When I arrived in Florence the sky was gray. I stepped hazily out of the airport after twelve hours of exhausting travel. A battle had taken place: Catherine vs. Altitude...the altitude won. Dried blood crusted the inside of my nostrils and I inhaled the chilly moisture of my new home.

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I have a faint memory of the cab ride from the airport to my apartment. With the measly ounces of energy I had left I dragged my body bag of jeans and boots and shampoo up three flights of stairs. I chose the room with the bigger windows for the natural light. Although today there wasn’t as much light as there was murky silver radiance. I collapsed onto the sliver of mattress and called my mom. The second I heard her voice I started to sob uncontrollably. My sobs took my vocal chords captive and I heaved trying to regain the ability to speak.

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“Relax” my mother cooed. “You’re just exhausted.” “No, Catherine. This wasn’t a mistake, take a nap and you’ll feel better.” I said goodbye and let the phone dim into sleep. I laid my head on a pillow that wasn't my own; in a city I didn’t know.

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*          *          *

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From my living room window of my apartment you can see the dusky orange semi-sphere of il Duomo. While much of Florence’s architecture is muted and modest, the Duomo manages a caliber of impact akin to a punch in the gut. I pass through Piazza del Duomo every day and each time I am confronted by this ornate confection of pink, green and white marble embellished with geometric carvings, angelic figures, and sculpted foliage. In Florence, there is constant sense that you’ve been thrusted back to the Renaissances time by a well-concealed time machine. Le strade è le piazze—the streets and centers—are adorned with commanding neoclassical statues, grand palaces, and whispers of history. The only hint of modernity is the fashion. Glossy locks and a bold red lip are the mark of a true Italian woman. And can you even call yourself an Italian man if you aren’t wearing perfectly buffed leather shoes and a motorcycle jacket?

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The history of Florence dates back to around 200 BC when the Romans founded the city. The Etruscans initially formed the small settlement of Fiesole. The present city of Florence was established by Julius Caesar in 59 BC as a settlement for his veteran soldiers. Firenze—as it is known in Italian—was named originally Fluentia, owing to the fact that it was built on a river, the River Arno. The Arno flows below countless bridges in Florence, which gives this city a beautiful sense of harmony and connection. Bridges such as Ponte Santa Trinita and Ponte alla Carraia stretch across the murky green currents of the Arno, but my favorite bridge of course is the Ponte Vecchio. Constructed of Medieval stone, the Ponte Vecchio is a far cry from the melancholia attached to that time period. The bridge is lined with jewelry stores whose windows gleam with sparkling sapphires and emeralds fastened to necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. Walking across the bridge I feel like a fish swimming upstream. On the rare occasion that I don’t stop in awe at the windows of glimmering treasures, I must weave through the throngs of gawking tourists—gripping selfie sticks as if they were extensions of their limbs.

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When Caesar founded Fluentia, it was built in the style of an army camp with the main streets intersecting at the present-day Piazza della Repubblica. Not only was Florence was situated on the main route between Rome and northern Italy, it was also within the fertile valley of the Arno: Firenze quickly became an important commercial center. Today, unmistakably Italian names like Prada, Valentino, and Armani glow above Florentine shops. It wouldn’t be fair, or even accurate, of course to describe the commercial success of Florence without mentioning la famiglia di Medici. The sprawling city of Florence we enjoy today is due entirely to a family of bankers known as the Medicis. The Medicis came into power in the 15th century and used their political stronghold to establish Florence as an artistic epicenter of not only Italy, but also the whole of Europe.

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Under the Medici patronage, Florence built a rebirth of art, literature and education. I came to Florence eager to revive my four semesters of Italian and my latent knowledge of Renaissance art. A little renaissance of my own, you could say. The natives, to my chagrin, were impossibly perceptive to my foreignness. “Buongiorno” I would try to say but stumble over the Italian rolling r. I wandered through the supermarket, “Conad” and nothing felt familiar. The eggs weren’t in the refrigerated section. The cashier asked me “busta?” and my face must have flushed with nervous confusion because almost immediately he said in English, “bag?” and held up a plastic bag. “Yes please.” I replied, acquiescing to my inconcealable Americanness.

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*          *          *
 

Months have passed and I no longer need iMaps to get from Piazza del Duomo to Piazza Strozzi. I walk with the confidence of a native Florentine. I speak more convincing Italian—certainly not perfect Italian. The gray chilly Florence I met on February 2nd is not the same Firenze I know today. When I first arrived in Florence the buildings, like the trees of a forest, stretched skyward and surrounded me. As I ventured deeper into the semester, deeper into the forest, I began to feel not as if the buildings surrounded me, but as if they were embracing me. Florentine life has settled warmly around me like the thick forest air. I lay my footprints not on the unchartered mossy floor, but instead beside the colorful merry-go round in Piazza della Repubblica. I can hear the whispers of history and the sight of the Duomo is a beacon of my home.

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The comfort I feel in Florence is not always as grand as you might imagine. Sometimes the comfort of this city is in the smaller, monotony of daily life. I know where to find the farina in Conad. I know to weigh my apples and print the produce sticker before approaching the cashier. “Busta?” the cashier asks me. “Non grazie,” I reply casually and confidently. Now I know. I no longer feels anxious and out of place.

 

Now, I am comfortable.

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I have finally begun to feel at ease in this foreign city. Perhaps tomorrow that security will sour into tedium. Perhaps it never will. I still miss my home, but the longing is not all consuming like it was on that chilly February day.

title. the florentine forest

date. may 2016

course. writing 290: travel writing

genre. narrative