Afternoon Fling in Firenze

In honour of Valentine's day, I felt it was time  for a love story, inspired by true events:

I had been visiting my friend Ade in Bologna where she was teaching at a preschool.

After spending a weekend together partying, she had to go back to work, but I was staying on in her flat for a few more days and decided to take a day trip to Florence.  I caught the train in the morning and arrived, unsure of what there was to see, not having researched it at all.  By this time in my amateur travelling career, I was learning to just wing it and see where the day took me.  I stopped at a cafe in the train station, lured by the smell of coffee beans and stood at the counter sipping on a bitter espresso while quickly glancing through a brochure for the city I had just picked up.  Throughout my travels in Europe, I had also become a fan of Boticelli, so the Uffizi Gallery seemed the place to go.

I walked out of the station into the bright, crisp October air, heading in the general direction of the Uffizi.  After not long, I stumbled upon the Duomo, one of the 'Big Three' of Italy.  Not having planned to go to Florence at all, I at first didn't realize what I was looking at, but it was so beautiful, I couldn't help walking around it, snapping pictures from every angle.

Surrounding it were stalls, mainly selling souvenirs, but some with painters as well, inspired by one of the most beautiful cities in the world.  A man called out to me and I ignored him.  I had just come from Istanbul weeks earlier and was well versed in ignoring the cat calls of eager men.

The painter left his stall and approached me.

"You're beautiful," he told me.

I mumbled a word of thanks and tried to continue on my way but he kept on.

"Can I paint you?  You have beautiful eyes."

This was a new one and made me stop for a split second, which was all the encouragement he needed.  He decided to change his tactics.

"Where are you going?"

I finally looked at him, until now he had just been in the corner of my eye.  I hadn't wanted to make eye contact, for fear it would encourage him.  He was short - for a man, meaning he was only a smidge taller than me - , in his forties, average build, brunette hair with a few silver wisps.  And the most beautiful gray eyes.  He was wearing loose jeans and an old worn blue, red, black, and white leather jacket, the kind that was popular in the 90's.  I couldn't speak for a second, I was so taken aback by this gorgeous man who had just called me beautiful.  I had never been attracted to older men, but it looked like that was about to change.  My wariness was wavering.  I told myself he was just a stereotypical Italian man, who knew his way around women and probably hit young naive tourists on a daily basis.  But I didn't care, because out of the crowd, he had chosen me today.  Whether it was because I was alone and easy prey, or because he truly thought I was beautiful, I didn't care.

I hesitated, before replying, "I'm looking for the Uffizi Gallery."

"I'll take you there."

And without waiting for a response, he stepped into stride along side me and I had no choice.  He left his painting stall and motorbike as though he did this sort of thing every day, which he very well may have.  Perhaps he gave a nod to one of his fellow painters to ask them to keep an eye on his things and I just hadn't noticed.

I don't remember his name anymore, but he spoke perfect English and was from Albania, not Italy, although he had been living in Florence for years.  We started walking down a small street of cafes and shops.  Suddenly he asked me if I wanted some wine.

I looked at him.  "Uh..."  It was barely noon on a weekday.  Without waiting for an answer, he walked into a cafe.  I followed, thinking we were going to sit down and have a glass....maybe with lunch.

He bought a bottle and when he asked for two paper cups, the clerk handed them to him from a stack without blinking an eyelid.

Admittedly by this point, I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable and like I was never going to actually get to the Uffizi, but I didn't say anything and followed him quietly.  Thoughts of underground sex trades were starting to run through my head and I regretted wearing a mini skirt to walk around on my own.  I reminded myself we were in public.

We eventually came to the river and started walking across the Ponte alle Grazie.  We stopped and he pointed out the next bridge, the Ponte Vecchio, first built around 996 and the only bridge in the city not destroyed by the retreating Germans during World War 2.  It is one of the few remaining bridges still lined with shops, as was the Medieval style.  Beyond it is the St. Trinity Bridge, the "oldest elliptic arch bridge in the world".

As we crossed the river, he pointed to the right and showed me where his apartment building was.  To my relief, we turned left at the end and continued walking along the river a ways, before he stopped and set the two cups out on the little wall and filled them with wine.  He handed me one, touched his to mine, and said "Cheers".

For a long time we didn't say anything, just sipped at the wine and gazed out at the breathtaking scene in front of us.  The dry, orange leaves that had already fallen off swirled at my feet as the breeze picked up a little and I shivered.  He took off his jacket and draped it across my shoulders.  Then he hopped up on the little wall and pulled me into him.  We stayed like that for awhile, he shielding me from the wind and me staring at the river over his shoulder.  After what seemed like an eternity, I began pulling away. And then he kissed me and I felt my stomach doing flip flops and my head spin, like it was my first kiss.

He eventually hopped down off the wall and took my hand.  The bottle of wine was finished and I suppose he had to get back to work.  We walked back across the river and not long after he pointed down a street and said, "The Uffizi is down that way."  We had passed it earlier.

We couldn't have know each other more than an hour, but somehow, it felt so much longer.  He must have seen the look on my face because he held my face in his hands, looked into my eyes, and whispered, "I'm so happy I met you today.  I hope to see you again one day in Florence and you will let me paint you."  He kissed me on the lips one last time and was gone.

I was the definition of speechless and stood, watching him walk away with his hands in his pockets, wishing I could form the words to ask him for some way to contact him.  It was the information age after all, and there were no excuses.  He turned and saw me watching him, gave a small smile and wave and just like that, he was gone in the crowd.

I spent the rest of the afternoon looking at art so beautiful it's been known to make people pass out.  But I couldn't take my mind off my Albanian painter.  In the early evening, on my way back to the train station, I passed by the Duomo again, but his stall was gone.  I began to think my story of an afternoon stroll along the river in Florence with a painter and a bottle of wine was just a figment of my imagination, it sounded so cliche.  That night I returned back to my friends flat and told her all about as she listened in disbelief.

"Ziggy!" she screamed in that passionate Italian way of hers.  "How could you not get his e-mail?!  You are his muse! We must go back and fine him!"

A few months later, I found myself on the train through Florence again and had the overwhelming urge to get off and have a look around the Duomo, but I didn't (if only because I was with my father).  To this day, my painter remains one of my favourite travel memories, for the pure cliche of the story and for knowing that somewhere out there, there remains at least one old fashioned, romantic man, who wants nothing more than to create a good story.  Needless to say, I didn't see much of Florence, but I'm pretty sold on the city and the men

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