A Travel Blog (Or Something)

Day 3 / Florence: A few more bird's eye views

Because our thighs and calves clearly weren't complaining enough, we kicked off our last day in Florence with a climb up the Palazzo Vecchio's bell tower. The Palazzo, a town hall-turned-Medici palace (one of many), is testament to the ruling family's fear of rebellion: It's filled with trapdoors, prison cells, and other relics of a Game of Thrones-esque time. The top of the bell tower offered beautiful views of the city, and we were lucky to make it to the top by 10 AM to hear a chorus of church bells go off throughout the city on a sunny Sunday morning.

We visited the Piazza of Santa Croce and the Duomo's museum, the latter of which offered an interactive exhibit of some of the earliest examples of written choir books in existence. Ryan stood in the little room for at least 15 minutes (with books the size of my torso), flipping through digital screens and humming along to the boxy notes and nonexistent key signatures.

This last day in Florence was also our hottest, so after wandering the streets with our eyes squinting through the sunlight, trying to find shade and air conditioning, we finally settled on a non-pizza or pasta option for lunch: Miss Song. It was dark, cool, had WiFi, and served all-you-can-eat sushi, sashimi, rice, dumplings, and miso soup for 15 euro. It was heaven.

We waited out the sun for a few hours before setting off for Oltrarno, the city on the other side of the Arno river (literally translated, "Across the Arno"). A 35-minute walk away stood San Miniato al Monte, a hilltop church built in 1012 with a picturesque view of Florence far below. The climb wasn't as immediately taxing as our trek up the Duomo's cupola and bell tower, but with the added component of Tuscan sun, we were sweaty masses of complaints and early stages of sunburn.

The inside of the church was unlike any other style we'd seen in Italy, with huge Romanesque arches, domed mosaic-covered ceilings, and underground crypts. We saw Franco Zeffirelli's family tomb, walked around the hilltop square and smelled wall after wall of gardenias, and looked out over the city. The Benedictine monks who run the small church have their own shop with homemade (i.e., monk-made) gelato, liqueurs, sweet biscuits, rosaries, icons, and prints.

Fun fact: banana in Spanish means "banana." Anana in Italian means "pineapple." Why.

But the pineapple gelato was delicious.

We headed back down into Oltrarno far below, tasted northern Italian wines in a house just off the river (and which offered sunny, arching views of the Ponte Vecchio and opposite banks), and watched a soccer game in a local pub over two Florentine beers. Our last dinner was also our cheapest in Italy: paninis with fresh goat cheese, cured hams, and bread made that very day. The woman (whose handmade schiacciata was to die for) was as glued to the soccer game as the packed Oltrarno pub-goers, and we didn't know why until the end of the game: It was Totti's last, which meant we got to watch his retirement speech in front of a tearful crowd.