​11/27/21 I don’t write in this section often. Due to Covid, my posts of 2020 and spring 2021 were longings, reminiscent of prior trips. Also, usually I post about my trips to Italy on ‘On my mind.’ That usually feels okay, but today I want to share a few thoughts with any (the few) of you who venture into this inner room of acottagebythesea. 
       I am returning to Florence a week from today, December 5. I couldn’t resist being there for the lighting of the Christmas tree on December 8, the feast of the Immaculate Conception. It will be my fourth December in Florence (well, not counting 1959). But what excites me most, is the eleven days I will be wandering about the city my myself. I have a lunch date with a friend, but other than that, I will be alone, a solitary traveler. I will love every day—cappuccino at my favorite bars, delicious food at restaurants all over the city, uncrowded museums and churches, historic streets and piazzas, and a cozy apartment, adjacent to the Uffizi and Ponte Vecchio. 
       This is for those of you, my solitary traveler friends. Except for my family, I haven’t told anyone about this trip. I will, but for now I’m just sharing the secret with you.

​I am still a solitary traveler and I am still traveling, although only in my imagination. These past few days I found myself talking Bus 7 from Piazza San Marco to Fiesole, overlooking Florence. Visiting Fiesole has always satisfied my longing for solitude because of my final destination, the Monastery of San Francesco, a steep climb from the bus stop in the town square. I’ve probably made the trip at least fifteen times; I can close my eyes and be there, right now. 
    The monastery includes the little church and its adjoining cloisters, and a separate entrance to the monk’s quarters and the stairway to their cells. I imagine I am there, not visiting, but living in my cell, looking out my window, wandering in the cloisters, praying in the church. The time in history has no importance, nor does it matter if I am a nun or a monk.  
   Sorry for just a few pictures. I know they are somewhere in my iPhotos but I can’t find them and I want to post this. 

 My solitary travel days are most likely over, at least those to Italy. Probably not a good idea to fly across the Atlantic by myself for two weeks. By any reasonable time-line that Covid has in mind, I can’t envision that kind of travel possibile for two or three more years, but what do I know? What does anybody know? All I know is that that would put me close to my 85thbirthday.  
     Of course, we never want a good thing to come to its end, but endings do come and when we’re lucky, as I am, we can be grateful and not feel one bit sorry for ourselves. 
     In my pre-pandemic life I would have just returned from Italy, full of memories of wandering the streets, stopping for a cappuccino, visiting churches and museums, and enjoying an evening meal of home-made pasta. But I can close my eyes and I am there, mind, body, and spirit.
    Silence, solitude, and simplicity is with me today in my own home as I wander the streets of Florence.  

​     One of my companions when I am alone in Florence is Il Porcellino. He listens to whatever I tell him and never talks back. The perfect companion.  
   Nickname Il Porcellino by the Florentines, he guards the Mercato Vecchio, the old market right in the center of Florence. Visitors drop a coin in a slot at his feet and pat his snout for good luck and assurance that they will return to Florence. It’s not a habit that I’ve participated in; I seem to have returned to this city without his help. This doesn’t mean I don’t love Il Porcellino; it’s just not a superstition in which I chosen to participate. 

     ​I’ve seen people taking turns having their picture taken with him. 

​    I’ve seen a guard push coins down the slot after calling out a gypsy to stop stealing them.

      I’ve enjoyed a solitude moment with him. 

​It is three days after Christmas, and in some ways I feel the holiday is over. Since we spent the holidays our daughter’s, we did nothing to decorate our house; consequently we have no decorations to put away.
    If I were still in Florence, however, I would know that Christmas continues until Epiphany on January 6th. I would know because every evening I would walk along the Arno and watch “Firenze Light Festival: F-Light Your Mind.” I would continue to be in awe of the lights, colors and patterns flashed on the Ponte Vecchio. I would know, and I would be a peace as a solitary traveler. 

​Two weeks from today I will be settled into my beloved Florence for two weeks as a solitary traveler. I will have arrived on Saturday Dec. 1st; on Sunday I will have visited the Bardini Museum. “Why the Bardini?” you ask. Because, unlike all the famous museums in Florence,  it won’t have a long entrance line on this first Sunday of the month when throughout Italy all museums offer free admission. The Bardini, a secret gem of a museum housing the eclectic collection of antiquarian collector Stefano Bardini ((1854-1922), will not be crowded.
     This will be the third December in a row that I’ve visited Florence, so I know what to expect. The city is festive, active, full of positive energy. Craft, antique, and food fairs fill every church piazza. On December 8th, the Day of the Immaculate Conception, the tree in front of the Duomo is lit.
    As a solitary traveler I never feel lonely during this Christmas season in Florence. I smile as I pass families and friends on the streets. I have left mine at home and will be returning to them. But for now, I cherish being my own companion.  

 ​      Along the street we are less apt to observe the sculptor working his craft. Her supplies are cumbersome and complicated, so she works behind closed doors until the final product is recognized and displayed in public—perhaps in a temporary exhibit by Koenig in the Boboli Gardens, or permanently along the Arno. 

​ The process of the architect is more mysterious and less visible until we see the final product arise before out eyes. Can you imagine being a citizen of Florence while Brunelleschi was dome grew before your eyes? 

    Whether conscious of God or not, I believe these artists are creating for something beyond themselves, for some beauty or truth that transcends their personal, intiment desires. 

​At 8:30 this morning I started the 463 step climb to the top of the Duomo. I wonder how many times I’ve done this? 20? I’d like to say that I’ve climbed every time I’ve come to Florence, but that’s not true. There was a time when I only gazed at my most favorite building in the entire world from the street because I was afraid of heights.
       It was in the late 1980s and I was traveling with my mom. She was about the age I am now but she never considered climbing with me, so off I went by myself, up the interior stone steps, and clinging to the side as I walked the arcade of drum under Vasari’s frescoes. When I got to the top I continued to hug the inside of the lantern as I made one quick navigation around before starting my descent, getting out of there as fast as I dared.  
     During my next visit to Florence, again with my mom, I didn’t  even consider such a climbing venture.
     But then, a few years later, this time traveling alone, I arrived in Florence determined to conquer this acrophobia. I had done a little work on past lives and had the sense that when Brunelleschi was directing the building of the dome, I, a young messenger boy, had fallen off a scaffold and been killed. The part of being killed is up for question because the records show that only one person died while working on the construction, and that was a grown man. I’m not advocating for or against past life theory, but this exercise helped me overcome my fear of heights and sent me climbing to the top to lean against the outside railing and locate the many spots in Florence that I love so much. I’ve been doing it again and again. 

​​     In the afternoon I walked to the Bardini Gardens overlooking Florence to view from afar the pinnacle of my morning climb.

     ​In less than two weeks (9/4)  I fly to Florence. A 4:55 P.M. flight, with a short change over in Paris, gets me to Florence airport at 10:30. A half hour bus ride from the airport to Santa Maria Novella train station, a short walk to my apartment, and I’ll be off to Piazza della Signoria for pizza. A morning arrival gives me an extra meal, and as they say, ‘You can’t get a bad meal in Italy.’
     Autumn, along with spring, and December are my favorite times to be in Florence. What I’m saying is that all times are favorites, although I notice that today’s summer temperature in the city is 93 degrees. Summer in Florence is too hot and too crowded.
      When I arrive, I will feel a sense of fall: the evenings will be cool and many tourists will have departed. However, summer clothes will still be in order, and the junior year abroad students will be arriving.
      But I know how to work around any obstacles that might get in my way. I’ll walk across the Ponte Vecchio in the early morning when only runners and delivery people are in the streets and before the hot sun beats down. I know of out-of-the-way parks to sit in. I’ll avoid entry lines to the Uffizi by flashing my Amici degli Uffizi card. I know off the beaten track restaurants and how to avoid crowds by eating on the early side.
     I love anticipating a trip, but it isn’t even half as good as the real thing.