Authors: Nichole Van
Florence, Italy
2015
Claire Raythorn
I
’ve always thought Italian cities are like guys I knew in college:
Rome—the hot frat boy I was dying to go out with (and I did, and it was awesome). But, turns out,
everyone
dated Rome.
Naples—Rome’s frat house roommate. The guy on no sleep and his tenth can of Red Bull. No one messed with him cause he knew people who knew people . . . catch my drift . . .
Venice—the dreamily gorgeous philosophy major. Brilliantly eccentric but exotic enough that no one quite knew what to make of him.
Milan—the second-year MBA student who was big on power-ties and power-lunches. Basically, the organized guy who held everyone else together.
And then there was Florence.
Firenze, to those who knew him.
Quiet and unassuming. When we first met, I wondered what all the fuss was about.
But Firenze . . . he was a subtle seducer. If I asked, he could talk for hours about art and history. But, generally, Firenze simply listened. Peaceful. Steady. Ready to shoulder my sorrows.
Firenze is the guy I never got out of my system.
Truth.
I took a sip of my hotel coffee and studied the huge Piazza della Signoria around me.
Classic Firenze.
Stately buildings squished around the perimeter, arched green shutters pushed open, looking out like so many eyes. Across from me, golden April sunlight cheerily danced across the ancient stone of the town hall—the Palazzo Vecchio. (Thirteenth century. Crenelated clock tower.)
Though still early, people filled the piazza. Retired couples nose-deep in Frommers. Rowdy school kids waiting in line for the Uffizi museum. African street vendors offering selfie-sticks for purchase. A line of Japanese tourists cut through, their guide holding a red umbrella aloft like a war banner.
My Grandma Adelaide had loved this city to distraction.
I did too.
In my mind’s eye, I could still see Grammy giggling with excitement over being in Florence for the first time. I had been fourteen then, convinced I would have her with me forever.
Grandmas are stodgy and old,
she would say.
Grammys are awards. Guess which one I am?
I blinked, biting hard on my bottom lip.
Why is death like this? It’s not enough to face loss once.
No. You have to bury your loved one over and over. Confront each place where she still feels so vibrantly
alive
.
I hadn’t known to mentally prepare myself for this pain before leaving my hotel today. To anticipate the pounding waves of raw grief. Grammy’s death was still new, and I was a novice to this form of sorrow. I had yet to learn its valleys and cliffs, its ebb and flow . . .
I had simply thought to enjoy a leisurely stroll through downtown Florence, become reacquainted with my long-time-no-see boyfriend city. Let Firenze soothe away my nerves before my hopefully career-resuscitating meeting in an hour.
But, of course, I couldn’t escape my problems so easily.
Instead of comfort, Florence had ripped the Band-Aid off my heartache.
I stared at the Palazzo Vecchio, memories swamping me. Grammy had marched over to its massive front doors and pretended to swoon in front of Michelangelo’s
David
. (Replica. Victorian.) And then she had snagged some poor guy to take a photo of us both, waving our arms like idiots. Looking as if we could embrace the whole world.
It was a talisman, that photo. I took a copy of it with me everywhere. A reminder that, at one point, I had been thoroughly loved just as I was.
Something I needed, now more than ever. What with the harassing texts at all hours and that scathing, mega-viral video. All due to Pierce, my former fiancé, who I was going to see this morning for the first time since becoming spectacularly
dis
-engaged.
For the record, Grammy had never liked Pierce.
I drained the last of my coffee and tossed the empty cup in a nearby garbage can. Checked the time on my phone. Just under an hour before my potentially life altering meeting.
Suddenly, my neck prickled with awareness. That jungle-sense of being invisibly watched. My nerves flared to high alert.
Please. Not today. Not now.
Carefully, I turned in a circle. Looking for the tell-tale glare of a camera lens aimed my way. People talking and pointing.
What I saw instead was a wrinkled gypsy woman, staring intently. Ragged loose skirt, head scarf, wooden cane. Completely anachronistic.
We locked eyes. Her dark gaze drilled me, wispy strands of gray hair escaping to flutter in the slight wind.
My breath hitched. I instinctively wrapped a firm hand around my purse, pulling it tight against my body. I had seen too many tourists robbed over the years.
“It begins again,” the gypsy called in heavily accented English. She regarded me with unnerving directness.
I blinked.
“It will repeat.” She smiled, maniacal and toothless. “
Ripetere
.”
What?!
The gypsy lady winked and waved a gnarled hand my way. Before I could react, she turned and hobbled off, swallowed up by a group of Indian tourists.
Okay.
That was . . . weird.
Somewhere on the scale between ‘Beware the Ides of March’ and a movie trailer for
Borat
.
I stood, frozen. Still clutching my bag across my chest. I thawed my spine enough to scan the people around me, half expecting another gypsy to make a grab for my purse.
Nothing.
I swallowed. Told the pulse in my throat to settle down.
My parents—Lisabet and my step-dad, John-Baptista—are flamboyant installation artists and former stars of their own reality TV show on IFC. (Canceled after one season. Producers said they were too ‘nutty.’ I repeat: My parents were deemed
too
crazy for reality TV.)
Basically,
weird
and
out-there
have always been par for the course in my life. So an old gypsy lady yelling nonsense at me in the middle of Florence?
Usually, I would just file that under ‘quirky.’
But given the hell of the last six months, it was hard to brush things off anymore.
Courage isn’t a lack of fear,
Grammy had always said.
It’s hefting Fear onto your back and trudging forward into the dark.
I was
so
tired of Fear.
I would
live
my life.
To that end, I lifted my chin and walked farther into the sun-drenched piazza. One more scan for gypsies. Seeing nothing unusual, I pulled out my phone. Framed my face. And took a selfie.
Me. The Palazzo Vecchio. Michelangelo’s
David
.
Just to be clear, I’m not usually into selfies. I find them a bit fratgirl-narcissistic.
Grammy, on the other hand, had
loved
them. I’ve decided selfies move from vain to awesome once you’re over fifty.
Today, selfies in our boyfriend-city felt like a fitting homage to my grandmother.
Some people build memorials or start charitable foundations to commemorate a loved one.
I take selfies.
Phone in hand, I walked across the Piazza della Signoria and onto Via dei Cerchi heading toward the Duomo. The medieval streets closed in, buildings rising four and five stories above me.
I paused now and again to take a selfie. The act of taking photos calming me. Allowing me to leash my grief (Grammy), my anxiety (weird gypsy ladies) and my nerves (code-red-critical meeting).
Which was good. I would need deep reserves of serenity today. I had to keep my cool during this meeting. Remain professional no matter how much Pierce taunted me.
Only the combination of a career meltdown and impending financial disaster could force me to deal with my former fiancé in any capacity. But this meeting could result in a job—an extremely well-paying, career-resuscitating job.
I kept walking, moving through the narrow, pedestrian-only streets, a tight hand on my phone and my purse. Heaven knew, I couldn’t afford to replace either if they were stolen.
I’ve always been poor and struggling. Famous parents do not equal moneyed parents—infamous parents even less so. Mine are both and, therefore, eternally one foot ahead of bankruptcy (or behind, depending on the year).
I work as a fine art appraiser and authenticator. Out of grad school, I got a job with Whitman Auction Services, met Pierce Whitman and finally felt like things were on track. I was the appraisal wonder-kid, building a strong professional reputation.
But six months ago, Grammy died of cancer.
It happened so fast. She was with me one week and then gone the next. Cancer does that sometimes.
Devastated
doesn’t begin to describe the blackness of my grief.
I had lived with Grammy through most of high school and college, as my parents didn’t have the time or money to deal with me. Grammy’s arthritis made housework difficult, so I did the cooking and cleaning. We thrifted and budgeted and laughed and somehow made it on her small pension.
Grammy taught me the art of rich-slumming—you know, shopping sales and outlets, cultivating style over expensive couture . . . basically, maintaining a facade of having cash. It’s critical in my line of work. Rich clients prefer to work with stylish peers, not charity cases.
But after Grammy died and Pierce . . . did what he did . . . money evaporated right along with my professional credibility.
The meeting this morning was my hail-Mary pass. The last-minute buzzer basket. I was pinned to the mat and about to be counted down-and-out.
I paused, trying to think of another cheesy sports metaphor.
Basically, I needed this job or I was benched.
Reaching the edge of the Piazza del Duomo, I spent a moment drinking in the enormous white-marble cathedral and its distinctive red dome. (Renaissance. Victorian facade.) It never failed to impress. I took a few more selfies and kept walking.
Ten minutes later, I arrived in the Piazza della Santissima Annuziata, stopping short of the palazzo that was the location of my potentially life altering meeting.
The piazza was all charming Firenze, with overhanging arched loggias running the length of the buildings on three sides. A fountain and small gated monument decorated the middle.
I’m one of those people who would rather be a half hour early than two minutes late. But there is such a thing as
too early
and that currently described me.
In an attempt to calm my nerves while I waited, I flipped into my phone’s camera roll and opened my first selfie of the day.
Me, across the street from my hotel. Standing on the bridge Ponte Santa Trinitá with the Ponte Vecchio and its precariously clinging medieval houses behind me.
I stared at the photo. Surprised.
And then gave a much-needed smile.
A man stood smack in the middle of my selfie.
The best part? He was dressed like Mr. Darcy from
Pride and Prejudice
. Completely legit.
Top hat, olive-green tail coat, fawn-colored breeches, waistcoat, snowy cravat, tasseled knee-high boots, gloved hands holding a polished walking stick.
His hat sat low, shadowing his face and eyes. I got the impression of dark hair, long nose and full lips.
Okay. Score one for awesome randomness.
Was there some sort of Jane Austen festival going on today?
Or was this a little gift from Grammy?
No one would have appreciated a guy dressed up like something from BBC central casting more than her.
I chuckled and sent a mental
thank you
heavenward. I had desperately needed this boost.
What is it about guys in Regency era costume? It’s like insta-toe-curling hotness.
I’m not going to lie; I spent a solid thirty seconds staring at those tight breeches. Because
da-yum
.
And whywhywhy hadn’t I seen him when I first took the picture?
I would have taken a second, third and, let’s face it, fourth photo.
And then walked across the street and asked if I could take a selfie snuggled up close. Would he smell as good as he looked?
This mysterious Mr. Darcy felt . . . electric. Thrilling.
Which was too bad.
I had sworn off thrilling and exciting men many years ago.
And in the last six months, I had given up the steady, boring ones too.
Cold sober. That was me.
No men.
Not just a temporary boy
cott
, as Grammy would have called it. Nope.
You have a
man
agement crisis.
I could hear her laugh.
Time to become officially e
man
cipated. Write yourself a proclamation, sweetheart.
I had vowed to never trust men again, especially after Pierce—
I swallowed. I still had twenty minutes before scurrying down that rabbit hole. No need to jump into it voluntarily beforehand.
I gave Mr. Darcy one last longing look (and maybe even blew him a kiss . . . from Grammy, of course, not me.)
And then swiped to the next photo.
Stared.
Swiped to the next.
The next.
And the next.
Breathe. Just breathe.
He was
there
.
Mr. Darcy.
In Every. Single. Photo.
Walking toward me along a medieval street, sun streaming behind.
Standing in the middle of Piazza della Signoria, tourists eddying around him.
Paused beside a boutique storefront, head angled my way.
Resting a shoulder into the white marble facade of the Duomo, hand on his walking stick.
It was this
zing
with each image. Something about the man seemed . . . monumental.
As if he could
see
me. As if he knew me, to my very inner self.
My hands shook, heartbeat pounding in my ears.
How had I not noticed someone following me?
I whirled around, scanning the piazza—the hum of passing tourists, the roar of a motorcycle, the occasional voice yelling in staccato Italian.