Florence by Train
I left my wife sleeping deeply in the hotel room.
At the end of the day, yesterday, she came down with some kind of mysterious tummy bug. It began with motion sickness in the vaparetto and ended with no sleep. The following morning, she barely made it through breakfast. We managed to pack and catch our boat to the train station.
The Venice train station was busy and crowded with no place to sit. We found a corner out of the way and perched on our luggage. I paced around, checking the lighted signs for our train. I’m a fastidious traveler by nature. In a foreign country, I am extra vigilant. I check the signs every 5 minutes. On one my rounds trips to the platform, I pop my head into a Moleskine store and dream of fancy notebooks and backpacks.
Our train arrives and we line up. A young woman in a conductor’s uniform checks our ticket and immediately clocks us as Americans. She asks, in English, where our seat is. She is trying to split up the crowd into even lines and the front and back of the train car, so that boarding is less of a jumble of bodies and bags. She’s pretty. The Beatle’s song “Lovely Rita” plays in my mind. As we board a young couple with absurdly huge bags struggle with the reality of limited luggage storage. Ultimately they shove their bag in front of their seat, and the young woman sits atop it.
My weary wife slept on the train. I dozed a bit and watched the landscape roll by. I was struck by how empty this world is. Between major population centers there is nothing. This seems in contradiction to the fact that there are 800 year old churches all over. Where is everyone?
Our driver meets us by the pharmacy on the platform of the Florence station. I didn’t catch her name, but she drove a big Mercedes van through narrow streets while cursing at pedestrians. She’s a pro.
Traffic patterns in Florence are impressionistic. It reminds me a little of Mexico. Our drive explains (complains) that since they’ve limited vehicle access to much of central Florence, the traffic is far worse, because the pedestrians have become lawless and clueless about cars.
Our hotel is a repurposed, ancient fortified tower. We are early. Our room is not ready, so we were led to a rooftop bar. We could see the dome of the famous Florence Cathedral golden in the afternoon sun. I ordered their special martini and wolfed down peanuts and potato chips while my wife nursed a sparkling water and nibbled cautiously. To our left sat a clutch of the worst, tacky Americans you could imagine. They were failing, loudly, to book a taxi or operate their phones.
We are fetched when our room is ready. My wife quickly fell into bed to sleep away her ailing tummy. I doom-scrolled election news on my phone. I finally grew restless enough to accept that no matter how far I scrolled, I couldn’t fix it. So I left the hotel for a quick walk through the neighborhood. We are next to the Arno River and very close to the Uffizi and surrounded by high fashion shops.
I listened to a street performer sing a part of an opera. I popped into a very cool shoe store (don’t worry, I’ll be back later). I came back to the room and tried to recharge my phone and myself. She was still sleeping. I asked if she was hungry. No. I asked if she wanted me to go eat on my own. Yes. I reminded her that if I take the hotel key, the room will be plunged into darkness. Fine.
I walked around the little plaza near our hotel and peeked at menus. I am drawn to a little trattoria, but I kept searching. My first instinct was correct. Other places were too formal, other places only served wine and snacks. I wanted pizza and I didn’t want to roam too far to find it.
I returned to the trattoria and meekly asked the maître d’ for a table. He clarified “to eat?” Yes please. I grabbed a seat on the street and bumbled my way into ordering a glass of red wine and a pizza with tuna and red onion. That might sound strange, but when cooked atop a pizza, canned tuna loses any fishiness and just becomes rich, savory, and almost buttery. The sharp red onion keeps it from being too rich and it all goes well with red wine. This was one of my favorite meals from my trip.
A young blonde woman sat in the table next to me. She sheepishly ordered “chicken parm” in a broad Midwestern accent. I imagined she was abandoned by her traveling companions and making the best of it. I wondered: is she visiting with family or is she an exchange student? She looked my way a few times, looking for a conversation. I did not engage. I did not want to adopt a lost college kid for the week.
The plaza is getting quiet and I’m finishing my second glass of wine. The young lady finished her chicken parm and disappeared. She has been replaced by a British couple and some quiet white-haired Americans. The British couple has gone and now I’m eavesdropping on a two ladies having dinner and getting to know each other. Seems like a date. One woman is an art student. She is wearing a bulky button-up sweater, opened to her belly button. She’s wearing nothing underneath her sweater. This is definitely a date. I hope it went well.