I've already paid up at the guest-house. My things are mostly packed. I've booked the first train out of here tomorrow morning. All I have to do is kill a few more hours in Florence and I'm gone. Off to better ventures. Venice calls.
But my efforts to speed up the day have all failed. Dante's house was closed for repairs; and at the last second I chickened out of having a really nice meal at a really nice restaurant. I couldn't bear to be one of those women who eat by themselves (with a book) in Italy. And, there are lots of them: hundreds of lonely recent-divorcees happily taking themselves to Italy in search of love and passion.
I couldn't pull out a book at a fancy restaurant because I wasn't one of them. I wasn't a lonely bitter divorcee searching for solace. I was a tired, over-worked, singleton who had a dream for her 30th birthday and wanted to see it come true. So, I said "no thanks" to the fancy restaurant; tipped my hat at Elizabeth Gilbert and headed to the Palazzo for a different version of loneliness.
I saw things going so differently when I decided at the last minute to come to Italy for 6 weeks as a birthday present to myself. Who needs a man? I laughed defiantly as I sipped on cocktails all the way to Rome. I didn't have any grand disillusions of a whirlwind Italian romance. I just wanted to take myself to Italy and see the sights -- and I wasn't going to not do it because I was single.
Sigh. I look around me. There are more couples making out than there are pigeons. It's really remarkable how romantic this place is -- and how unbearable it can be if you have no one (even a friend would do!) to share it with.
Florence was beautiful. Romantic. And very lonely.
So here I was, lying barefoot in a Piazza in front of a gorgeous Palace; waiting for inspiration to hit -- trying to think of how I can eat up the next 12 hours before my train leaves. At this point, there is nothing left to see. There wasn't a painting, tomb inscription, or sculpture that didn't have me for an audience. I've touched and viewed everything that Michelangelo and Raphael ever finished...or even started. I was actually surprised to discover there are a lot of incomplete works around Florence. Maybe I'm an incomplete work? Like an unfinished Pieta.
I don't know.
Just how did I see this day going? Well, for one, I wouldn't be in my crusty travel clothes; I'd be in designer gems and dripping with expensive jewels. I'd be sitting....(I look around)...in that expensive restaurant over there. My husband and I would be having antipasto while sipping our wine and raving how much we love Florence. Then he'd look at me; with his loving eyes; and say "Are you ready for your birthday present?", and I'd bashfully tell him that the trip around the world was present enough and that he shouldn't have. He'd tsk me, and then hand over a little box. I'd open it; fake aghast, and say something like, Carlo! Your grandmother's jewels! However did the museum let you have it? and we'd kiss like two lovebirds -- shunning all the other pigeons in the Piazza across from us; and I would turn 30 exactly the way I had always wanted to.
But Carlo wasn't here -- or at least not with me. And as I revelled in my fantasy just a little bit longer under the hot afternoon sun; a couple asked me to take their photo. I stood, dusted myself off and thought please don't let them do something kissy kissy. But they did. They wanted a photo that captured the full passion that Florence had given them. And as I begrudgingly snapped a few shots of them soaking up all the wonders of Florence; I boldly (and sarcastically) asked them if they would do me a favour? Would they mug me? Beat me up? Send my bloodied body to a nearby hospital?
I was met with blank stares. Sarcasm can be difficult if English isn't your first language.
They scuffled off quite quickly.
And, as I lay down to continue my birthday sun-bathe in the Piazza, I did (for a millisecond) think that a mugging wouldn't be such a bad thing. After all, Italian mid-afternoon administration is one of the slowest moving beasts out there -- and a trip to the hospital, at the very least, would help eat up time until my train departed the next morning.
Bob Sinclair World Hold On from Nuno Pereira on Vimeo.
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