Once I had hugged Lois and Bill farewell and surprised the other participants with my decision (I think most of them understood- but D and M- both hungover after another night of Limoncello abuse didn’t appear unduly upset), I really was on my own. Time to try and get into proper travel mode.
A friend’s husband often said, if any of us felt down ‘The world’s your lobster!’ It always made me smile, and I wondered what my Mum would have made of my striking out on my own. Shortly before I’d come away I’d spent the best part of a week doing a job I’d avoided for four years. I went through her stuff and considered how her life hadn’t always been what she wanted. Mum was an adventurer- but stuck with a man who was perfectly happy working seven days a week and playing golf. When she was the age that I am now, she’d made an attempt to break out, and while I was a student she’d travelled. Now I kept finding little things that suddenly acquired significance: a straw hat-bought for a cruise and never worn; a big wheeled case; a lovely summer frock- which fitted me perfectly now; and a very soft, lightweight leather tote which I’d always admired. I’d packed these things with me (alas not in the big case-more of that later) and hoped that she would be coming along with me in spirit.
I sipped my cappuccino (small, made with UHT milk and nothing like the Costa or Starbucks versions) before I headed for the sunlit platform to wait for the train to Pisa. The benches were white marble and festooned with travellers who had broken their journey near the Aolli hills. I struck up conversation with a Norwegian family, and with two Inter-rail students- a Canadian girl travelling with a Dutch girl, both of whom had met while staying in a castle type hostel nearby. They were headed for Florence so we pooled our resources and spent the next few hours together. At Pisa, one dashed off to check platforms while we remained with the luggage, and safely ensconced into our next second class carriage- we watched as the train – a slow one by Italy standards but infinitely faster and more comfortable than the one north of Inverness- took us closer to Florence. The marble hills looked as if they’d been dusted with icing sugar. Hard to think that later the same day I’d be looking at the art that was ‘released’ from those hills by Michaelangelo.
Every town we passed had the usual burst of graffiti. Odd to think that in the 21st C, the UK can boast the best of that oeuvre.
When the train pulled into Firenze, I said goodbye and good luck to my companions and headed for the taxi rank, giving the instructions Hotel Alinari. Ironically, the taxi driver had to ask for instructions from his radio- before literally driving me round the block. My tourist hotel was located in an old palazzo literally across the road from the station.
Grand? Might have been in the past. I’d rather liked the Pisa AC Marriott, with its designer tiling and its vast bath. This one had seen better days, but the linen was clean, the floor tiled, and the bathroom had not terrytowel, but plain linen towels of the Victorian nature, which took some getting used to. The view from my window was over the Largo Fratelli Alinari, and reminded me of that which I recalled from the room in Paris where I’d spent my 21st birthday. At night it proved amazingly quiet- and it was also air conditioned.
Up in the hills, the rooms were old stone, and cooled by having the windows thrown open each day. At night the IKEA duvets were badly needed when the temperature dropped drastically. In town, it didn’t get particularly cold, so all that was needed was the bedspread and the white cotton sheets.
The young man on reception handed me a booklet and a map. I think he might have been used to bemused Brits looking to ‘do’ Florence. The booklet was from a company called ‘MY Tours’ which offered everything from gallery tours which cut out queuing to a day at the Dolce and Gabbana outlet village; to driving a Ferrari for a day (I didn’t- that’s for the next trip).
I asked if he could book me on the Uffizi tour that began in 90 minutes. Having dumped my luggage and brushed my hair, I decided to waste no time. When I asked about taxis, he smiled and explained that in Florence everyone walks- and showed me on the map that it was perfectly possible to get to anywhere in the old city in a matter of minutes.
Word of advice to anyone planning to do this- sensible and very comfortable shoes are not just advisable- they are essential. I’d taken converse type flats which had given me blisters and a pair of soft gold kid sandals, which mercifully allowed my feet to breathe,, but meant I had to be very careful on the pavements.
Caithness’ proudest boast is that no matter where you are in the world, you may well be walking on a piece of slab, quarried in the county. Ground Zero in NYC is paved in this, and looking at the uneven slabs of the Florentine streets, I wondered if this were the case even in this place. The roadway in the street where Dante lived had cobbles missing, a bit like an old person beginning to lose teeth, and I shuddered at the damage those could inflict. I passed some familiar shops- Bata, Accessorize- lots of Italian chain stores and found myself passing the triple structure of the Duomo, Baptistry and the tower- all much more elaborate and colourful than I’d realised from BBC 2’s travel series. I’d downloaded Dan Brown’s ‘Inferno’ on my kindle and oddly enough it became my tour guide to the city.
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