21/05/2022
A view of Florence from Piazalle Michelangelo on the south side of the Arno. All pictures taken myself on a Canon AE1 film camera using 200-iso Kodak Gold 35mm film.
I have just returned from a week in Florence, Italy, having taken a dreamy solo holiday in my favourite place in the whole world. I brought my camera as always and took great joy in capturing the places that inspire me. I also took a day trip to Lucca, a small town in Tuscany I had never visited before, but which an Italian friend had greatly recommended. Coming home I was physically exhausted but mentally revived, having felt stuck in a rut due to not leaving London for nearly three years beforehand. It was perfection.
It’s hard for me to to pin down what the magic element is that makes me feel so giddy in these times. I look at the world laid out before me and feel the sadness fall away. Anxieties are dimmed; I don’t know them. Heartbreak, who is she? I’m not saying I disappear for a week and no longer have to battle these things. It’s all in appreciating each moment. Climbing to the top of the hill and overlooking the city as the sun bore down was a moment of euphoria that I felt in my chest. I was still depressed, but in that moment, I felt free. Now I remember it fondly. The modernists talked about the moment a lot, and appreciating the feelings that fly through us in a particular fragment of time that is uniquely itself. I guess you could say my trip was a collection of such fragments, strung together over days in a way that made me feel like I was consistently walking on air. I wasn’t feeling the bumps and knocks of being a rolling stone, only the different vistas and sparks of light I ingested as I rumbled along. I gathered the pieces and made a seamless scene across the skies of my mind as I took every step. It was like this for six days.
As per usual I journaled diligently and have reproduced them here. All I can say, finally, is that my gratitude for those who made this happen is limitless and my heart continues to thank them, even as these moments rock back and forth, to and fro, further into the past each day…
Monday 9 May, 5:15am
I’m sitting in London City Airport with a below-average coffee, waiting for a flight to Florence, Italy, that leaves in just under two hours. I don’t find out which gate it is for another hour and twenty minutes and there is little to do, but the fact that I’m even here is exciting, even with the 4am start. I haven’t been in an airport or gone anywhere since 2019, and just being inside, waiting, has sparked my appetite for adventure. My carry-on suitcase is mostly clothes and the ten boxes of pills I need to stay stable. I needed to get paperwork proving I’m not a drug dealer because apparently the Italian security is rather intense about people carrying large amounts of medications. Looking around, the airport is suddenly much busier; the early morning flights all leave at a similar time and there has been an influx of people through security. The plane for this flight is small, and while I have a book to keep me company I will probably do what I normally do and just sit, thinking, about what has happened and what is to come, which involves staring into the middle-distance and not much else. Maybe I’ll snooze a bit. Normally I need at least eight hours of sleep; last night I got five and a half. When I get to Florence I’m going straight to the hotel, will make myself look less like a zombie and then meander over to Ditta Artigianale, my favourite Florentine coffee shop. Florence itself is my favourite place in the world. I haven’t been in a few years. My late grandpa was Italian and Italy has always been very special to me. I remember telling him about the last time I went to Florence and his smile while I gabbled on. I first visited this city when I was thirteen and it stuck in my mind. This was supplemented by my first viewing of A Room with a View, the 1985 film adaptation of E.M. Forster’s novel of the same name, set partly in Florence, which is a fantastic film (and book!) and extremely educational in a number of ways. The protagonist is Lucy Honeychurch, who is chaperoned by her fussy older cousin, Charlotte Bartlett, and I don’t envy that situation, because while she was constrained by the rules for women of her time (the book was written and set in 1908) I am travelling solo, with no one to reprimand me for doing basic things unaccompanied. I love travelling on my own. The freedom! I don’t have to put on my social face unless I feel like it, I can do what I want, when I want, and see the city in my own time. I can sit and write or watch the world go by. Speaking of, I looked up and the airport lounge is now packed. Granted, it’s May in Europe, which means perfect weather but before Italy hits peak tourist season. It couldn’t be better. I’m going to be rejuvenated by all I see and feel. The anticipation of the last couple of months is coming to fruition. I have a roll of film loaded into my camera and two spare rolls floating in my bag, waiting to be used. I can almost feel it, the joy and the hunger for everything I see. If only time would go a little faster so I could be there already. But wishing time away is dangerous; I want this week to go on for as long as possible. Half an hour until the gate is announced…
7:05am - on the plane
Looking at the Thames from the plane,
I could trail my fingers through it and it would cause waves
Crossing countries while I remember being seventeen
Pointing my nose down the highway
Now just shy of thirty, high on the winds to Italy
My back hurts but the spirit is riveted
Four years since I was crossing these lands last
I lost my nonno to the country of no goodbyes
Now I return to my present and his past
Look Grandpa, watch me fly
Is this a taste of heaven? I can’t ask you
The plane dips but my spirit soars
Fourteen years of feeling blue
But today the skies are clear
Seventeen was another era
French toast filling my belly
Jacaranda streets
Now sun on the metal bird’s wings blinks at me
There’s no room for sickness in my heart today
Flinging those problems into the distance
It’s the gift of an Italian May
Tuesday 10 May, 8:55am
My arrival in Florence was a blur; I watched the medieval buildings and statues go by unable to believe I was actually back in my favourite town. I checked into my hotel and left my bag there, setting out into the streets. Flying often makes me feel sick to my stomach so my excitement was momentarily muted by the pain I was feeling, but thankfully it was to ease soon. Florence is in many ways stuck in time, its charm is partly in its many hundreds of years of history that dominates the inner city. Since I was here last not many things have changed; the main difference lay in its restaurants and cafes which have expanded in number and variety since then. I began by walking to my last adventure’s favourite coffee shop, Ditta Artigianale, which now has three locations. I returned to the one I knew and it was packed, but being solo I was allowed to jump the queue, soon sitting in a corner peacefully. A flat white and French toast later I felt revived and all the more reminded of why I ventured to this part of the world. The people, the places, the life amongst history’s treasures and the food were already opening their eyes to me, and I had been there for only fifteen minutes. My coffee was fantastic; specialty coffee has landed amongst the bitterness of traditional coffee, and all in all I was a happy traveller.
After a long walk (and a little shopping) I returned to my hotel room and rested for two hours, as by this stage I had been awake for over twelve hours. Eventually I set out to have aperitivo, and made my way to a place I had researched before coming, Move On. It’s a record shop and bar, and after perusing a well-curated collection of records walked away with one of Patti Smith’s original albums and a searing-hot chilli cocktail still burning my mouth. I then went to have dinner at Le Menagere, a restaurant bedecked in flowers, and ate the most incredible passionfruit duck. I walked a little more after this, but my exhaustion hit me and I retreated to one very comfortable bed for the night.
Wednesday 11 May, 11:35am
I don’t think I can replicate my last journal’s level of detail because otherwise I’ll be sitting in Ditta Artigianale for the next two hours, but suffice to say it was busy to the point I had to visit a Farmacia and get Band-Aids for my poor feet. I spent most of the day in Oltrarno, south of the River Arno, a flourishing neighbourhood with lots of amazing food, coffee, artisans and cultural landmarks. I visited a very old, large church, I ate and drank, walked in search of some Italian leather sandals (unsuccessful) and visited the Pitti Palace to look at some Medici art. I ate lunch in a place I had researched before I came. I then crossed the river again and visited the church in Santa Croce. I had coffee and gelato and looked in some vintage shops (also unsuccessful, but it’s a gamble at the best of times.) Feeling cheerful but also wrecked I headed back to my hotel and had a siesta (when in Florence) and then woke up, freshened up, and went back out in search of aperitivo. I visited a place near my hotel that I had also researched in advance and sat with a cocktail and some cheese. I made friends with the two Italian women next to me, and we sat and chatted for about half an hour, two truly sweet people who were delighted about my love for Italy. I wandered about once we parted ways and stumbled upon a restaurant with some fantastic-looking veal and sat down. For my entrée I ordered prosciutto and melon, a dish my late Italian Grandpa used to feed me as a child, and always loved. I thought about him while I ate it. After my veal I wandered down the street to a hidden bar I had read about called ‘Bitter Bar’, a dark, vintage-style bar where you had to ring a doorbell to be let in by the braces-wearing bartender. I sat on a velvet couch and enjoyed my drink, had a chat, and then feeling my day catching up with me, meandered back to my hotel. Another beautiful day, another very tired Isabel. The sun had shone all day, I felt at home and despite my sore toes, felt like I floated along. My only sadness is that I keep thinking about Grandpa, and how I wish I could tell him all about it. He would want me to have a good time, however, and so it is with an excited heart that I continue to traverse these cobbled streets, happy in the current moment.
Thursday 12 May, 9:24am
I am sitting on a train to Lucca, a small town near Florence, on the recommendation of an Italian friend. My research has shown a beautiful medieval town, surrounded by its original medieval walls and with a layout that harkens back to the Roman days. The journey is about an hour but I don’t mind having time to sit, as my feet are very unhappy with me from all this walking, and I’m about to spend five hours exploring this new place. I am extremely excited, it looks beautiful and is entirely new to me. Yesterday I crashed fairly early, as I had walked to the river and had breakfast at a beautiful café called Melaleuca and then across the bridge back to Oltrarno, and further, up a giant hill to Piazalle Michelangelo, where there is a stunning view of the entire city of Florence. It was baking hot, but worth it, as I could see everything I loved, and took many pictures. There were other medieval structures nearby, and I went up and down hills to visit them. Coming down into the neighbourhood of Santo Spirito I continued to search for a pair of Italian leather sandals but am yet to find the right ones, despite the plethora of leather shops dotted around the city. I did a lot of eating yesterday though, and between breakfast, morning tea, lunch and aperitivo, I was stuffed. I wandered around looking for places I had read about but have sadly discovered that many businesses have shut down, or are there but inexplicably closed despite their hours being printed on the door. I returned to Ditta Artigianale for French toast and an iced coffee, then took a wander to the Mercato Centrale. It was then time for my siesta and I fell asleep for an hour, waking up feeling warm, and like I should get out again or I’d be wasting my time here. I worried, however, that I was overdoing it, as my body hurt, so I took it slowly in the afternoon and had aperitivo in an enoteca nearby where the sommelier gave me an orange wine that was light and fruity. To go with this I had what can only be described as savoury pancakes folded in half with gorgonzola, fig jam and prosciutto stuffed inside. This was everything good wrapped up together in a warm cake. It occurred to me that I was too exhausted to do much else, so at 5pm I returned to my hotel room and lounged until I went to bed at 8:30pm, being thoroughly dead to the world within minutes.
Now here we are, on the train. I woke up and came straight to the area of the station, searched for coffee and food, and after a fifteen minute delay, am now on the train. The first thing I will do when I get to Lucca is find food, and then set out, walking along the famous medieval walls which are now open for pedestrian and bicycle traffic. The café I had in mind appears to be closed, but another has popped up near the centre of the town that I will visit. All this alone time to walk around, explore, eat and drink, be lost in my surroundings… it’s invigorating. The train has stopped at a station, it looks like we have around twenty minutes to go? My Italian geography is not good, that was a rough guess and perhaps wishful thinking. I am having a lovely time, I don’t like to think that in two days I’ll be leaving. I want to wander Italian streets some more. At the same time my body will need a long rest soon. Listen to your body. Don’t overdo it. A familiar refrain from my healthcare professionals. They’re right of course. Now the train is going through a more rural area, rolling hills with red-roofed houses dotted over them. I see a distant castle. A river. Buildings with green shutters.
3:45pm
I am on the train home. The woman opposite me keeps glaring at me and I’m not sure why. Anyway. I had a fabulous time in Lucca! I walked on the medieval walls that surround the city and even had a glass of prosecco while I was up there. I wandered the streets, saw many old churches, piazzas and monuments, and ate and drank. The time flew. There was a market where they were selling pastries by weight, so I headed off with a bag. I meant to find leather sandals, however, I still didn’t find them. Lots of places closed over lunch, or they were too expensive, or too cheap to have been made in Italy. Instead I sat in the sun and ate puff pastry, cream and berries, with a glass of rosé. I will find my sandals when I get back to Florence. I was completely taken with Lucca, it was like Florence but with fewer tourists, and just winding, cobbled streets, presided over by buildings that had been there for hundreds of years. It was so steeped in history, but thriving with life, the dichotomy I love about Florence as well. Okay this woman will not stop glaring at me… I’m listening to Belle and Sebastian (through my earphones) while I write this and Tuscany goes by the window. Dear Catastrophe Waitress is a brilliant album. It’s now 4pm, and when I get back I’m going to go back to the hotel, rest for a bit, and then hit La Menagere for aperitivo, and then Simbiosi for dinner. I’ve been here four days and still haven’t had a plate of pasta. I’m expiring under this mask. The train is the only place I’ve worn a mask this entire trip, the rest of society has taken away the mandate, and while staff in various places will wear them sometimes, customers now go without. What about tomorrow? Museo Novecento in the morning (Italian modernist art!) and then maybe the Uffizi later (to say hi to David). In between good food and maybe a nap. And I will find some sandals. It’s my last day here and I want to leave with no regrets, but I also don’t want to totally wreck myself over that endeavour. It’s the eternal balancing act which doesn’t change when I go on holiday. How to live my life but not ruin it? Sometimes living is just being able to get out of bed successfully. I’m going to be a shell when I get home, aren’t I? Tuscany is so beautiful and green. I’ve finished a second roll of film. Thankfully I brought a third. Look at these scattered thoughts. I am so tired… but cheerful. Still cheerful. So much positive stimulus. And no rain! My phone just died so I’m going to have to figure out how to get from the station to my hotel on my own. Bring on the adventure! I do suddenly feel vulnerable though. It also means I don’t know where I am at this moment. Except that I’m sailing past vineyards. Beautiful vineyards.
4:45pm
I think we’re only halfway there?? Why is this taking so much longer than on the way here? Was that an express train? Or am I just extremely conscious of time now? I have so many questions.
5:15pm
Still here. I don’t think we’re far away though, we just passed Sesto Fiorentino and I believe Florence is the next stop. Maybe fifteen minutes? I’ve been spoilt by being able to walk everywhere in Florence, forgetting that in London everything takes an hour, usually by multiple forms of transport.
We’re back!
Saturday 14 May, 12pm
On the flight home. It was delayed an hour and then the pilot stopped take off and turned back. We’re in the air now but the group is tetchy. My mask is off to drink some tea. I’m listening to ‘Blue Banisters’, Lana Del Rey’s most recent album. I’m trying to stay as chilled as possible as when I land at London City Airport it’s going to take an hour and a half on three trains and a bus to get to my house. Some good tunes will help. I’m not complaining, I’m journeying back from a fabulous holiday. I have a pleasant emotional hangover from a seriously good time. Yesterday was my last day and it was one of the best. I began with pancakes at my favourite coffee shop and then went to the Museo Novocento which is Florence’s museum of modern art. As a modernist this was delightful; it has an exhibit focusing on an Italian futurist/Dada-ist which gets me giddy. I then walked, ate, bought Italian hand-made leather sandals and then the usual aperitivo, some dinner from a local pizzeria… I took a final walk around and took some pictures as the sun hit the sides of the cathedral near my hotel. It was majestic. I retired and went to bed early as I had an early start. The sun had shone all week long, it was warm but not uncomfortable, and I felt a great peace and happiness as the week progressed. Now I return to London invigorated. I feel capable. I am an exhausted shell physically but mentally feel new. There are challenges ahead of me when I return to normal life, but aren’t there always? I spent the week alone but didn’t feel lonely once. Sometimes in normal life I do feel lonely. It’s not for a lack of lovely people, in fact I’m often surrounded with love, which I cherish and am grateful for. Yet I’ll still stare out of the window and long for things, cloaked in a feeling of isolation. In Italy I felt so content with things exactly as they are; was that a real feeling, or was I just slapping a bandaid on reality that will peel away as, over time, it loses its grip on me? Am I back to the juxtaposition of an inner monologue that states ‘Look at you go! You can do this,’ and ‘You’re awful and ugly and don’t deserve love, and nobody will truly love you for who you are.’ That’s been life. I was stuck in a rut. Realistically, I can’t run away for a week and expect the complexities of my condition to have fixed themselves, but I can see it as a step forward and a fresh start. Already new things are poking their heads out of the soil for me to explore when I get home and I feel like I’m closer to being ready for the possibilities.
Fifteen minutes until touch down. Fifteen minutes until I’m back in it, weary but encouraged for all I could do in this world, and ready to keep exploring it.
In front of the Duomo on my final day.