Shopping & Schvitzing in Firenze

Since Tall, Fair, Handsome and I started the day late, we began breakfast with lunch.

We found a restaurant called Finisterrae and opted to forget the people-watching and dine indoors where air conditioning was becoming a valuable commodity like the art in Tuscany.

I meandered through this enchanting restaurant as though it was a first-rate museum, enamored by the large parties, rooms filled with balloons, tourists who were laughing gregariously, clapping to Spanish music that was so loud I could feel the bass pounding in my heart.

It was an overdose to the senses.  I checked behind every nook and cranny, hoping to find a Flamenco dancer or two.  And if there was a gorgeous dark-haired, dark-eyed gypsy singer, TFH would have stiff competition.  Forget Michelangelo’s David.  Flamenco music and the gypsy men who sing behind the women dancing at lightning speed have always stirred something in my heart of hearts. 

Each room was bursting with old maps of Spain and South America on the walls.  Written above every arched opening was the name of a Spanish city, like: Malagueña, and old posters of bull fights decorated the interior.  Toreadors donned in embellished spandex attire held their heads high, knowing they could kill a bull with a jab to the aorta.  It seemed incongruous to see them in Tuscany.  But, here they were. Their images splashed all over the walls in an Italian restaurant; They were considered Spain’s Rock stars glorified, honored and revered.

How many people would risk their lives to gain popularity?  I’m a world-class sissy so for me to shop in the severe Tuscan heat was enough of a challenge.  That was my bull fight, sans the red cape.

When the menu was placed in front of us, all the entrées were Italian.  No paella, no tortilla española, no sangria, but plenty of pasta dishes to choke a pig. Go figure.

I don’t know why this surprised me.  When I was in Madrid, I ate everything from Greek food to Indian cuisine.  It tickled me that the décor was Spanish but the menu was Italian.  It seemed like an oxymoron to be eating pasta dishes in a Spanish restaurant heavily embellished with Spanish decorations.  These differences always surprise and delight me.

After lunch, TFH and I decided to head over to Santa Croce. 

Santa Croce

Santa Croce is magnificent like all the museums are in Italy.  Looking around quickly to get an overview, I couldn’t help but think that this museum was like the Westminster Abbey of Italy.  Some pretty hefty names decorated the interior. Tombs of Michelangelo, Galileo, Dante, Rossini, Marconi and Enrico Firme lined the walls. 

Funeral Monument to Galileo

Michelangelo's Funeral Monument

  

Funeral Monument to Galileo



Dante's Funeral Monument

Not a bad place to be buried.  And look at the company you keep.  Imagine all your friends coming to visit.  They could name-drop and impress all the relatives.  My thoughts were turning a little macabre and TFH decided another shopping expedition was in our future.  Bring on the MasterCard and sweltering heat. 

There’s a reason why so many Italians leave Venice, Rome and Florence in August.  They’re no fools.  Besides the brutal heat and humidity in their otherwise splendid country, their cities are over-run by zealous tourists, occupying every square inch in every city.  It’s even difficult being a tourist and finding a little breathing room away from the dreadful camera-laden, finger pointing, loud-mouthed visitors who criticize all things that are different from where they live. They push and shove through bustling squares and museums, cursing, complaining and making the residents miserable with their bad attitude. 

Of course, I don’t consider myself a tourist.  I spend months learning the language so I can chit-chat with the locals.  To make my trip more memorable, I research all of my destinations as though I’m giving a dissertation for a PhD in world history. And besides, I don’t wear white sneakers and sweat pants.  Although I did sweat in my pants. 

So, it’s a little hot, you may think.  Get over it!  Really? You can only walk around for so many hours before feeling washed out.  Drained.  Exhausted. Ka-put.  Naturally, you want to dine al fresco.  After all, you’re in Italy.  But to add insult to injury, by the time you sight-see during the day, break for lunch, eating outdoors in an easy bake oven, you then take your weary,  perspired body to a museum…which is not air conditioned.  Even the men had hot flashes.

Good thing David is a man of marble.  He didn’t break into a sweat at the sight of his admirers gazing at him adoringly.  He just stood cool and collected in the Galleria dell’Accademia in all his glory.  I wish I was that uninhibited.  And that cool.

Okay, so maybe I complain about the heat.  But come on!  Get real!  I’m in Florence, Italy, the land of well-made leather goods and other treasures. I may be girlie, but I’m competitive.  I was not going to let Italy kick this American around.  I was up for the challenge and took shopping in triple digit weather as a declaration of war.  This time Heidi would be up a million and Italy niente!  Actually it was a win-win…their economy would improve as would my wardrobe.  So much for en garde!  On to shopping.

I bought cashmere scarves, two darling leather purses with florets embellishing the front of the minuscule circular leather bag, large enough for a key and lipstick. 

But, for all the men reading this blog:  Never, Never, Never question a woman’s reason for buying gorgeous, uncomfortable shoes or purses with no functionality.  It’s our thing.  Get over it.

Even though I was in Florence, there were many Murano knickknacks calling out my name;  I bought six bottle stoppers – each had swirls of delightful colors all one-of-a-kind gifts for my one-of-a-kind friends. And yes, I finally succumbed to buying fur-lined leather gloves. 

I may not wear them in Tucson, but I have a feeling a European winter trip may be in my future someday soon.  Just throwing my bucket list out to the cosmos.

Shopping was successful.  I was ‘schvitzing” ~ more like melting like the witch in The Wizard of Oz, except I was the good witch, sparkles, tiara and all.  And besides, green is not my color.  I looked at TFH who was withering in a somewhat manly way and we found ourselves heading back to the hotel without so much as a peep.

Little did I know, his mood was turning south.  And not from of the heat…