By Meredith Bach
Florence, like a morning person, rises early and gets her work done in the first hours of the day. After all, when else would the piazzas and palaces come to life? Such a birth of movement and livelihood is only made possible by the rhythm and pulse of a Florentine morning. No sooner are the dark alleyways filling with light than the workings of the city inhale and breathe.
The storefronts around the piazzas always seem to be the first to open; they throw up their graffiti-covered garage doors to showcase displays of goods and pastries to the few crossing through. Employees stand like sentinels at the front door, patiently waiting for the day’s guests. Along the piazza dè Cerchi, a sweet melody of jazz music floats from the Taverna Divina Commedia. The owner, a man neatly clad in his apron and tie, squints at the blinding sun as it leaks into his empty restaurant. Behind him, workers sift through a grid of perfectly set tables, procedurally polishing glasses and correcting place settings. A truck on the street grinds to a halt in the front window. A man leaps out of the driver’s seat and begins to unload boxes of produce into the restaurant– box after box after box. He moves from store to store this way, with a distinctive rhythm. The truck bumbles by the Piazza di Santa Croce, where several leather merchants prepare their small markets for the day. Among arrays of leather satchels, backpacks, and colorful tunics, the salesmen fall into a quick pace with everyone else. Meticulously, and by perfect memory, they hook the leather purses and bags into their proper places. Like a magician deals his cards, they spread a row of multicolored wallets down one shelf and another. Florence, in this way, is a well-oiled machine in the morning. There is motive in all her movements. Every student, worker, and citizen passes purposefully, set on their destinations for the day. It seems as though they all have a place to be or a person to see. Motorists, cars, buses, and bikes— the streets hum with the activity of those in transit. The city is productive, yet pensive in these early hours. The early morning workers carry on their tasks in silence; they are too focused or driven with their responsibilities to be caught up in the chatter of the environment. Everyone else is quiet too. The morning presents a perfect time to reflect and contemplate the day. Like the woman on the rim of a sun-soaked balcony, who dangles a thin cigarette between her wiry fingers. To her, morning means she has yet to be plagued by the distractions of the day. Her mind turns over thoughts amid the energy of the hour. A plume of smoke escapes into the air above her: the morning’s first breath. Of course, through all of this, coffee. As a morning person, Florence knows what fuels her fervency. Everything and everyone prescribes themselves with this drink in one way or another. The restaurant is fed by a slow machine behind the counter. The delivery man keeps a cup by his front seat. Even the smoking woman, draped along the railing, retreats to a steaming cup of cappuccino between drags of her cigarette. This is the routine of a Florentine morning: there is an abundance of life during this time unmatched by any other hour. The late afternoons are swept with mid-day naps, and the evening entertains aperitivos and drawn-out dinners. It is only the morning when Florence appears the most vibrant and vital. Florence is truly a morning person.