By Frederick Wolstenholme

We arrived in Florence and slowly stepped outside into a plaza of construction and a light drizzle. We made our way, in a zigzag fashion to our place on Via degli Alfani. The sidewalks were large, rectangular and deep enough to host little pools of water from the evening rain. The asphalt-covered roads slowly peeled away to reveal the square cobblestones that were consistent in Rome.

The knobby roads punished our umbrella stroller within hours of hitting the streets in the Eternal City. We navigated through the streets and a stretch of the leather market in San Lorenzo and past the church of the same name. I’m not sure when the block was built, but it must have been a long time ago. The inside stairwell with its wide stairs circled inside the large atrium. 11 steps up on one side. 8 on another. 11, then 8 again, until the next level and up a few more until our third floor apartment.

Despite looking up at the massive effort needed to haul our too-heavy luggage up the stairs, we missed a lovely ceiling painting. It was pointed out days later by my mom, some cherubs playing cheerfully around the edging while light poured in from the skylight. Some blue trying to pass as the sky it blocks while a goddess of some sort keeps watch over those going up and down the stairs.

After catching our breath and putting our bags in our respective rooms we settled in one of the bedrooms that doubled as the social area. We opened the window and towering over the central part of the city was the cathedral, the Duomo.

This was the reason for me personally to come back to this city after 10 years. I had read a book about Filippo Brunelleschi and how he built the tallest dome without any scaffolding and even created the machines necessary to lift up the massive stones and to put them into place. But first, because our train had been delayed for 2 hours in Bologna because of “an accident with a man on the tracks,” we were late for an engagement. Fortunately for us rather than the man, the delay wasn’t enough to detract us from one of the city’s draws, the Accademia.

The World’s Most Famous Statue

And if you aren’t familiar with that, that’s ok. You probably know its most famous resident, David by Michelangelo. What you might not know is that there are two ways to start the museum. We selected the wrong one.

It was a bit odd trying to listen to the Rick Steeves’ podcast about the Museum. Rick spoke in my ear about the statues of prisoners that aren’t quite complete, then about being in awe of majestic David looking down the long hallway.  Meanwhile, I was in a room of painted altar pieces completed by painters explored in art history classes all over the world. Confused, I wandered through the only door, which leads you to an exhibit on Asian tapestry and embroidered cloth.

Ten years ago was the last time I went to Florence. I was by myself and, though I’m a fan of art, I wouldn’t consider paying to go into a place just to stare at a giant statue. Especially since a fellow traveller had told me that if I didn’t want to pay, and that was the only reason for going to it, I should stick to the Piazza della Signora. There, you can find a copy the statue, and gaze upon it for free.

Being the cheap person I am, I decided on that route and don’t even recall if I took a photo of it at the time. There is also a third copy at the Piazzale Michelangelo, up above the city where the photo of the city is taken. That one is green and on a fountain. Signoria David is weather stained and looks good, considering.

After the fabric part of the museum, I tried to find this David. I walked out and turned left, where I saw the end of the museum, complete with the half-finished statues. I was nonplussed about dropping the 20 Euro until I turned around a saw, like Rick Steeves suggested, David at the end of the hallway.

He looked great. He’s tall. And apparently, misproportioned on purpose.

His original resting place was supposed to be on top of the Duomo, the heights of which he never reached. Instead, he spent an inordinate amount of time (to a modern traveller that is) outside the Palazzio Vecchio in the Piazza della Signora. Right out there in the open for anyone to damage. Or steal (if you could, since it took 40 men 4 days to push him there from the Duomo, which is about a 5 minute walk). He stayed there until 1873. For 350 years he hung out in the open.

What’s even more ridiculous was that it took Rick Steves to tell me that David was the David from the Bible. The rock slinging, giant slaying one. I’m not sure how I missed it but I did. But giant headed David is fantastic in person.

The Value of Eye-witnessing an Icon

Is it worth the entrance fee? That is something that you would have to decide for yourself. But, for me, it was. Not only because it’s a great, single piece of marble carved by one of the greatest artists ever. Not only because we didn’t have to wait in line at all.

To me, it was worth it for many reasons. There was no line on a rainy day in December. Also, because we reserved tickets. I wasn’t always a firm believer in this,, but after a few museums of not waiting in lines that are already there in December (can you imagine the July lineups in the heat!), I am a full blooded, born-again convert to the reserved ticket system.  Finally, even though I couldn’t tell you what else is in the museum besides a bunch of plaster moulds and some wooden altar pieces, it was an experience.

And it was literally 50 metres from our door. The Accademia building is non descript. There’s nothing aside from a small banner hanging outside the door and some line up ropes that tell you something is there, which is a lot like Florence itself. It is there for you to experience, but only if you get out and do it.

Redeeming Qualities for the Medici?

Besides David, there are two things that Florence is known for. The first one is that the Medici used to rule this city. The second one is that its new ruler is Gelato.

The Medici were bankers turned Renaissance patrons of the arts turned Popes and nobility. They stuck their fingers into any and every pie they could find. While I generally had an unfavourable view of them because of a few bad apples (Catherine de Medici in the St. Bartholomew Day massacre, the Popes during the Reformation, etc.), it is difficult not to have a huge measure of respect for their art commissions. From Raphael, Donatello and Michelangelo, to the architecutre of Brunelleschi and buildings such as the Uffizi, the Boboli Gardens, and the Palazzo Medici, they made a huge mark on the world of art.

Everywhere you turn in the city, there are reminders of the Medici. There are lineups of tourists and art lovers waiting to see David. There are queues to climb up the Duomo; to enter the Pitti Palace and its gardens. And the art continues to this day.

There’s a metallic blob in the middle of the Piazza della Signoria that reminds me of Rodin’s the Thinker in a pre-chiselled way. There’s a coin looking piece whose metal wants to separate from itself in the Piazza di San Firenze. And on many streets signs there is graffiti art from Clet Abraham making mundane “no entry” signs into playful pieces of street art.

It is obvious that the tradition continues; I am, however, unaware if there are any complaints about money or pieces of art that my own city has. Is there a Florentine Blue Ring somewhere out there?

Whatever the case, the tradition of Art and Florence continues. Whether or not one is walking in the museums and palazzos or looking up for stickers on street signs, it is obvious that this city loves its art.

It also loves gelato.

Gelato Mission

One of the things about travelling I like and dislike at the same time is making itineraries. It’s great because you know what you want to see, and why, and prioritize them to make the best of your vacation.

I dislike it because you so often need to shuffle around places to go and things to see. You end up striking things from your list because something else has come up, or you’ve been delayed for some reason or another. The gelato day was this.

I had originally planned for us to walk around eating gelato on one of our last days. I had places all set out and a map for us to follow. The main problem was that it rained, and on the gelato day, the alleged best gelateria was closed due to weather. Perche No!, which is translated as ‘why not!,’ was recommended by our host, people online, and even Rick Steeves himself. While its closure was a disappointment, I must admit that from the first full day of the trip, we had already started cheating on our gelato day by buying it whenever it struck our fancy.

I have a confession: I don’t really know what gelato is. I mean, I know it’s sort of ice cream but not really. It’s not sorbet, but it kinda can be. It’s somewhere in between, and because of that, I don’t really know how to rate it. But I did anyway

Gelato Disappointment

My first authentic Florentine experience with gelato came where one naturally expects a gelateria to be. What’s that? No. Not in an open air kiosk or street side vendor located in a sunny square. Mine was in the basement shopping centre below the train station.

The gelateria was bookended by some overpriced children’s clothing shop, where I thought I bought socks for 20 euro for our daughter. I gave the cashier a 50, before realizing that that was actually the previous customer’s total and received a dirty look along with my 46 Euro in change. On the other side of the gelateria was the basement of a bookstore. The gelateria was a coffee shop and pastry shop that had a literal faucet of chocolate running into a sink of sorts. I picked fragola, strawberry, since I figured that I could judge the texture and taste best since it’s my favourite fruit.

It was icy. It was literally a mixture of berry and ice with a huge dollop of disappointment. This was it?! This was what everyone raves about. It had the consistency of jam with none of the sweetness. It had the seeds mixed in.

I was crestfallen, and began menu-envying my wife’s Ferrero Rocher upside down cake. Even my daughter refused my gelato, and screamed for more Rocher. If gelato couldn’t please an 18 month old, what expectation could there be for me!?

Gelato Redemption

The disappointment put me off gelato for a day and then on one of our walks I dragged my family through, I stopped at a small place near the Passera piazza. This place is named for either a sparrow that people thought they were helping but actually killed, or a slang for prostitutes, which is where they once practiced their trade.

It was a euro for a scoop and a cone, the best price in the city. I chose Passion Fruit for several reasons. Firstly, because if it was any good, my wife would refuse to have any since she’s not a fan. Also, I’ve become disenchanted with passion fruit bubble tea in a way that makes me know how it shouldn’t taste. Finally, it’s rare that I see real passion fruit so I try to get the inauthentic kind any time I can.

And it was good. So much better than a train station basement variety. It was smooth and not ice creamy. It had a great flavour, much better than the fake bubble tea rendition. It brought a smile to my face, and what made it great was that the old man behind the counter had an old chef’s hat on and an apron. It made a great memory.

Gelato Obsession

Another gelato was after a quick date with my wife in the Piazza della Repubblica, along a side street called Festival del Gelato. It was here that I discovered cups. I had the pistachio flavour, and it was creamy and smooth and subtle. It might have been the best flavour that I had, but not the most memorable. That might be be Il Gelato di Filo at the bottom of the Piazzale Michelangelo, offering a great view over the city. I had the fresh house cream as well as green apple.

The cream was so much more than what one thinks of as cream. It was thick with flavour. And the green apple was tart and had a refreshingly strong kick. The cone was a regular waffle cone, skinny and brittle. The gelato didn’t last long and I slowly ate the cone. It was hard and I thought that it damaged my tooth, but remembered that I had actually chipped my tooth awhile ago.

The tooth had actually chipped apart a couple of years ago. I had it fixed and hadn’t thought about it since. And now as my tongue ran over my teeth I thought that a piece of the cone was stuck on them but when I put my finger on it, I realized that it must have become loose enough that chewing with my teeth on something a bit hard just dislodged it. Oh well. The flavours were memorable enough without the tooth, but now I had a goofy grin to go along with it.

The last gelato place we had was at Le Botteghe di Leonado. With great fanfare, it announced that it was 100% organic and house made, which is fairly obvious to the naked eye. Apparently, one sign of non house made (i.e. industrially made gelato) is its bright colours. Blue Ice is a chain that has been mentioned to me that does this process. Whether or not it tastes better or worse, I can’t say. But, with its many stores, I think it’s safe to say that it doesn’t dent its popularity.

I had a stacchiatella, which is a very fancy looking word for chocolate chip. I wouldn’t have got it if I had known that, but I hoped that maybe there was some nutella hidden in there. There wasn’t. I also had their cream flavour, in order to compare it with the other. You get a good size for the money here, and it was the most familiar to me because it was the most like ice cream. It was comfort, but not the bang I was hoping for. I thought that maybe I should have tried the peanut flavour.

Those were the Florence gelatos. I would actually like to add some heresy to this Florentine discussion. While in Rome, we satiated our addiction to gelato and we stopped at two spots. One was in Trastevere, Fior di Luna. The flavour, custard, was decidedly not vanilla, but had me fooled. It was good. But the most memorable spot (aside from the tooth fairy one) was across the river in the historic jewish ghetto district at a place called Punto Gelato.

The kind woman there gave us tastings upon tastings to help us decide. I narrowed mine down to a choice between some reddish one that was absolutely loaded with red wine and sugar, and pino muro, which won out for its sheer oddity. Pino Muro translates to pine needle or pine tree, according to the woman behind the counter.

She wasn’t lying either. It was a smooth silky gelato that is exactly as you would expect pine needles to taste if it was gelato or ice cream. It had a sort of funny tangy-ness to it and an odd aftertaste. Somehow, I couldn’t help but devour it. I’m not sure I liked it or if I loved it, or hated it even. It was such an unnatural and foreign taste that I had to choose it. As they say, “when in Rome.”

Changing My Mind About Florence

I came away from Florence with a much greater appreciation of the city and its history and culture than I had after my first visit. The Medici were much improved in my mind. I’m sure that Rob Stark and Netflix had something to do with it, but it was also because the more I looked into it, into Brunelleschi in particular, the more in awe I stood of what they were doing. Much like how I stood in awe before David. I also have a newfound love of and addiction to gelato, and eagerly look forward to trying it when I get home to see how it compares.

Leaving Florence, I thought about how the city is definitely not always what it seems. It is neither good nor bad, neither for high art or street markets. It is both and it is neither. It’s a city that is much like a person is. There is good and there is not as good, but it is not one thing altogether; there is always a mistake in thinking that a particular thing is wholly one characteristic.

The gruelling climb of the stairs is offset by the beautiful view of a dome or city. The disappointment of wine shopping is offset by the delicious find of a particular gelato flavour It is a renaissance art lover’s city but it is also about street art, graffiti and food art. It is the art of bargaining at the leather market for some belts or bags. It is the art of florentine street food, like lamprodetta and gelato. It is confirming recommendations like All’Antico vinaio and I fratellini, both serving up monstrous servings for very little.

The first time I visited Florence I bypassed the museums, since renaissance art isn’t my thing. This time I jumped in head first to see what the city has to offer, and it was well worth it. Leaving Florence, I know that I’ve left a little part of me (figuratively and dentally) there and I wouldn’t want it any other way. Why? Perche no?!