By Katie Weiler
Art by Donald Blair
I walk out of my apartment and stare directly into the bright sun. It’s the perfect day for a walk in Florence and in this walking city there is no shortage of places to travel. The sun is beating down and with a haze hanging in the distance I start on my daily walk. I step over the crooked walkways and cross the street, dodging cars and pedestrians alike.
I still dart through the thin crowds turning as I go into the rowing club looking for Alberto.
The small dark green door is easy to miss at first sight, but behind the doorway is something worth looking into. I walk down the wide stairs and open the glass doors below. The lady inside greets me, “Buongiorno!” she says. I inquire about Alberto, who has promised to meet me. She then tells me Alberto is currently out on the water. “Come back in one hour,” she says clearly.
I decide to spend my time strolling along the banks of the river.
The farther I get from the Ponte Vecchio the less crowds I see and the more the river looks and appears more like a river and less just like a Florence landmarker. If you know the difference between the North and South of the river you can already plan a mental map of your location. If you ever find yourself lost in Florence, the river can act as a compass to guide you to your destination.
I continue walking towards the Santa Trinità bridge. It’s the next bridge over from the Ponte Vecchio, in location and probably popularity as well. It is more crowded over here, simply so tourists can get a picture of the Ponte Vecchio, although the desirable gelato on the corner often contributes to the foot traffic.
Despite the various people coming and going on this small bridge, there is a simple silence that hangs in the air, the sounds of hinges on doors being opened and the tools that the men are using all fill the silence and bring me back to reality. I concentrate on not falling off the sidewalk and into morning traffic and listen to hear the thud of heavy feet of the runners passing by. They are out relatively early to miss the crowds, but not early enough to miss the heat.
I admire the statues on the bridge, Florence is full of art, and sculptures decorate nearly everything, including the streets. All the bridges, besides the beloved Ponte Vecchio were bombed during World War II. The Nazis made a promise they wouldn’t destroy the famous bridge, but the Santa Trinitá was not as lucky- nor were the statues on the four corners, each depicting a season. The corner statue, Primavera, representing spring, lost its head. Years afterwards the head was found buried in the Arno, and the lady’s head was returned.
I continue to walk along the south side of the Arno, the sun beating down on me, making me sweat even in the early morning. I squeeze my way through the narrow pathways and crowds of people waiting for buses, or vans parked on the sidewalk. I make it to the Carraia bridge, and wish the gelato place was open for the sweet taste of something cold. I went to the next bridge and got a great view of the levy. People tend to hop the wall blocking the sidewalk from the river and wander their way down to walk across the concrete out onto the river. Today, there are no people out, no one trying to fish in the water. I pass by, not feeling like I’m going to jump the wall quite yet.
While I’m admiring the river I see plenty of animals- something you don’t see in the crowded tourist areas of Florence. I see a muskrat quickly swimming along the edge of the river, who then disappears into the weeds. I’m looking to find more, but instead I find a less lively turtle floating down the river. I go to take a picture of the little guy and see dozens more on the banks of the river, sunbathing in the morning sunlight.
I get to the Cascine park, which is one of the largest venues for almost anything under the sun, including rock concerts. The walking paths are wide and there are plenty of them stretching out across the green land here. I pass many people jogging, or walking with strollers. On some occasions I look out for the bicyclists so they don’t swerve and run into me. The paths are lined with little white flowers from the bushes beside them. I admire the tall trees that surround the park and give some shade in the city. I look down at my shoes just in time to see a little lizard jump out to cross the path. For once, I feel alone with nature in the city.
I’ve only made it a quarter of the way into the park, but I decide to turn around and walk by the river. I’m making my way back and the sun is beating overhead. It’s not even noon and there is already sweat dripping down my back. I wish I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. I hustle my way back through the park, through the narrow pathways and past the bridges from earlier. Soon I am again navigating through the crowds of tourists starting their day. I again find the small green door with stairs leading down to the rowing club. It’s quiet and cool down here. The lady at the desk tells me that Alberto is down either at the bar or the garden. I wind my way through room after room, all elaborately decorated with trophies and signed photographs of races they’ve held. This club is a lot more competitive than I had thought.
I finally see the sunlight at the last of the rooms. I see a man that appears to work there. I ask him for Alberto. “Si, I am Alberto.”
I try to ask him questions about the club, but he says he doesn’t speak English very well and that I talk very fast. I slowly ask if I can go out to the garden and spend a few minutes there, he smiles and asks if I row. I shake my head no and he laughs and just points the way towards the Arno.
When I step out into the sunlight I forget just how close I really am to the river. I’m under an awning that gives shade for people sitting in the garden. I feel like I could reach out and touch the water, but there are signs that tell me not to do that. I can briefly hear little kids from the walkway up above shouting and yelling across the river. I go past all the members reading books and sipping drinks.
