One of our last days in Florence was actually spent in the rolling hills and vineyards of Tuscany. We decided to take a wine tasting tour for the day, being that we were in the heart of wine country. The bus ride was so scenic: rolling hills of vineyards, tall trees with silver looking leaves blowing in the wind, italian villas overlooking valleys full of life. I enjoyed our stops to the two wineries, and the wine was exquisite as I had expected, so were the views. However, I’m glad that the tour wasn’t all that long, because some of the other tourists on the excursion were quite irksome. At this point, I had been away from the states for almost two weeks, but this particular group of tourists allowed me to admire the stark differences between most European folk, and the typical American millennial. It was a group of about 8-10 girls, with their boyfriends. They were all dressed formally, in clean, crisp, dresses, blouses, and skirts consisting of light colors to reflect the overbearing sun. They had to be in their early twenties, but most of them had the mentalities of high school kids from the conversations I was listening to them have. “I can’t wait to go home, and work out....I’m so over this vacation and all the carbs. All there is to eat here, is like, pasta, and...cheese” said one girl with overemphasized inflection to the other. “Oh. My. God. I know. I haven’t done squats in like, so long. It’s like, killing my confidence” the other responded. Zach and I smirked at each other, the conversation was comical.
The rest of the group was similar, and they were all quite rude, ignoring the tour guide’s informational speeches, texting throughout the day, seeing the scenery simply for photo opportunities and perfect selfie backdrops, but not for the authentic, rustic, untouched beauty that it was. I turned and looked over my shoulder at one point, catching two of the girls from the group taking a selfie (again), but this time I watched their faces jolt into this forced, synthetic smile, as if they were straining the muscles in their necks to get the angle of their jaws just right, the wine glass being the prop of the photo. How strange, this modern age is, I thought to myself. Society was once forced to me more humble, because the only thing you could check your appearance in was a mirror, not a phone screen. Now it was all about several different photos to choose from, delete and retake, filters, edits, and sharing. Posting your life on the web for your friends and family to see that you’re living this fun, envied, beautiful lifestyle. I’m guilty of it too, but I’m genuinely proud and in honor of the places I’ve been. I see something, and I admire it’s beauty, I want to share that beauty with others. I don’t always have to be in the photo, and sometimes, it’s refreshing to just take a photo with your memory. Keep it for yourself. Not for the number of likes it will get. With that being said, I will always remember sitting on the edge of the valley with Zach, healthy red geraniums surrounding us and contrasting beautifully against the cloudless baby blue sky.
So yes, Tuscany was lovely. The Chianti wine region was everything I had expected and more, a common recurrence that Italy kept surprising me with. This tour also reminded me to appreciate the natural beauty of the world, and to be thankful to be seeing things through my eyes and not just through a camera or phone screen. As we headed home for the evening, the interior of the bus falling over in a silent and satisfied atmosphere, I smiled at Zach as I watched him look out the window, observing the beauty of the countryside, his eyes darting quickly with the movement of the surroundings as the bus drove past. As I laid my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes to drift off into a nap, I heard something similar to the tone of a mosquito buzzing in the distance: “Excuse me? Excuse me! The wifi isn’t working, what’s wrong with the wifi?” a whiny voice came from the front of the bus. I laughed a little bit. I guess their Amaro filters and geotags would just have to wait…
CIAO FIRENZE
Our final evening in Florence took place in a local restaurant only a minute walk down the street from where we were staying. I was excited for authentic italian food, particularly the Florentine steak that Zach wanted to try. I watched the waitress float effortlessly with grace back and forth along the antiquated wooden floor, in heels that had to be 4 inches high. She carried large trays of heavy meats and fish paired with wine glasses, my eyes widening in disbelief. Zach and I waited patiently for about 30 minutes for our order to be taken, something that would never fly in New York. Something I’ve learned about Italians- they run on their own clock. Their trains, their businesses, their people, it’s a very slow paced lifestyle. I can complain as a New Yorker from the outside, but being a part of it on the inside is quite enjoyable. When our appetizer came out (it said gnocchi on the menu), we were both surprised to find that real gnocchi is actually balls of ricotta and mozzarella. Cheese. Overload. It was delicious and creamy nonetheless, but you have to have some kind of iron gut to not be affected by eating so much dairy in one sitting. Next surprise, the beef entree I ordered. When our food finally came out, my eyes almost popped out of my head, my stomach did flips. I had never seen a apparently ready to eat dish so...uncooked. It was so rare, that the ligaments were still apparent, the muscular tendons demonstrating a fleshy look. When I worked in an upscale restaurant, I remember that “blue” was an option for the cooking grade of meat, but I had never actually served a blue dish. I swallowed my pride and, swallowed the first tiny little piece along with it, barely bothering to chew simply because I couldn’t handle the texture. Zach noticed my struggling and being the considerate non-judgemental human he is, asked for it to be cooked a little more. The waitress looked thrown off guard and in that moment I turned the color of the meat on the plate, embarrassed of my lack of culture and diversity in food. Growing up, my dad had always taught my brother and sister and I to order burgers “like hockey pucks, no pink” because pink meat wasn’t good for you...Thanks dad. The plate came back not too much later, surprisingly, and I gobbled up the now medium-rare steak with the tasty potatoes that came as a side. Zach smiled at me and put his hand on mine “You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to, baby.” I felt silly but comforted nonetheless. I knew that as time passed his sense of culture and adventurous palate would rub off on me, at least I hope so.
3 am is an ungodly time to wake up. Especially when your belly is still full of creamy cheese balls, rare meat, and potatoes. Double that by having to catch a flight in a few hours. Zach and I rolled out of bed, snatched up our backpacks, took one last look at our charming little abode, and then headed out to the taxi. The early morning air of Florence was still unforgivably warm considering the time of day it was, but the horizon was a relaxing navy blue, providing refuge from the sun that seemed to always dominate the sky. As the taxi glided through the sleepy cobble stoned streets, I admired the Arno river one last time, imagining Zach and I drinking Birra Moretti’s while watching shooting stars, thinking of our love lock, and the amazing memories we were leaving behind in this gorgeous city. A few hours later, we were on the plane ascending out of the airport. I took one last look at the glimmering pink light that began to pour over the valley, and felt my heart fill with appreciation. Ciao, Firenze, until next time.
