I can’t believe we have been here over a month and have yet to journey to Florence. To date, Siena has become our destination for gelato and pizza. And for the bustle of city traffic, tourist-filled sights and architecture inspired and funded by the Midici family. Today, however, I coaxed Hannah from bed at the ungodly Saturday morning hour of 8:30 with the promise of roadside pastries and off we went to Florence.
Why now? We had finally succumbed to the siren’s call of inspired design and beautiful, artful…thoughtful…world-class creations as only Florence could provide. We were off to IKEA.
When you pack up life and relocate to a foreign land, there are certain things that feel exotic to do without. But Ziploc bags, a kitchen trash can, and an extra pillow were not among them. And so off we went, list in hand, to navigate the endless wares of the Swedish megamart, in Italian no less, to properly dial in villa life.
The pastry bribe was satisfied at the IGIP petrol station on the autostrada. I have to say that if any executives from 7-Eleven are perhaps reading this blog, then wake the hell up. Italian gas stations are kicking your caloric butts in the quality food category. While filling your car with diesel at a reasonable $8.75 a gallon, you can wander in for a quick shot of hand-drawn espresso and a fresh panini for about 2 bucks and change. And it is good. Good on the order of a Salvaggios sandwich back in Boulder. Sliced prosciutto, buffalo mozzarella, fresh basil. All lightly toasted and served in a dandy paper wrapper to consume back on the motorway at 130 kph.
But I digress. Firenze. City of romance and art. As we cleared the hills and descended into the Arno river valley, the Duomo appeared as a silent sentinel on the cityscape, an enormous umber beacon in the hazy morning light. We slowly circled it, bypassing the heart of the city for the northern reaches near the airport, where my dad arrives in a little more than a week. And there, blessedly on the horizon, like an oasis of consumer splendor, the giant blue box of Ikea appeared before us. Michelangelo never wrought a more stunning scene. Ok. Well maybe so. But we needed new pillowcases in a bad way and Lindsay desperately wanted a yoga mat.
Why now? We had finally succumbed to the siren’s call of inspired design and beautiful, artful…thoughtful…world-class creations as only Florence could provide. We were off to IKEA.
When you pack up life and relocate to a foreign land, there are certain things that feel exotic to do without. But Ziploc bags, a kitchen trash can, and an extra pillow were not among them. And so off we went, list in hand, to navigate the endless wares of the Swedish megamart, in Italian no less, to properly dial in villa life.
The pastry bribe was satisfied at the IGIP petrol station on the autostrada. I have to say that if any executives from 7-Eleven are perhaps reading this blog, then wake the hell up. Italian gas stations are kicking your caloric butts in the quality food category. While filling your car with diesel at a reasonable $8.75 a gallon, you can wander in for a quick shot of hand-drawn espresso and a fresh panini for about 2 bucks and change. And it is good. Good on the order of a Salvaggios sandwich back in Boulder. Sliced prosciutto, buffalo mozzarella, fresh basil. All lightly toasted and served in a dandy paper wrapper to consume back on the motorway at 130 kph.
But I digress. Firenze. City of romance and art. As we cleared the hills and descended into the Arno river valley, the Duomo appeared as a silent sentinel on the cityscape, an enormous umber beacon in the hazy morning light. We slowly circled it, bypassing the heart of the city for the northern reaches near the airport, where my dad arrives in a little more than a week. And there, blessedly on the horizon, like an oasis of consumer splendor, the giant blue box of Ikea appeared before us. Michelangelo never wrought a more stunning scene. Ok. Well maybe so. But we needed new pillowcases in a bad way and Lindsay desperately wanted a yoga mat.
I will say that I have only actually been to Ikea once. In Texas. And I thought it was a daunting episode. Navigating the experience in Italian, on a Saturday, felt a but like taking part in the Palio, the frenzied Siena horse race. We wrestled our way through Italian families hell-bent on furnishing a nursery or remodeling the bath. We did lap after lap trying to check things off Kellie’s organized list. The list partially complete, we gave up, and descended to check out. Only to find another entire floor of wares.
Finally we exited, with a trunk full of new goods, some planned and many unexpected. But at these prices, you have to be crazy to pass them up!
As we pulled out of the parking lot, we debated heading for the autostrada and home. But something felt wrong about basing our entire first Florentine experience on the collection of disposable plastic goods. So, we took a quick left and dove headlong into the throng of cars and scooters shoving their way toward the city center.
Finally we exited, with a trunk full of new goods, some planned and many unexpected. But at these prices, you have to be crazy to pass them up!
As we pulled out of the parking lot, we debated heading for the autostrada and home. But something felt wrong about basing our entire first Florentine experience on the collection of disposable plastic goods. So, we took a quick left and dove headlong into the throng of cars and scooters shoving their way toward the city center.
I won’t waste time describing the traffic and the parking and the death-scooters. I’ll just say we finally found a spot near the western side of the city proper, and headed by foot, sans map, toward what seemed to be the city's core.
We soon found ourselves standing along the banks of the Arno River. Rowing shells skirted by beneath us as the Ponte Vecchio bridge appeared. The ancient bridge is now home to a collection of jewelry merchants and throngs of tourists following sign-toting guides like so many lemmings. We decided to avoid the crowds and head instead toward the Duomo, which appeared occasionally in brief glimpses down empty alleyways. We navigated by feel, wandering past shops of ancient antiques, fresh-made gelato, and stylish handbags. At one point Hannah tucked into a little cobbler shop where a man was hand-making leather high-top sneakers that made Chuck Taylors look like so much Ikea fodder. We talked briefly about the price and the process and decided we might need to come back with more time on our hands and Euros in our pockets.
We soon found ourselves standing along the banks of the Arno River. Rowing shells skirted by beneath us as the Ponte Vecchio bridge appeared. The ancient bridge is now home to a collection of jewelry merchants and throngs of tourists following sign-toting guides like so many lemmings. We decided to avoid the crowds and head instead toward the Duomo, which appeared occasionally in brief glimpses down empty alleyways. We navigated by feel, wandering past shops of ancient antiques, fresh-made gelato, and stylish handbags. At one point Hannah tucked into a little cobbler shop where a man was hand-making leather high-top sneakers that made Chuck Taylors look like so much Ikea fodder. We talked briefly about the price and the process and decided we might need to come back with more time on our hands and Euros in our pockets.
Finally, we turned a corner and there before us, as Hannah was surprisingly quick to point out, was an absolutely enormous set of testicles. It was David. Or at least the faux public David, outside the museum that housed the real David. Hannah asked if back then they knew what figs leaves were. I gently navigated her toward his more conservative backside, which was in itself an impressive view, and we paused to admire him in all his marbled glory. It was pretty spectacular. There he stood in a way that was both proud and honest. Every sinewy muscle in his thighs and vein in his forearms was wrought with care and graceful beauty. (I write this with an entirely non-gender specific sort of admiration.) The sling over his shoulder was casually placed like an extension of himself. After hearing about il David for so long, to stand here was pretty cool, and I thought again about how lucky we were to have so many experiences available to us on a simple Saturday morning. “Why did he fight Goliath naked?” Hannah asked, bringing me back to the moment. “Well...he didn’t. It was just...Michelangelo wanted to present him in a really human way. And to show how exposed…Never mind. Ask your mother.”
Apparently satisfied with my answer, she declared she was hungry and we went off in search of a slice of pizza.