Adventures in Italy-- Florence

Ah, Florence. Where Rome was a vast, open tourist trap, Florence was smaller, quirkier, more like the Italy I had pictured in my mind. Granted, I heard as many American accents as any other, but the feel of the city was authentically Italian.
I remember the ache I felt in my arms as I pulled my heavy luggage over Florence’s cobblestone streets and constricted, bumpy sidewalks. Afterwards I felt like I could do anything.
Santa Croce on Via Ghibellina was more like a rented flat than a cramped hostel. We shared the apartment with the owner and renter, an Asian boy named Joseph, probably only a few years older than us. I think there were some other people living in the flat, but we never really saw or were introduced to them.
Our room had two floors, the first with four beds, a TV (it never actually worked), a wardrobe, a refrigerator, a hairdryer, and huge shuttered windows with a balcony. The second floor was just two beds and a fan, and this is where Caroline and I slept.
On our first day in Florence we ate at a little (and by ‘little’ I mean really, really uncomfortably small, yet cosy) café called Cuccinello’s, or something close to that. This was the only place that served paninis without cheese. Believe me, it was not easy being lactose intolerant in Ital, and I don’t recommend it. It’s torturous. Thank goodness, though, for the tuna and tomato panini at Cuccinello’s which had the freshest tuna and the ripest tomatoes and the tastiest bread I have ever sampled in my life for only €2.50. The gray-haired man behind the counter and the dark-haired boys behind the bar only spoke Italian, but they sang and whistled while they worked, either to original Italian songs or Italian versions of classic American songs like, ‘My Heart Will Go On.’ I had my first caffé Americano there as well, which is basically a mug of straight espresso with a shot of water. The taste was unforgettable, but the caffeine made me shake.
We spent the day on Ponte Vecchio, a famous bridge over the Arno river lined with shops and vendors, buying souvenirs and then on top of the Piazza di Michelangelo, where the view was incredible. It was so unreal standing up there, looking out over Florence. I had to remind myself that I was actually there and that it was all real. The Duomo towered above the city. We sat on the stairs for hours, just talking and taking in the view. That night we went to a restaurant and ate the best dinner of our lives. We sat inside at a long table. The décor was dark—patterned wallpaper and thick wooden tables, rustic chandeliers. We all ordered pasta and a bottle of white wine. I had spaghetti with red sauce that was full of chunky fresh vegetables. We sat for hours, talking, eating slowly, and sipping wine. We shared chocolate cake and a giant apple pastry for dessert. It was surreal. After dinner we found an unbelievably cheap internet café--€1.50 for an hour—and we spent the rest of the night there before bed. I fell asleep to the sound of scooters whizzing down the street.
The next morning we woke up early to wait in line for the Uffizi. It was smaller than I expected, but the Leonardo DaVinci exhibit in the basement was really interesting and worth the wait. We found a small pizza shop in town after that, and I got a chicken curry wrap. The six of us sat on stools at a small bar, watching ourselves eat in the mirror on the wall. Sometime between sitting down to eat and getting up to leave, my purse was stolen. Though none of us had seen anyone come or go who could have taken my bag, it must have been stolen because it was simply gone. I had to into survival mode at that point, even though all I wanted to do was call my mom and cry. My wallet, credit cards, money, digital camera, ID, passport, and my rail card, the umbrella that Kelly and Diana gave me for my birthday, the bag that Danny got me two Christmases ago—it was all gone, just like that. The rest of the day was spent in the police station or on the phone with the credit card company or trying to get directions from people who never speak English when you need them to. t was scary and frustrating and exhausting, but the important thing to note is that the people I was with were there for me, offering to help out in any way. Heather Sagaities stayed with me while I went to find out about a temporary passport, and the girls spilt up the responsibility of paying for my meals for the rest of the trip. We managed to make it to the Duomo that day after all. And at dinner that night we toasted to good friends overcoming hard times.
The next morning Heather Walsh came with me to get my new passport while the rest of the girls saw David at the art gallery. At the U.S. Consulate a framed picture of Condaleeza Rice hung on the wall. We sat reading a book called “America the Beautiful.” The stress of losing everything was starting to build, and though I was trying to be strong, I felt fragile. I hated having to borrow money and I didn’t want to be a burden on the other girls, who definitely didn’t have a lot to spend. Plus, we were headed to Venice the next day, which everyone warned us would be the most expensive city yet. It made me so uncomfortable. My family came to my rescue in this situation. I know that everyone, as worried as they were, did everything they could to get me back on track, since doing so overseas was nearly impossible. I couldn’t have gotten through it with a smile without the help I received from home and from my friends.