When she woke up next morning, it was to the sound of rain dripping from the broken gutter above the front door. She peered out of the curtains and saw that it was raining hard and, seeing as it was a Sunday morning, she had no hesitation in climbing back into bed again. She could still smell Pierluigi’s scent on the pillow and she deliberately rolled her face into it, snuffling happily.
As she lay there, she thought a lot about him. He had told her that he would be leaving the following Friday, so that gave them barely five more days, and nights, together. Last night had been fun, but she was honest enough to admit to herself, if not to him, that it had meant more to her than that. If only things had been different, she felt sure she could see a relationship developing with him that could become every bit as deep as the one she had shared with Paul. Or at least until it had fallen apart.
That Sunday morning she also found herself reflecting on something Pierluigi had said. When she had told him of her hesitation about going to visit the site of her most personal of dreams, his advice had been to take a chance and go. Now, the more she thought about it, the more she found herself coming round to thinking he was right. After all, she now had three good reasons to go over there: to see him, to check out teaching opportunities in English language schools and, of course, to look for her secret magical spot. Maybe the time had come to take her courage in both hands and head to Florence.
She knew she had to be realistic. It wouldn’t always be warm and sunny in Florence. There would be grey, wet days like this over there as well. Cambridge got pretty full of visitors in the summer, and she felt sure Florence would be even busier. But, nevertheless, it would be gorgeous – of that she had no doubt. It was Florence, after all. The more she thought about it, the more the idea grew.
Over the following days, she spent as much time as she could with Pierluigi, and her feelings towards him didn’t change. In fact, they deepened. As the days leading up to his departure counted down, she struggled hard to control her feelings, but it wasn’t easy. Scared of making a scene, she told him she wouldn’t come to the station with him on Friday morning, so the last time she saw him was at midnight on Thursday.
It had been an idyllic evening and she had managed to keep a tight rein on her emotions right to the end. She even contrived to produce a smile as she kissed him goodbye, but as she closed the door behind him, the dam finally burst and she cried her eyes out. “Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all,” might sound all right in a poem, but she seriously questioned whether Alfred Lord Tennyson had felt the pain she was feeling. She made herself a mug of camomile tea and reached for the tissues.
As the next hours and days dragged by and, the more she thought about it, the determination to go to Florence to check out the city for herself developed in her head. This would also give her the chance to see him again and she knew that was something she dearly desired. Of course, he lived with his parents, so she would need a hotel. She knew it was likely to be very expensive, so she did her sums and worked out that with a cheap flight and a cheap hotel, she might just about be able to stay there for three nights or so. Her twenty-ninth birthday was coming up at the end of August and, because of the bank holiday in England on the Monday, this would give her a three-day weekend, so she started seriously looking into just how much it would cost to make a flying visit to the city of her dreams.
She sent Pierluigi a text message, telling him of her plans, but they were immediately shot down in flames. His reply came as a serious disappointment, and she gritted her teeth as she read it. So sorry. Have got an interview in Boston that Monday and ticket booked to fly to the States the Friday before. X. Pierluigi.
She tried to make up her mind whether to delay her visit until she knew he would be there, or to go anyway. From what Simon at work had told her of student numbers here in Cambridge, the idea of looking for teaching opportunities elsewhere appeared to be ever more urgent. Maybe she shouldn’t delay. In the end, what swung it was Alice. When Debbie told her she was thinking of going over to Florence for a quick visit at the end of the month, Alice immediately agreed and announced her intention of coming along. Apart from halving the costs of a hotel room, Debbie knew she would be really pleased to have the company of her best friend, so, together, they decided to go for it. The fact that Pierluigi wouldn’t be there was a blow, but at least she would be able to look into employment opportunities, as well as searching out and tracking down the mysterious spot that had inhabited her dreams for so long.
They booked cheap flights from Stansted to Bologna and a room in the cheapest pensione they could find, not far from Florence main station. From there, Debbie knew from all the hours she had spent poring over Google Earth, they would find most of the main sights, including her happy place, within walking distance.
As the day of their departure approached, Debbie found herself more and more apprehensive. Would the city of her dreams match up to her expectations? Would she find the place she had dreamt of for so long? Alice did her best to convince her she was doing the right thing, but by the time they got to the airport, Debbie was having serious second thoughts. By now it was too late.
The flight was on time, but the aircraft was predictably packed and their hand luggage had to go in the hold. As a result, they were delayed at Bologna airport, waiting for the bags to arrive on the carousel, and had to take a taxi into the city centre station, rather than the bus as planned, for their train to Florence. She gave the taxi driver a tip and he seemed surprised, thanking her profusely. They got there with ten minutes to spare, but almost missed the train as they got lost in the maze of escalators as they plunged deep underground into the hi-tech new station. They finally arrived on the platform just in time to see the swish orange nose of the high-speed train come purring towards them.
The train ride took little more than half an hour and almost all of that was inside tunnels carved through the chain of the Apennines. When they finally emerged into the daylight again, just before half past five, they found themselves already entering the outskirts of Florence, and Debbie’s first impression of this magical city wasn’t very encouraging. There was no sign of anything historic – just apartment blocks lining the streets, and graffiti all over the walls alongside the railway tracks. She glanced across at Alice and wrinkled up her nose.
‘Not quite what I was expecting, Al.’
‘Don’t worry, Debs. The historic bit’s bound to be in the centre. Here, we’re just in the suburbs. Everywhere looks grotty from a train.’
Debbie could hear that she was trying to sound reassuring, but her anxiety that her special place might turn out to be not so special didn’t go away.
Things didn’t really improve as they left the crowded station in search of their pensione. As they came out into the full heat of the late afternoon, it was like being flung into a sauna. Even the air Debbie breathed into her lungs felt hot. She and Alice exchanged glances and hugged the shady side of the road as a steady stream of traffic roared by. After a hundred yards and a perilous crossing, they turned off into a side street that was, thankfully, completely in the shade, although the heat still radiating from the walls as they passed was testament to the power of the sun earlier on.
It was a very narrow street and a constant stream of cars, bikes and scooters ensured that they had to be wary as they picked their way along the busy pavement. The buildings here were noticeably older than those out on the main square, with shops and cafés punctuating the ground floor of most of the houses. However, in spite of it all looking older than the station, Debbie still couldn’t really see any signs of the wealth of medieval or Renaissance history she had been expecting. She did her best to keep her spirits up, but she was struggling to stay positive. Had she made a serious mistake?
The pensione was situated in a nondescript building and didn’t immediately look too promising. They pressed one of a battery of polished brass buttons set into the wall and immediately heard a buzzing sound as the heavy wooden door opened. Inside, things began to improve. The entrance hall was pleasantly cool and, at the far end, it opened out into a courtyard with colourful flowers and plants on display. To one side of the hall, they found a modern-looking lift that took them up to the third floor. When they got there, they received a warm welcome and Debbie started to relax a bit more.
‘Signorine, buona sera. Good evening.’
The receptionist was a man around their age with a meticulously trimmed black beard and a d’Artagnan-style moustache with waxed ends pointing skywards. He was smiling broadly and Debbie found herself smiling back.
In spite of having rehearsed what she was going to say in Italian over and over again, she took advantage of the fact that he had said ‘good evening’ to speak English with him. It was immediately clear that he both understood and spoke it without difficulty and she felt relieved. Although she had studied his language for a good few years now, she was suddenly overcome with an uncharacteristic attack of shyness at the prospect of finally using it for real.
She was surprised when the receptionist took and copied their passports, but he returned them immediately with a map of the city and their key.
‘Room seven is at the end of the corridor. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate. My name is Ronaldo, like the footballer.’
Debbie wasn’t too sure who Ronaldo the footballer was, but Alice more than compensated by giving him a broad smile. She admitted later to having “a thing for moustaches”.
Their room was a lovely large space with high ceilings and a private bathroom. Everything, while not in the first flush of youth, was spotlessly clean and it was blissfully cool in there. It was interesting to see that there was a big radiator on one wall. It was hard to believe on a day like this that it could ever be cold enough in Florence to warrant extra heating.
‘Take a look at this, Debs.’ Alice had managed to pull the blind up and light flooded into the room. Debbie went across to join her and followed Alice’s eyes across the rooftops in front of them. Before them, rising up in all its majesty, was the unmistakable cupola of the Duomo, its red terracotta roof divided by white stone ribbing into segments like an orange. At the very top, tiny figures could be seen moving about the viewing platform that dominated the city. Debbie’s anxiety levels began to drop. She was here. This was really Florence.
‘So, what’s the plan, Debs? Start hunting round for schools of English, or head straight across the river to look for that place you’ve been telling me about?’
Debbie hesitated, but only for a moment. Today was Saturday and they only had this evening and all of Sunday. Their flight home was on Monday morning and would mean leaving on an early train for Bologna, so time was of the essence. She nodded decisively.
‘As far as schools are concerned, I’ve got a list I found on the internet. Although I imagine they’ll be closed at the weekend, I’d quite like to take a look at some of them from the outside, but that’s not so urgent. Yes, definitely, if you’re up for it, let’s start with trying to locate my spot. It looks like quite a climb up to Piazzale Michelangelo – that’s the viewing point with a stunning panorama over the city – but I was reading that we can take the number 12 bus from the station to get up there. In this heat, it could be a bit uncomfortable climbing a socking great hill on foot. How about we take the bus and then, if we feel like it, we can walk back downhill from there into the centre afterwards. OK with you?’
‘Fine by me. You’re the boss. I’m only here for the sights, the food and drink – and maybe a taste of our friend Ronaldo out there.’
‘Alice, really…’
Ronaldo turned out to be very helpful, explaining that they could buy bus tickets from the local tobacconist and showing them on the map where the number 12 bus stop was. Alice rewarded him with a blistering smile and Debbie thought she saw the pointed tips of his moustache twirl.
It took less than ten minutes to get to the bus stop via the tobacconist on the corner, where Debbie successfully used her Italian to buy them a couple of bus tickets. They then had to wait another ten minutes in the burning sun – still hot even though it was now six o’clock – until their bus arrived. As they were waiting, Debbie spotted a bus with Careggi on the front. She remembered that this was the hospital where Pierluigi worked and she felt another stab of regret that she had chosen to come here the very weekend he was thousands of miles away.
When their bus arrived, it took them along a circuitous route, crossing the river and then winding up the tree-lined road that led to Piazzale Michelangelo above them on the hillside. Either the driver had obviously been watching a few too many Grand Prix, or he was just very eager to reach his destination and he raced up the hill. He threw the heavy vehicle round the succession of sharp corners with obvious enthusiasm and skill while Debbie and Alice, along with the other passengers, had to hang on for dear life. They were relieved when the bus finally drew up with a jolt and the doors hissed open.
They crossed the road towards the wide-open space of Piazzale Michelangelo. This flat area dominated the city and provided a natural viewing point from which to admire the full magnificent beauty of Florence. Threading their way through a crowd of people and stalls selling souvenirs, postcards and T-shirts, they reached the edge of the piazza and stopped.
The view was indeed spectacular.
The ground sloped steeply from where they were standing, right down to the river Arno below. All along the far bank of the river, four- or five-storey ochre-coloured buildings marked the edge of the old town, and a jumble of red-tiled roofs extended back beyond these. In the middle, the Duomo and its famous bell tower were unmistakable. A bit further over was the elegant fortified tower that Debbie recognized as belonging to the Palazzo Vecchio, with the imposing bulk of the Uffizi Gallery beside it. All around, spires of other churches pushed up among the red roofs, creating a totally unique and unmistakable skyline. On the far side of the city, across the valley, the hills rose steeply to Fiesole and beyond. They both stood and breathed it in. It was magnificent.
After a while, Alice popped the question. ‘So, is this it? Is this the place you’ve been dreaming about? What kind of vibe is it giving you?’
Debbie had been asking herself the same thing. The view was almost identical to her old postcard, apart from a couple of massive cranes doing some sort of building work, but something just wasn’t quite right.
‘We’re too high up, Al. The roofs are at the wrong angle. Somehow, we need to be lower down.’
Although the photo had definitely been taken from here or somewhere around here, she felt sure it had to be further down the hillside. The other thing was that although her dreams definitely involved this view, they also included a rose garden and a wooden bench. Although neither of these things were shown on the postcard, over the years, her mental image of her special place had evolved to include them.
However hard she told herself that this was probably just the product of her imagination and there was no reason to believe such a place existed in reality, part of her still felt convinced it did. Up here, looking round over the broad expanse of Piazzale Michelangelo, with its stone slabs, hordes of tourists and street traders, there wasn’t anything remotely resembling a rose garden.
Her musings were interrupted by Alice tugging urgently at her arm. ‘Look, Debs, over there to the left. Down below, can you see? There’s another terrace with what look like rose bushes. Could that be it?’
Debbie followed Alice’s pointing finger and felt fresh hope spring up inside her. Yes, down below the piazza, reached by a wide stone stairway, was what looked like a garden. She couldn’t see a wooden bench, but she felt sure this had to be the place. She paused long enough to take a number of photographs and then almost ran across to the steps and down to the lower level, followed by Alice. As they descended the steep flight of steps – now more slowly and carefully – they both began to get a fuller view of this lower terrace.
‘They’re definitely roses, Debs, along with all sorts of other flowers. Do you think this is it?’
Debbie stopped as they reached the foot of the steps and took a good look round. This terrace was a lot smaller than the piazza above and a well-trimmed hedge bordered the left side of it. She immediately saw that this area also contained a bar, built into the hillside. Tables with smart red and white tablecloths ran down the right-hand side, most of them taken by tourists relaxing as the sun began to set. The umbrellas provided shade that was very welcome, even though the shadows were lengthening. In the middle was a raised garden with a patch of neatly mown lawn and a variety of plants and bushes, among them white and pink roses. Ahead of them was the viewing area and Debbie hurried across to the edge.
She leant on the railings and looked down, reaching for her phone to take some photos. The view was almost identical to the panorama from above but, gradually, as she stared and stared, she began to realise that this still didn’t feel right. The view was just like the postcard, but the feeling she got – what Alice had called the “vibe” – wasn’t right. Her special place was smaller, more private and more personal, and she felt sure it didn’t contain a bar or tables. Somehow she just knew this wasn’t it. She gave a little snort of frustration.
‘This isn’t it, Al. It just isn’t.’ Her voice echoed her frustration and Alice was quick to come up with a solution – at least a temporary one.
‘There’s an empty table over there. Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘It’ll cost a fortune up here.’
‘We’re on holiday, Debs. Come on. My treat.’
‘Do we buy drinks at the bar or do we sit down?’
‘I can’t see a bar, so let’s sit down and see.’
Debbie let herself be led across to a table, slid the surprisingly heavy iron chair back and slumped down in the shade of the umbrella alongside Alice.
‘Bugger!’
‘You sure this isn’t your place?’
Debbie nodded wearily. ‘Afraid not. It’s just too big, too different.’
At that moment a waiter appeared. Without consulting Debbie, Alice raised two fingers. ‘Could we have two glasses of Prosecco please?’
Debbie was about to translate when she saw him nod and heard him reply in pretty good English. ‘Two glasses of Prosecco. Of course.’ He gave them both a smile and turned away. The penny was beginning to drop in Debbie’s head that Pierluigi had been right when he had said that knowledge of English was essential to almost anybody working here in Florence, seeing as it was full of visitors from all over the globe.
‘Debs…’ Alice sounded a bit hesitant. ‘It is only a dream, after all, isn’t it? You’ve probably just imagined it, sort of built up an image in your head that isn’t reflected on the ground. Besides, things change over the years, after all.’
Debbie nodded. ‘I suppose I’m coming round to thinking you’re right, Al.’ She did her best to sound positive. ‘Ah, well, at least we’re here and we’ve found where the photo was taken from. Maybe this spot’ll grow on me.’
The wine arrived with a little ticket, indicating that these two small glasses came to a total of fourteen euros. Alice reached for her purse, but the smiling waiter waved it away ‘Later, later.’
Debbie looked across at her. ‘Getting drunk here could be an expensive business.’
‘We’re on holiday. Relax.’
They took their time over their wine, feeding pieces of the accompanying crisps to a fearless little sparrow who returned time and time again to their table and departed with morsels in her beak, no doubt to feed her family. It was past seven o’clock and the sun approaching the horizon when they decided to head off again. Debbie called the waiter and Alice paid. As they were about to leave, the waiter indicated that they should take their receipt with them. Debbie had been reading about this before coming away. Anti-tax-fraud laws introduced a few years previously demanded that every transaction be accompanied by a receipt. She wondered how effective this was proving.
As their bus tickets were valid for an hour and a half from first use, they decided to take the bus back down into the town again rather than walk. It was almost dark by now and by the time the bus deposited them back at the station, all the street lights were on, even though the sky was still a royal blue colour and birds were still wheeling about in the clear evening air.
‘What about something to eat, Debs? I’m starving.’
For the first time Debbie realised she was really rather hungry. Lunch had been a bag of crisps on the plane, so something more substantial seemed like a good idea. Food would also cheer her up. The disappointment of not seeing Pierluigi and now not finding her special spot had been weighing heavily on her, in spite of the indisputable pleasure of finally visiting the city of her dreams.
‘Definitely. What do you fancy?’
‘Seeing as we’re in Italy, shouldn’t we have pasta, or a pizza?’
‘Sounds good to me. I tell you what, let’s head away from the old centre of town where all the tourists are, and see if we can find somewhere genuino. My teacher said that’s what the Italians call The Real McCoy, whether it’s food or drink or whatever.’
They walked for about fifteen minutes until they found themselves at Porta al Prato. Almost on the corner, they spotted a trattoria that looked as if it might fit the bill. There was no sign of pizza on the menu outside, but the prices were a bit lower than those down by the station, so they decided to try it.
It turned out to be an excellent choice. The restaurant wasn’t big, made up as it was of a series of smallish rooms, with just three or four tables in each, but it had high ceilings and it was cool in there. As they walked in, they passed a glass cabinet full of dishes containing the night’s specialities, from stuffed tomatoes to octopus salad, along with a number of plates the contents of which Debbie just couldn’t identify. It all definitely looked distinctly genuino.
The local speciality here in Florence appeared to be massive steaks, some almost the size of a dustbin lid, with eye-watering prices. Instead, they opted for a plate of mixed ham and salami to share as a starter, followed by spaghetti for Alice, who stuck to her original decision to have pasta. Debbie fancied some fish and, on the waiter’s advice, opted for a plate of fried prawns and squid in a very light batter, accompanied by a green salad.
The antipasti platter arrived without delay and they were both very pleased they had opted to share a single portion between the two of them. It was absolutely huge. There was freshly sliced ham – both cooked and raw, salami-flavoured with fennel, smaller salamini that the waiter revealed as wild boar, and crostini – slices of toasted bread rubbed with garlic and sprinkled with wonderful green olive oil. It was delicious, as was their main course. They drank mineral water and a carafe of good local red wine with it. For dessert, they shared a bowl of lovely big red grapes, split the bill and remembered to take the receipt, and walked back home feeling pleasantly full.
When they reached the door of the pensione, Debbie checked her watch. It was only ten o’clock and, in English time, that was merely nine o’clock. She glanced at Alice. ‘Shall we head for the centre of town and have a drink before bed? This time, I’m paying.’
‘That’s the best idea you’ve had all day, Debs. Definitely.’
With the aid of the map Ronaldo had given them, they made their way through the increasingly narrow streets, having to squeeze out of the way of cars and scooters as they did so. Most of the taxis appeared to be virtually silent electrical cars and they weren’t surprised to find that a lot of them had fitted bleepers to warn pedestrians of their arrival. Even so, they had to stay alert and it was a relief to reach the pedestrian zone around the Duomo, although the armed soldiers and police posted in the square were a sad sign of the times.
They mingled with the crowds, keeping a wary hand on their bags, listening to the countless different languages being spoken around them, and looking up in wonder at the magnificent façade of the Duomo on one side and the Baptistery’s golden doors on the other. To Debbie, it was like seeing the pages of a guidebook laid out before her and she was greatly impressed.
They gradually worked their way around the cathedral until they were right at the rear of it. Here they found a table in a pavement café and she ordered two glasses of Prosecco. One thing led to another and they ended up ordering two wonderful ice cream sundaes as well, although the prices indicated on the menus were not for the faint-hearted.
Alice did her best to calm Debbie’s scruples. ‘We may never come back again, Debs. We owe it to ourselves to make sure we make this visit memorable.’ She was checking out the nearby tables and her eyes had alighted on three tall, suntanned and muscular men drinking beer.
‘Now I know what could make this night even more memorable…’ She glanced at Debbie and giggled at the look of disapproval on her face. ‘It’s all right, Debs, I’m just joking. I don’t think I could handle even just one of them after that meal and all this ice cream.’
Debbie grinned back at her. The temperature, even at this time of night, was still high, but the stifling heat they had experienced upon their arrival in Florence that afternoon had moderated Both of them were just wearing thin tops and shorts and they now felt more comfortable. She sat back and watched the never-ending stream of humanity walk by, trying to guess the nationalities of the people before they came close enough for her to hear what language they were speaking. She had reached seventeen different languages when a tall, Italian-looking man walked past, and she sat bolt upright. For a moment, she really thought it might be him. Could it be Pierluigi? But he was supposed to be in Boston.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Alice.
‘You know who that guy reminds me of?’
‘Yes, I know. I was just thinking the same thing.’
‘Mind you, if it is him, he’s grown that moustache pretty quickly.’ As Alice was speaking, the man glanced sideways for a second and Debbie immediately realised that this was a completely different person. Her pulse began to slow and she turned towards her friend with a smile.
‘Well, at least I wasn’t the only one to be seeing things.’
‘I wonder how his interview on Monday’s going to go.’ She glanced at Debbie. ‘Do you hope he gets it?’
Debbie nodded. ‘Of course I do – for his sake at least. I suppose if I’m in Cambridge, it doesn’t make a lot of difference whether he’s in Italy or the States.’
‘Give or take a few hundred pounds extra on the air fare.’
‘I know.’ She turned to Alice. ‘It was always destined for disaster, Al. We both knew that when we started it. Like I say, we’re worlds apart, even without him going off to the States. It was an amazing week, but, in all probability, there’s not really any future in it.’
‘Who knows? Maybe he’ll stay in Florence and you really can get a teaching job here, so as to be with him.’ She caught Debbie’s eye. ‘I wouldn’t want to lose you, but from what you’ve been saying about student numbers back home…’
‘I’m not sure that’s going to be so easy. I found a good number of schools listed here, but nothing much in the way of situations vacant.’
‘It’s still August, Debs. Didn’t your Italian teacher say everywhere closes down in Italy in August? You wait. There’ll probably be loads of jobs appearing over the next few weeks when it all starts up again after the holidays. So what’s the plan for tomorrow? Checking out schools or are you still thinking about your spot?’
‘Schools, definitely, but first, I think I’m going to give it one more go. It should be cool enough early on for me to walk up to Piazzale Michelangelo, rather than taking the bus. You never know, I may still happen upon the place from my dreams.’ Deep down, she felt pretty sure she was only kidding herself, but she felt she had to give it one last try. ‘But you don’t need to come unless you feel like it. Besides,’ she grinned at Alice, ‘if Ronaldo’s on the morning shift, you might be otherwise engaged.’
Alice shook her head. ‘Too hot, too much food, too tired. No, a man-free weekend is probably a good idea. I’ll let you know in the morning whether I feel like climbing the hill with you.’ She finished her drink. ‘You know what? I feel quite tired.’
‘We both need a good night’s sleep. And tomorrow evening, by the way, I’m taking you out for dinner, seeing as it’s my birthday. My treat.’
‘That sounds brilliant. Any ideas about a restaurant?’
‘Yes, I have, actually, but I won’t tell you. It can be a surprise.’