Florence did not want me at first.
Or maybe it did, and I mistook the resistance for rejection.
The timing matters. Late July through late August. Peak season stacked on peak season. Heat pressing down like a physical thing. Americans everywhere. Loud. Oblivious. Hungry in that particular way we get when we think we’re entitled to wonder. I hadn’t seen so many of us in one place in years. I had forgotten how we move through the world when we travel. Not gently. Not curiously. We scrape. We consume. We take photographs of things we don’t know how to look at.
I arrived already tired. Already defensive. Already convinced that Florence was going to ask something of me I wasn’t sure I had to give.
I was there on deadline. Most of the month was spent applying branding to an international wellness travel group. It gave me an excuse to stay inside. A justification for hiding. I told myself it was the Americans. The crowds. The heat. But really, it was the intensity of being seen. Florence does not let you disappear. Not even when you try.
The apartment was impossibly central. Two blocks from Piazza della Signoria. Down a narrow alley behind Via dei Neri. A stone’s throw from Santa Croce, which is to say, a stone’s throw from the center of the human swirl. The building dated back to the thirteenth century. Towering. Medieval. Dramatic in that way that makes you feel small but also strangely held. Four stories. Twenty-foot ceilings. Doors and staircases built for bodies larger than mine, or perhaps for history itself. The windows were handmade. The glass uneven. Light bent as it came through.
By midday, the city was unbearable. Grocery shopping felt like a strategic operation. A peaceful walk was out of the question. You would rather wait. You would rather starve. The sun sat directly on your shoulders and the crowds pressed in from all sides. Florence at noon is a test of patience and surrender. I failed it regularly.
Evenings were different. The tours thinned. The sun softened. The city exhaled. I learned the back ways quickly. Winding alleys that skirted the piazzas. Routes that traded beauty for efficiency and sanity. I chose the grocer farther away because the walk was calmer. Centrality, I was reminded, is often the bane of a carless existence. Access is useful. Proximity is expensive.
I had just gotten back on the dating apps at the tail end of Turin. Thank God. Loneliness dissolves faster when connection is a swipe away. When everyone you meet is quietly aware of the same thing: this has an expiration date. There is a freedom in that. A tenderness. A permission to be honest without needing a future.
I told myself I only wanted friends. That wasn’t true. I wanted love too. Or the shape of it. The movement of it. I love love. I love the way it aligns things inside me. The way it moves through, rearranges, leaves something better behind even when it goes. Especially when it goes.
My days found a rhythm. Morning food shops. Endless coffee. Yoga when I could bear the heat. Work in long stretches. And then evenings walking the piazzas slowly, looking into restaurant windows, watching families and couples and friend groups savor a moment they might never get again. A week. A weekend. A day. I was swimming in something most people only touch briefly.
Every night, without fail, I ended up on the stone wall along the Arno. Kindle in hand. A few feet in either direction from Gelateria Morè, on Lungarno degli Archibusieri. I would sit for hours looking at the Ponte Vecchio, listening to musician after musician sing into the night. The songs blurred together eventually. What stayed were the fragments of conversation from passersby. Laughter. Arguments. Confessions. Florence is the site of many firsts. Honeymoons. Empty nest trips. First passports. It is also home to an alarming amount of conflict.
People bickered constantly. Couples fought through dinners. Sometimes screamed. I was struck by how many people allowed small, provincial suffering to eclipse a once-in-a-lifetime moment. I couldn’t tell who was choosing it and who needed it. Maybe both. Some people don’t know how to accept the manifestation of their dreams.
People loved to tell me how lucky I was. To do this. To work from anywhere. To spend a month in Florence. I always complicated it for them. I talked about the time difference. The deadlines. The strain. Then I’d soften. My clients are great. I couldn’t do this without them. I wasn’t deflecting. I was trying to make the truth livable for both of us.
Another evening home was the stone bench beneath Loggia dei Lanzi. Bronze statues watching from the 1500s. Perseus holding Medusa’s head as if it were an afterthought. Tour groups flooded through during the day and returned at night for aperitivo and emotional reckoning. I spent hours there with gin lemons, wondering why I struggled to accept this version of myself. There was no question that I was doing exactly what I had always wanted to do.
I took my first international trip at twelve. Ireland. Something lodged itself in me then. A restlessness. Ants in my pants that never left. I grew up without much consistency. Ten places to call “home” before ten years old, but all of them family. A community of grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents who took turns raising me and welcoming me in. There were schedules instead of roots, but there was care. There were containers. Florence made something click. This wasn’t chaos. This was familiarity.
I was made for this.
Nomadism didn’t feel brave or novel. It felt practiced. Inherited. The ability to belong quickly. To leave cleanly. To find intimacy without permanence. That recognition landed heavily.
Some moments softened it all. Every Saturday morning, I walked to Piazzale Michelangelo. Twenty-five minutes. Through San Niccolò. Residential. Hilly. Calmer. Tourists who thought they knew better gathered there, which made it paradoxically peaceful. Florence rewards slow starts. Quiet mornings.
One morning, a stranger offered me his bike in Giardino dell’Iris. No agenda. No collateral. “It’s free,” he said, handing me his address. “Bring it back when you’re done.” I almost didn’t take it. Old stories surfaced. Not worthy. Too much. Just pretend you went. Then I chose differently. I rode the fucking bike.
The city fell away quickly. Toward Baronta. The roads shook beneath me. Less prepared. More honest. Giovanni, my host, had told me the countryside was right there. He wasn’t exaggerating. In fifteen minutes, everything changed. Cypress trees. Open sky. My body caught up to itself. Then I got scared. The heat. The hunger. A man tapped my shoulder and handed me water. He owned a small restaurant nearby. Opened it because his father did. Hoped his son would want it too. He made me breakfast. No menu. Eggs. Spinach. Bread from the night before. A cheese that could be currency.
Life rushed back into me. I rode home the long way through Isolotto.
Over the course of the month, I met architects. Designers. Makers. People who showed me Florence quietly.Antique shops on Via dei Serragli. Opera singers practicing in chapels at night. The place on the Arno where you can sit on a ledge at sundown if you know where to look.
I was in Florence because I had to be. That’s what I thought. A non-refundable Airbnb. Logistics. Momentum. Now I know better. Florence is not about spectacle. It’s about timing. About restraint. About letting yourself take up space without demanding anything back.
I spent weeks looking for the magic in obvious places. Halfway through the month, someone told me Florence would find me when it was ready. It did. On a bike. In an omelet. In bells ringing me home.
Florence is magic. If you stop chasing it. If you wait.
If you let yourself be found.
Where to Find Yourself in Florence
Ristorante Boccadama
Piazza di Santa Croce, 25/26r, 50122 Firenze FI
Early morning. Quiet square. A cappuccino and an apricot croissant that did exactly what it needed to do. Nothing more. Nothing less. This was my version of breakfast in Florence, and I never tried to improve it.
Casa Buonarroti
Via Ghibellina, 70, 50122 Firenze FI
My favorite museum anywhere. Undersold. Intimate. Michelangelo’s work without the crush. His home. His hands. His presence. If you do one cultural thing in Florence, let it be this. Everything else can wait.
I Fratellini
Via dei Cimatori, 38/r, 50122 Firenze FI
Over-marketed. Crowded. Still worth it. I resisted listing it. Then I remembered honesty matters more than credibility. The sandwiches are excellent. Eat standing. Move on.
Serre Torrigiani in Piazzetta
Piazza dei Tre Re, 1, 50123 Firenze FI
An outdoor speakeasy tucked into a pocket of the city. Green. Inclusive. Perfect for a weekday aperitivo when the heat breaks and the city softens.
Trattoria 13 Gobbi
Via del Porcellana, 9R, 50123 Firenze FI
The best dinner I had in Florence. Partly the food. Partly the company. I ordered the Tuscan chicken as a second meal. No regrets. Let yourself linger here.
Honorable Mention: Antico Ristoro di Cambi
Via Sant’Onofrio, 1R, 50124 Firenze FI
If timing or fate had shifted slightly, this would have been the one. Old walls. Loud praise. Food that travels across the room before it reaches your plate.
