​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. 

     ‘Don’t miss that bus stop! Don’t forget to punch your train ticket! Don’t be late for your reservation to climb the Duomo! Follow the signs to the Sistine Chapel!’ There is much to look out for when traveling alone.
     Being a solitary traveler keeps my eyes open; there is no one with me to share the travel guide responsibility. I am it and I love the responsibility. It keeps me sharp. For the past twenty years I’ve been swinging on my backpack and dragging my suitcase to Italy.
    Traveling solo isn’t better than traveling with a companion; it’s just different. I must admit, however that it is better for me. I love to step out of my busy life and be by myself for a couple of weeks. I’m not getting away from anything; I’m just doing something different, and getting renewed to return to my busy life at home. My husband loves to stay home, and loves that I go.
    Traveling solo doesn’t lend itself to the give and take discussion with a companion, but it does open my eyes to more than just making the right train or bus connection, booking an important reservation, or following the signs to a famous spot. It keeps me looking in vivid ways because I am not distracted by someone else’s noticing. Consequently my own sense of observation is heightened.
     On my trip two trips to Italy this year I became aware of interesting signs as I wandered the streets of Rome, Assisi, Cortona, and Florence. Hilarious, serious and note-worthy, all worthy of a smile, a noticing, and a photograph. I’m not certain they would have caught my eye had I not been alone.  Here they are; some need a translation or explanation, some speak for themselves. 

​ 
3. When the books explaining Trump were first coming out, it was April and I was Rome. Here was Sound and Fury prominently displayed in front of the Largo di Torre Argentina bus stop. It caught my attention. 

​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.  

Sometimes I am very grateful to be a solitary traveler. This morning I didn’t have to put into words the beauty before me as I walked along the Arno on my way to my first cappuccino of the day.

 ​      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. 

​
​4. While wandering somewhere off the beaten tourist trail in Rome I came across this billboard advertising a free concert featuring Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. What could be better than a Sunday evening concert at 6 PM at the Santa Maria in Aracoeli on the Capitoline Hill just a few block from where I was staying? The church will packed to hear the full orchestra and chorus. 

     Entry to Santa Marie dei Fiori, referred to as the Duomo, is free but be prepared to stand in line to get in. However, there is an outside entrance on the south side at the end of the nave for those attending mass or wanting to pray in the early morning and evening. With intention, I say, “La Messa,” and in I go to stare up at Vasari’s frescoes that cover the inside of the dome, to breathe in the immensity of it all, and to sit in silence and pray.