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| Ponte Vecchio over the Arno River |
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| Living on the bridge. |
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| The Duomo |
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| A door for Tararua Drive. |
On the road to Florence Heather said, "I have died an gone to heaven". She was talking of the verdant land we saw from the bus – little farm houses, olives, grapes, great swathes of corn and other grains, huge oceans of sunflowers, tomatoes and every other crop we try to grow in the Wairarapa summer.
Hotel Fiesole, on the hill above Florence, where we stayed was a bit more upmarket than we were used to, chosen on the recommendation of the woman at the desk of Mark's "studium" where he is doing his course and which conveniently is one bus stop away.
We had some long days in Florence, the beauteous city. We are awed by the grandeur of the Duomo and the Medici palace. You can only wonder at the hubris of humans to put up such stupendous piles to glorify themselves and god – but especially themselves. Of course without it, we wouldn't have them to be awed by. We must have walked 20 kilometres some days, often following Doc Tracy as he strode purposefully into the distance. He's a very good guide and he is not to be stopped once he gets going. At the end of one long and sweaty day (35 degrees plus) Mark led us to a restaurant. It turned out to be quite a swanky place and the maitre d' and our waitress curled their lips at the sight of our street clothes and sweaty backpacks etc. Still, along with the large cup of disdain we managed to get very nice meals, I had insulata (salad) with radicchio, aubergine, gorgonzola cheese, rocket etc etc, and a half liter of wine.
Florence is almost too beautiful to be true. It's like walking in a film set, or being time-warped to the renaissance while still being surrounded by the modern tourist machine. Once we stood looking at the Arno river when a tour party suddenly engulfed us like killer bees. Tour parties are led by a guide who waves a flag or a stick so the flock don't get lost. Often the guide strides towards you speaking in an animated way apparently to themselves while the acolytes stream out behind. Interest level is greatest at the front, while the last few are forlorn and bored.
On our second to last day in Florence it was 38 degrees in Florence, 42 degrees in centre of the city where the heat sears up from the giant cobbles like fire. We visited the Accademia and the Ufizzi which were awe-inspiring. We saw Michaelangelo's David and Boticelli's Birth of Venus amongst hundreds of other works. We were accompanied by zillions of others, short, tall, fat, thin, black, white, all looking, clicking, sweating and staring. The consequence is that the urge to contemplate is swamped and replaced with dreams of icy cold water and/or beer, and rest rest rest in an air-con room.
We all collapsed this avo including the redoubtable Mark so after gargling several litres of water outside a tiny supermarket, we took the bus home. H and I wallowed in the pool and remet our friend from last night, a young man from Romania named Vlad who came with his family when he was 15 and works at the hotel. "This is my country now," he said. He spoke good but hesitant English, and at one stage said, "I am a lonely wolf…"
