​      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.

     When traveling solo you set out when you’re ready, turn left or right, and you’re on your way. This morning I slept in,* something I hardly ever do, but really, there’s no reason to get up at 5:30 in Rome. It’s just as well I didn’t have specific plans because roads were blocked around the city all day to make way for a half marathon that crisscrossed ancient, renaissance, and modern Rome.

   *I stayed at Casa Santa Lucia Fillippini, a monastery turned bed and breakfast that I found on monasterystays.com.
It was quiet, safe, inexpensive, and centrally located, right near a major bus stop.; my room was en suite. I definitely recommend staying at monasteries whether you aretraveling alone or with others. 
  

    They say that when in Rome do as the Romans do, so I wandered where I could, and found myself using the pedestrian underpass at Piazza Barberini, which landed me at the entrance to Palazzo Barberini.

      This Baroque palazzo was built for the Barberini pope, Pope Urban VIII. Several artists had a hand in its design: Carlo Maderno (1556-1629), the H-shaped layout: Gian Lorenz Bernini (1597-1680), the square staircase: and Borromini (1599-1667), the circular one.

     I wandered through the 32 rooms that displayed many of the Barberini acquisitions. These were primarily Italian works of art, from trecento icons to paintings by Caravaggio and Bernini. And this was in a small section of half of the palazzo!!

       Now I sit in the garden eating the salami, arugula, and cheese sandwich I bought along the way. A cat just walked by but didn’t stop. I tell you, there is lovely solitude here in the garden.

     When I go to Florence I walk around with God. Oh, I do other things: I write, visit museums, and of course, I eat. There are plenty of cafes and parks for writing, museums at every corner, and restaurants sprinkled throughout the city. And of course there are churches. Since I travel alone, my time is my own.

     Italy is a Roman Catholic country, but to walk around with God you don’t have to be Catholic, Christian, or even affiliated with a religious tradition. You just have to long to find that deepest part of your being, to rest in the Holy, to search for the ineffable, to seek out your true self, to breathe in peace--that kind of thing. I call it longing for God, but pick your own term, or, keep it nameless. God is wherever you want God to be and in what every image or non-image God is for you.

     Visiting churches in Florence isn’t the only way to walk around with God, but it’s a good start. One website lists 71 churches within the confines of this small city, which means that just by wandering a short distance you will come across more churches than you could possibly visit.  Vsiting hours vary, but don’t let that deter you. There are plenty open to fit your schedule.

     Visiting these churches immerses me in my absolute favorite period and place in history, Renaissance Florence. With its blossoming in the 14th century, to full bloom in the 15th, several factors came together: the construction of churches and secular buildings as people migrated to the city; the birth of religious orders; the establishment of a republican form of government; the creation of guilds; the acceleration of trade; the Florentine gold florin as the dominant trade coin in Western Europe; and the rising of the Medici family as a political force and patron of the arts.

     I continue to be amazed at the number of churches and public buildings built or enlarged upon during the tre cento (1300s) as urban expansion continued, religious orders flourished, and the common folk found a voice. Equally remarkable are the artists, poets, and philosophers, who, with the patronage of the Medici, birthed Renaissance Florence during the quattro cento (1400s).

    I start one of my favorite walks with God in the early morning, but any time will do. By 7 A.M. I have begun a walking tour of the foremost churches of Florence built by one of the religious order that flourished during the 13th and 14th centuries. Each one radiates from Santa Maria dei Fiori, referred to as the Duomo, so I usually start out at this epicenter that is the soul of Florence. Regardless of the route I take, I figure I cover about five miles on this two hour city circuit, which includes time to take photos of the facades and to stop for a cappuccino or two.

     I love traveling alone but the other day I discovered that I don’t need to fly across the Atlantic or be away for a couple of weeks in order to do so. Solo travel can happen for a few hours right in your home town, or the one next door, as it did for me. It was a classic, fall New England day; I packed a sandwich, and drove the ten miles to visit the vibrant, mid-19th century Concord of Alcott, Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau.

     Emerson was the magnet that attracted writers, philosophers and abolitionists to Concord. His doors were always open to the intelligentsia of the time, with some guests staying for long periods: Elizabeth Stanton was a frequent visitor; Nathanial Hawthorne and his wife rented The Manse from Emerson; Alcott came and went and two of his daughters, Louisa, a writer, and May, an artist, were encouraged by Emerson.

      BUT, Henry Thoreau, with his longing for solitude, was the magnet that attracted me to take this solitary fieldtrip--even though there are no Thoreau sites to visit in Concord. I had been to his cabin site at Walden Pond the week before, which was enough for me. Henry, who spent most of his life in his native Concord, was present wherever I went: he had often offered his handyman skills at The Manse where Nathanial and Sophia Hawthorne lived as newlyweds; he must have visited Bronson Alcott and his family at Orchard House; and he had lived off and on at Emerson’s home during his adult life.

My first stop was a detour from my original plan to stick to the mid-19th century transcendental Concord. Tucked away in the corner of the Old North Bridge parking lot is the Robbins House, a two story farmhouse originally occupied by the first generation of free blacks in Concord.

      I had never noticed it before, so in I went for a brief tour before crossing the road to The Manse (no time for a visit) and a quick walk to the bridge.

My next destination was Sleepy Hollow Cemetery where the Alcott, Emerson, Hawthorn, and Thoreau families are buried. At the Emerson family burial plot I ate half my sandwich, and wished I had an area map and more time to find Thoreau’s site (I only had time for a three hour fieldtrip).

      Next stop on my itinerary was Orchard House, the home of the Alcott family. I sat on a bench outside the house, enjoying the other half of my sandwich and recalling the guided tour I had taken years ago. (Note to self: fieldtrips are not one-time events; take the tour this winter.)

 

      Final stop was The Ralph Waldo Emerson House * (in Emerson’s day called “Bush”). Everyone was there: Emerson writing in this library; his wife, Lidian, atending to their four children; men and women discussing in the parlor; Thoreau writing, as well as popping popcorn for the Emerson children, and fixing things around the property; and Emerson encouraging the Alcott girls, Louisa as a writer, May as an artist. The creative energy was palpable.

     As I headed to my car I noticed Emerson’s hat and walking stick by the side door (taking photographs not permitted), waiting for him to pick them up as he did every afternoon. Maybe this day he would take the trail behind his barn and walk the two miles to Walden to see Thoreau. Maybe on my next field trip to Concord, I will take the walk with him—to visit Thoreau, of course.

     * Emerson bought his Concord home, when he married his second wife Lidian. They lived their until their deaths, he in 1892, she in 1892. It was their son Edward’s home until his death in 1930. The house is now run by the Ralph Waldo Emerson Society.

 Cloisters
   If you want to write outside, rain or shine, a church cloister is a good choice. Although cloisters usually don’t provide benches, I sit on the low wall with my back against a pillar and start writing.
    The cloisters adjacent to San Lorenzo, Santa Maria del Carmine,  Santa Croce, and Santa Maria Novella are among my favorites.

    The Duomo
      Brunelleschi’s Dome has always been my number one inspiration in Florence; it is what draws me back here again and again. Every time I visit I climb the 463 steps to the lantern at the top. I locate my apartment and writing cafes, museums and churches, parks and cloisters, libraries, out of the way places, and all my inspirations.  When I come down, I’m ready to write. 

 
   Raining. Not intermittently but steady enough for me purchase an ‘I love Scotland,’ umbrella.
    Rhythm is important for writing. I am especially conscious of it when traveling alone and staying in the same place for a week. I have time, lots of time; time not taken up traveling from place to place or talking with a companion. It’s up to me to get the beat going and to keep it lively and inspiring.
    This morning I needed a break after writing in the flat, so I weathered the weather with a visit to the Scottish National Gallery. A painter’s inspiration (Italian, Flemish, Dutch, French, English, and Scottish paintings from the Renaissance to the twentieth century), but truly inspirational for and kind of creativity.

    In the midst of the visit, a poignant moment, ordered by Her Majesty’s Government, as everyone stood “in remembrance of those who lost their lives and all others that were affected by the attack in London on Saturday.”

     Upon leaving the museum, I dodged the puddles and umbrellas and returned to the National Museum of Scotland, this time for lunch in the Museum Brassier, located in the bowels of museum, most likely the crypt of an ancient church. Delicious Cullen Skink (smoked fish chowder) and a half smoked salmon pate sandwich, both food and ambience conducive to writing. Thankfully it has become socially acceptable to open a computer at a restaurant. I always have my MacBook Air in my backpack.

      My week writing in Edinburgh is ending. I have spent this rainy afternoon in my rented flat, writing, reading and packing. I will go out to eat tonight and then tomorrow before 6, I’ll shut the flat door and walk to the bus stop and wait for the airport bus. I’m very grateful for this time, and have enjoyed sharing this writing diary with you. Hopefully you have gleaned some ideas for a solitary writing, or painting, or sketching, or photography or, you name it, trip.