Morning in Firenze
I struggle to pull away, but to no avail — her fingers sink into my coat. The next instant, Coleen steps over, giving the woman a push that flings her almost into the street. “Leave us alone!”Coleen says loudly, glaring at the woman. The woman responds with some strange, angry words and a quivering fist.
The morning sun ripples across the Arno as Coleen and I head for Gino’s Bakery for our morning cappuccino and pastry. Even at this hour, Saturday tourists crowd the Piazza del Pitti, stopping to look into the small shops typical of the Italian economy.
I picked up Coleen at the airport yesterday, after a tiresome morning teaching. I was thrilled to see her wearing a broad smile, standing almost a whole head taller than the mostly Italian passengers. This is another chance for us to explore this place, so rich in art and history, together.
In spite of the crowds here, the autumn air smells fresh and clear, reminding me of Palo Alto, CA on a good day. It’s cool enough for a jacket and it’s a place to wear my straw hat purchased during my famous bicycle acquisition day in Paris. Coleen wears a yellow, flowered dress, punctuated by a wide-brimmed yellow hat, it’s silk ribbon flowing in the breeze. We are smiling and chatting our way down the street, anticipating the taste of authentic Italian coffee.
A woman with two young children approaches us from the street.
The young boy and girl press next to us, holding out their hands. The woman moves in rapidly, muttering something in Italian mixed with another unrecognizable language. When I look down at one of the children, the woman grabs my coat with both hands, pulling me toward her. Her eyes pierce mine as she speaks again, even louder.
I struggle to pull away, but to no avail — her fingers sink into my coat. The next instant, Coleen steps over, giving the woman a push that flings her almost into the street. “Leave us alone!”Coleen says loudly, glaring at the woman. The woman responds with some strange, angry words and a quivering fist.
“Wow!” I say smiling. “I’m going to stick with you.”
“She was trying to pick your pocket,” Coleen replies.
“Yes, I know. I was surprised at how aggressive she was.”
“She’s probably desperate, but she’s teaching her children how to beg and steal. Sad,” Coleen says.
This was an example of Coleen’s strength and quick decision-making. Yes, she’s lived in Amsterdam and perhaps had experience in dealing with difficult people. I, too, have experienced different situations in Paris and New York. But Coleen’s decisiveness and protective instincts feel different from previous relationships and it’s comforting to me. This is a small incident in the broad scope of things, but it touched something deep. Someone cares enough to want to protect me. I feel less alone.
We perked up after our coffee. Gino’s Bakery has an American name but was more elegant than any American bakery in my experience. They served our cappuccino in finely crafted cups and the pastries we picked from a meters-long glass display cabinet elicited instant saliva in my mouth.
We make our way along the Piazza del Pitti toward the Pitti Palace and our primary objective, Giardino di Boboli, the Boboli Gardens, noting several street-side restaurants as possibilities for late lunch or dinner.
We enter the gardens from Pitti Square, soon entering the grassy amphitheater with a wide pea-gravel walkway in the middle. Trees fill the hillside in front of us, but there is an inviting walkway leading to statues at the top of the hill. We head toward it. Near the top of the hill, we turn toward a beautiful waterway, dreaming of a place to relax by the water on a cool, dry sunny day.
The statues, the landscaping, the history, the art are beyond my wildest dreams, but my eyes are on Coleen. We have established a special bond, a closeness I’ve seldom experienced. We are from different countries, but I am at home with her. Home is home now, not a den of conflict. She is teaching me how to recognize my feelings and express them. We are sharing our hopes, our fears, our similarities, our differences. She is from a small town. I am from a small town. Each of us is free to be our own person. That is a special gift.
The Ponte Vecchio bridge across the Arno glows in the light of the bright Tuscan sun, just after the winter solstice. Shops along the bridge cast long shadows although the clock towers have just struck eleven. The air smells of river water, incense, cooked peppers, and asiago cheese.
A small group of tourists, probably American, judging by their wash-and-wear clothing, makes its way along the bridge, intermittently stopping hither and yon to finger the collectibles offered by the bridge vendors.
A flock of pigeons circles overhead in the cloudless sky, trying to get their bearings before heading home for their morning feed. Young children, holding waffle cones of gelato, giggle and run among the tourists, as if playing hide and seek in the crowd.
I stop by a window of glistening jewelry, silver, gold, rubies, emeralds, pens, bracelets, all handmade by Florentine crafts-people. A woman with dark eyes and full red lips invites us to enter. I stand in front of the display of emerald rings. She stands behind the glass.
I point out a gold band with a small emerald setting.
“Would you like to try it on,” the clerk says to Coleen.
Coleen is hesitant. “Ahh…”
“Yes,” I say. And the clerk gently slides it on Coleen’s finger. A perfect fit.
“How do you like it?” I ask.
“It’s beautiful,” Coleen replies.
“We’ll take it,” I say to the clerk.
“But…it’s an engagement ring,” Coleen says.
I smile, looking into her eyes. “Yes, it is. Yes, it is.”
We have the hug of a lifetime.
