Florence

We relinquished the rental car at the Florence airport. The schlep to the apartment was the stuff of heroic proportions. By the time we arrived at the less than ideal accommodations I was completely depleted on many levels.

It was well passed dinner and bedtime for our littles. hauling bags and sleeping children from tram to doorstep in the Tuscan heat left our clothes drenched in sweat. Thoughts of returning home early swirled and homesickness became a pestering itch for many of us. It was miraculous we’d made it to the last leg of the trip without so much as a snare outside of satiating hunger and aching feet.

With great optimism, our loving leader pressed forward; encouraging me that all would be well and he would see that it was so. After a much needed pivot, Zachary saved the trip.

First, leading us to be fed and replenished at a random little joint, Cantinetta Cavour, before attempting to find replacement lodging in the dead of night.

Boy, did he find it!

Valiantly, he unearthed the last two rooms in the city that would accommodate our large family without notice. Serendipitously, it was a palace. A palace with complimentary breakfast that made him nod approvingly as he sip his coffee and watch the children pile fresh fruit and pastries onto pretty white platters each morning.

Although far from the real thing, it felt nearly as welcoming as our home. There were many times our entire company slipped out of shoes at the front door of the lobby or came down for breakfast barefooted. Smitten with the girls, the housekeeper snuck them lollipops and stickers. In return she received daily personalized art work.

We spent a dreamy week in Florence meeting old friends, meeting new ones. Chasing Michelango and Italian cuisine that wasn’t a bistecca. Although, bistecca’s were had.

We settled back into the rhythm somewhat familiar in the French countryside. Adventures after breakfast then back to our room for afternoon rest. However, without a kitchen, we were out again for an evening meal.

I learned how much I appreciate chianti.

Bocettcelli can stop me in my tracks.

The greater perspective provided by changing ones vantage point. Especially when the view is high above a captivating city like Florence.

I learned great art can make me weep and morning coffee on a terrace across from a very handsome man is, perhaps, my retirement goal.

At museums, standing over gold-threaded tapestries from centuries ago and dreamily standing in shadow of David, I am enraptured with thoughts surrounding the question: What would it look like to gives ones life to one or two great works instead of a thousand trivial things?

At market, Italian patrons skip the line and directly approach the counters to be fed. I assume most eateries completely overrun with tourism this time of year. Establishment owners treat regulars like family rather than subject them to wait for their favorite meals. Their plates piled high with stewed meat and tiny glass goblets full of burgundy elixirs. With a single worn-in workboot propped on the brass footrail, their wine was never allowed to empty pass a certain point. If they weren’t given an entire bottle for their disposal, a busy lineman stopped chopping pork to tend to its replenishment before returning to his task.

Zachary and I braved the wait in line to try a tripe sandwich. The look of tripe made our once brave-eating boys turn their noses upward. Wild boar? Yes. Oxtail? absolutely! Sea creatures, of course. Coursely diced beef stomach lining on a juice soaked buns? Hard pass.

When the time came to check out of our hotel, a bronze bell shaped like a turtle perched on the matron-de desk caught my attention. During our staying Florence, I’d noticed turtle symbols and sculptures all over the city. This final sighting led me to inquire of the meaning. Our host respond with a lovely anecdote about Cosimo de Medici, who used the turtle to symbolize his life’s motto, festina lente.

A latin phrase meaning: move forward, slowly.

I still savor the aftertaste of these words; a remedy to the hurry.

When our journey in Europe began we were sleepy-eyed in London. Our hearts seeking rest and connection awoke gradually to the playful spontaneity and flexibility needed for each day— for daily bread. Fully aroused and enriched by all we’ve tasted and seen, we indeed found more than we sought.

Although we went on to Rome before we returned to the States, I find it apropos to conclude my diary entries right here ruminating, as I continue to do, on the phrase encouraging slow, intentional footing.