Thousands of miles from the comfort of my American neighborhood, this small Oltrarno piazza reminds me of home.
written by Savvy Sleevar for SPEL: Journalism
First Flower
Every summer back home, my dad transforms our backyard into a jungle of flowers. Fueled by a stash of seeds that’s been growing in size and variety for years now, zinnias of every color emerge from the ground and run wild along our fenceline. The colorful horde of blooms dominates the yard for months, and bunches of them often make their way to vases on our kitchen windowsill. No matter where I find one, a zinnia always takes me back home.
The first zinnia I encountered in Italy was in a planter box, right in the middle of Florence’s Piazza della Passera. Raspberry pink and thick with itty-bitty petals, it would be a star in my Illinois garden. I texted a photo of it to my dad, and it received its due enthusiasm.
Turns out, I’d become well-acquainted with Piazza della Passera, botanicals and all. This little square, full of fantastic places to eat, grab a drink, and hang out, is just a minute away from my apartment. I walk through it at least twice a day, and through my conversations with Florence residents (plus a helpful glance at The Florentine), I’ve started to piece together the piazza’s history.
Blossoming
Back in the day, I’ve been told, the piazza used to be home to a brothel. Not only does this explain the name “passera,” which has a pretty risqué slang meaning, it also makes the mildly suggestive names of the sandwiches at the nearby Schiaccia Passera even funnier. “Only The Top” is a prime, albeit awkwardly translated example, not to mention my favorite item on the menu.
There is another origin story for how Piazza della Passera got its name, though. It involves a sparrow (“sparrow” is the more direct, PG-rated translation of “passera”) dying in the middle of the piazza hundreds of years ago, instigating the Black Death in Florence — though I personally prefer the raunchier tale.
But no matter how the piazza got its name, its prominence in my neighborhood is undeniable. On weekends, the square is full of Florentines young and old, sampling artisan gelato from Gelateria della Passera, eating a plate of pasta at one of Trattoria 4 Leoni’s outdoor tables, or simply enjoying the night air on the rainbow-colored benches.
Even beyond the piazza, the eclectic vibe of the main square bleeds into the surrounding streets. Graffiti illustrations decorate almost every building, almost like a trail of breadcrumbs that leads back to my place. Even street signs are canvases for street art, often plastered with layers of stickers and cartoons. And if there’s ever any music in the piazza, the sound of it follows me down the cobblestone street all the way to my apartment.
Still In Bloom
It probably sounds sappy and sentimental, but out of all the sights I’ve seen, and out of all the kind people I’ve met in Italy, the places and faces of the tiny piazza by my apartment have been some of my all-time favorites. The square isn’t grand like Piazza della Signoria, and it may not have the constant stream of foot traffic and street performers that Piazza della Repubblica does, but what it does have is a quintessential Florentine charm that’s hard to put into words.
Through culture shock, travel mishaps, and long days of classes, Piazza della Passera is always there to greet me at the end of my journey home. It’s a familiar landmark that gives me the solace I’m missing. Alternatively, on my particularly good days, when I’ve found a cool new study spot, initiated a successful conversation in Italian, or had an especially fun day in the city, the piazza senses my joy. No matter how I’m feeling, the sight of the square right before I arrive at my front door is something I can rely on.
As for the pink zinnia sprouting in the piazza’s planter box, I was surprised to see the flower remain in its place well into the fall. Thanks to the relatively kind Mediterranean climate, deadheads didn’t appear on the plant until it was almost time for me to start thinking about my upcoming flight home.
When I leave Florence in December after my semester abroad, I have no idea when I’ll be able to return. Until I find the time and funds to travel across the Atlantic again, I’ll only have this image of the city I’ve created for myself, composed of the photos in my camera roll and all the details my faulty memory can hold. I get the feeling, though, that when I see the new batch of zinnias growing in my backyard next summer, I won’t just think of my permanent address, I’ll also think of Piazza della Passera and the home I made for myself in Florence.
