine. I have found that ordering a second glass of wine is usually met with a “sure” or a “why not?” as if it were a foregone conclusion. The most obvious thing in the world. And I suppose you’ll continue breathing? Very good.

With a full belly and one glass of wine, I like Florence more. I pay at the counter, now with much more confidence. I leave to find the cathedral where I left my wife. While I wait for the service to end, I stand on the stone steps by the entrance and watch people walk by.

In the right frame of mind, the crowds become the ocean. Noisy, possibly dangerous, something to perhaps watch from a safe place.