Page 63 of Better Than Gelato
Two days after movie night, Jake and I catch a train south to Florence. We travel through rolling hills dusted with snow and dotted with quaint towns.
As we pull into the city of Florence, I take in the piazzas, buildings, and cathedrals. The Arno River catches every ray of sunlight and sends it sparkling back.
We grab a taxi at the train station, and our driver hurtles us toward our hostel. It’s a little far from central Florence, but it’s spectacular. A magnificent villa perched on a hill. There’s a huge fountain in front and big marble columns.
Jake checks us in while I stare at a ceiling that looks like a Renaissance masterpiece.
“I’ve got a key for you,” Jake says. “The good news is you have your own private room. The bad news is, from the map she showed me, it looks like a closet that they turned into a room.”
The women’s dorms are in the west wing and the men’s dorms are in the east wing. And Jake is right. My room definitely used to be a closet. It has a bed, a shelf, and two hooks on the wall for clothes. I put my stuff away and meet Jake by the fountain out front.
We go straight to the Galleria Dell'Accademia to see the David. The wait to get inside is long, but when I finally lay eyes on him, he’s even more incredible than I imagined. The sculpture is fifteen feet high, and it’s standing on a tall pedestal so the feet are above eye height. The ripples of the ribs and abdominal muscles look so real it’s hard to believe it’s stone. The veins under the marble skin look like there could be blood running through them.
I have limited experience with naked men, and I get uncomfortable easily. But I don’t feel uncomfortable staring at this work of art that seems more living man than stone. It’s the kind of beauty that dazzles you so much you don’t feel awkward.
Next, we make our way toward the UffiziMuseum. It’s an impressive building with a large courtyard and a thousand ornate columns. We opt for an audio tour, and I swear the low Italian voice coming through my headphones is trying to inform me and seduce me at the same time. We emerge two hours later with our heads full of beautiful things.
“My mom would love this,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. My dad is a homebody, but my mom is more like me. She loves traveling. I mean, she would if she ever got to travel. And I know she’s always wanted to see Italy, where her parents grew up.”
We head to the botanical gardens of Bardini Villa and stroll along stone paths under canopies of purple wisteria. We explore the hedge mazes, sculptures, and fountains. We stay so long I almost believe we live here together in this palatial villa.
We walk across Ponte Vecchio, the oldest bridge in Florence. It’s lined with shops selling souvenirs, jewelry, and trinkets. Jake buys necklaces for his mom and sister. I pick up some bangle bracelets for Maggie.
By the time we get to the other side, the sun is thinking about setting. The hour before sunset is called the “golden hour” because the light makes everything vivid and vibrant. It’s my favorite time to take pictures, and Florence is the most photogenic city I’ve ever visited. I get shots of the bridge, the river, and an old couple walking hand in hand. I’m so engrossed in my picture taking I startle when Jake wraps his arms around me.
“You should take pictures, Juliet,” he says into my ear.
“I am taking pictures,” I whisper back.
Jake shakes his head and gives me a kiss. “As your job,” he clarifies.
I shake my head.Not this again.
“If you could see your face right now,” Jake says. “You look so happy. It’s the same look you have when the server brings out your food at a restaurant.”
I smile and give him a kiss. “Who’s to say my face doesn’t look like this when I’m working on spreadsheets? Now tell me about those lab mice of yours. Cured any of them yet?”
Jake tells me about his research as we watch the sun drop behind the Florence skyline, turning the sky a rosy pink, then a soft purple, then a dark violet.
We take a bus up to Fiesole, a hilltop town overlooking the valley of Florence and find a cozy steakhouse for dinner. We’re instructed to order thebistecca fiorentina, which is the specialty here. Our waiter doesn’t explicitly say our descendants for three generations will be cursed if we don’t try it, but he does imply it.
It’s a gigantic cut of meat cooked rarer than any steak I’ve ever had. The red puddle growing in the middle of my plate would be off-putting if the meat itself didn’t taste so delicious. My plate is still half full, and I can’t take another bite. I look longingly at my bread.
Jake reaches across the table and takes my hand. “You’re feeling sad because you want to keep eating, but you’re too full?”
My cheeks heat up, and Jake smiles. I love and hate that he knows that about me.
Just as we’re about to go, we hear a loud boom followed by crackling and a thousand white lights appear in the sky.
“Fireworks!”
They’re coming from somewhere down in Florence, and we have the perfect view. Jake comes around and sits by me, and we watch the show. They explode across the sky in brilliant colors. They whistle and shriek and split into droplets of fire. When it’s over, we clap and cheer and yell great things about Florence.
It’s nearly 11 p.m. when we get back to the main piazza of Florence. It’s only half full when we get there, but it’s packed forty-five minutes later. They’ve set up large speakers and a local station gives highlights and lowlights of the last year. Each piece of news is greeted with wild cheering or vehement booing. By the time we’re closing in on the last minutes of the year, the crowd is whipped into a frenzy. The air is electric with anticipation. Finally, the DJ starts the countdown.
