When: 21/10/2010

Where: Florence, Italy

Stayed: Hotel Giglio Florence

The start of our trip to Florence was filled with drama. Arriving at Liverpool Street station we discovered the ticket machines weren’t working and had 10mins to make our train. A line 20 deep at the ticket office, two arguments with a staff

member (first me and then Justin), 1 blatant pull down of the blinds at the ticket window, some serious hand gestures, 1 missed train and some hardcore sprinting later we managed to get ourselves to the airport. Some more skid marks left in the departure lounge at Pisa airport to make the train to Florence followed by one hell of a slow train ride we finally arrived around midnight – completely exhausted. Fortunately it wasn’t a sign of things to come.

The funniest memories we have from our trip to Florence revolve around our inadequate grasp of the local language. Having done several months of Italian speaking classes I fancied myself as a bit of an aficionado with the language (albeit to a basic level). Justin whole heartedly supported this theory and promptly gave me the esteemed title of ‘master linguistic’ for the trip. And so I embarked on our visit to Florence with a level of confidence that turned out to be just a little bit misplaced.

Our first mishap with the language came shortly after exiting our hotel at 10am when Justin greeted the local shop keeper with an enthusiastic ‘Bounasera!’ (good evening). I admired the conviction in his greeting but couldn’t stop the tears of laughter as the shop assistant looked down his nose at us and snorted ‘stupid American tourists’… actually he said ‘Buongiorno’ but I’m pretty sure the former is what he meant. From that moment on, Justin’s confidence took a beating and he opted for staccato English with tit-bits of Italian thrown in (generally at inappropriate intervals) just to show he was trying.  That’s my boy. Confusion reigned when Justin was met with a ‘Bounasera’ the next day by a local at 11am…we think word had spread…just to show the girl he was no fool he loudly responded with ‘Buongiorno!’.

My laughter was short-lived however as I ran into problems of my own with the menu at a locals favourite haunt; ‘Il Magazzino’. After feeling quietly smug about my ability to order in Italian, I was quickly brought back to reality by the appearance of a plate of calamari. Most people will recall that I don’t eat seafood, sniffing it out a mile away, and would never knowingly order this dish. Justin took great delight in my oversight which I’m sure is a huge surprise to most of you. I spent the rest of the meal pushing food around trying to figure out how best to disguise my untouched plate from the host. As suspected he was hugely offended despite strategically placed napkins and cutlery and remnants sprayed across the table Pro Hart style.

In between stumbling over the language, we spent a lot of time in the shops near Ponte Vecchio and around the city. We were determined to come home with some genuine Florentine clothing and accessories and dedicated ourselves to this task with vengeance. We quickly established how Florence earned the title of ‘best shopping in Europe’ – if we hadn’t been hamstrung by the Ryan Air luggage allowance our spending may have rivalled that of a small African nation. Nevertheless, a good bout of retail therapy worked wonders.

Despite being relatively ‘anti’ most tourist activities, we were pleasantly surprised by  The Cathedral of Santa Maria Del Fiore (Il Duomo). The violent and somewhat confronting images depicted in a representation of the ‘last judgment’ on the roof of Il Duomo steadily increased in impact as we climbed higher. Being a mere few metres from the incredible painting which spans 3600sq metres of surface was quite surreal. The view from the top of the building also made the claustrophobic ascent worthwhile. It really captured the essence of Florence for both of us with the endless terra cotta roof tops framed by hills that looked as though a rock had skimmed over the surface creating waves of greenery. You know something truly is beautiful when you don’t notice the elbows in your back from eager Japenese tourists attempting to capture the view from 389 different angles.

The other tourist attraction we gave a tick of approval too was Giardini di Boboli. Some incredibly well manicured gardens, dozens of naked men looking manly (otherwise known as a distinguished collection of sculptures from the 16th Century) and more expansive views of the city; all with the sun shutting up shop for the day in the background. Ahhhhhhh.
Among the many highlights of our trip, undoubtedly the most outstanding was the food. We were fortunate enough to meet a local who was particularly keen to impart her knowledge of the best places to rub shoulders with the locals. Armed with a ‘key eateries’ map, most of our days revolved around where we would eat next and deciding whether 2 hours between meals was acceptable. Especially if you weren’t hungry and might actually throw up if you even so much as looked at another tomato. Needless to say we didn’t go hungry.

Here is our top 10 from Florence:

1. The train station attendant is always right. No exceptions.
2. Finding a bad coffee in Italy is like trying to find a good coffee in London.
3. Those with good turn of speed and sharp elbows will triumph in the RARUS (Ryan Air Race for Unallocated Seats).
4. Florence can be a navigational nightmare – apparently maps are indicative only.
5. Don’t go to Mercato Centrale on an empty stomach
6. If you see the same leather shop 2 doors up rest assured you’re not goingaround in circles. You’ll see it again in another few metres.
7. The Italian men never stood a chance of being modest – they’ve been taught for decades that it’s ok to pose in all your glory.
8.  Trying to catch a bus to the airport on a Sunday requires gathering clues from the station staff to solve the mystery of the missing bus stop.
9. Always follow the locals when looking for somewhere to eat – even if it means you end up ordering spaghetti bolognaise because you can’t read the menu.
10. Look before you cross the road. The cars aren’t interested in your plight and the 1970’s bikes are lucky to be in motion; stopping is a luxury.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.