​      One of my takeaways from the Supreme Court hearings this week has been the relationship between Senators and Coons and Flake. Here are two men from opposite sides of the aisle and with differing political views coming together because of their faith, demonstrating that their faith guides what they say and do. Each has a deep moral compass.
     Embedded in his public comments before the committee vote yesterday, Coons shared that the evening before he specifically prayed for both Cavanaugh and Ford, and for the country, and that he would do so again this evening. In admitting this publicly, it is clear that prayer isn’t a throw away for him. Rather, it is central to how he leads his life, both personally and as a senator. His comments were palpable.
     In the past week Senator Flake’s words and actions indicated that his faith guides what he does and says. His speech September 26th on the Senate floor offered compassion and civility for everyone involved and for our country. Yesterday, standing in the private elevator for senators, he listened to the impassioned women who caught his attention; he looked them in the eye; he didn’t shut the door on them.
     The comity between these two men gives me hope. Comity, a new word entering public discourse: 1. an association of nations for their mutual benefits; 2. courtesy and considerate behavior toward others (Google search). I believe that comity happens when we give up acting out of ego, out of believing we have all the answers, out of thinking we are God.

​I’ve been back a week. Jet lag taken care of, a pound lost, porch furniture put away; jigsaw puzzle started, library book read, friends visited; I’m fully immersed in life here. All good.
     I miss, however, interrupting my early morning walk along the Arno to stand at a bar to sip that first early morning cappuccino.
      One more thing, I love my early morning, black American coffee. 

​ In my next to last morning in Florence I found silence at Fiesole, a hillside town overlooking the city. First, I found silence in the park on the way to the Monastery of San Francesco. 

​    In my next to last morning in Florence I found silence at Fiesole, a hillside town overlooking the city. First, I found silence in the park on the way to the Monastery of San Francesco. 

​   At the top of the hill I found silence in the cloisters and monk’s cells.

​    And finally, silence in the cemetery on the way down the hill to the town center and bus back to Florence. 

​Does it takes a trip far away to realize that there’s no place like home for silence?

     The good thing about traveling alone is that you spend less time and energy venting about things that don’t go right. The bad thing about traveling alone is that you have no one to vent to when things don’t go right.
     Here’s my vent, to the computer, and to any of you readers who care to hear it. Of course by the time I post this I’ll be home, dealing in dollars not euros, and my vent will have lost its energy.
     But here it is. I had to pay 50 euro to check my suitcase from Florence to Paris. I assume that somewhere in the fine print on my ticket was the notification of this added expense but I was shocked, because up until now on overseas flights one bag flies for free. Evidently the rule has changed for inexpensive tickets, at least when the first leg of the flight is in Europe. (I wasn’t charge coming over here). I could have upgraded to business class for a mere $350.00 and then I assume my bag would have traveled free.
    Now that I’ve vented, let me confess that I am most fortunate and very grateful that I can afford a trip to Florence. And, let me admit that I’m glad to be home.

Solitude at its best.

​When once in a while on my travels I see someone (usually a woman) writing in a journal. I am intrigued. I want to strike up a conversation with her. I want ask her what she writing, I want to read what she written. Of course, these are against all my rules of privacy, ethics, moral values, confidentiality, solitude, secrecy (my computer thesaurus just gave me those). Never, never, never read anyone else’s journal/diary!
    The other day at one of my go-to-writing cafes, a women sat down at a nearby table, took her journal our of her purse, wrote for a bit, put the journal back, and sat pensively; she repeated the procedure two more times. She purchased no coffee.
     This journal writer wore a print frock with a matching bow in her graying hair. She appeared to be in her sixties, but trying to look younger. When she left I was tempted to follow her, but alas, I didn’t because of all those rules that extend past reading someone’s journal to include prying into her life.   
     Sometimes I just hate my rules because I want to discover secrets that are not mine to know.
      (I’ve thought long and hard about breaking my rules by posting her photo, but have concluded she will remain anonymous. You may agree, you may not. It’s a decision up for grabs.) 

     I ate supper in my apartment last night and after a lazy debate with myself I decided at 8:20 to take an evening stroll along the Arno. In going through the Uffizi courtyard, I noticed that the museum remains open until 10 on Tuesday evenings. Carpe diem.
     Without hesitation I flashed my Amici degli Uffizi card, breezed through security, and began the climb up the three flights of stairs tp the main gallery. I was so excited that I failed to take any pictures until I arrived at the Botticelli rooms. There I was, alone with La Primavera and Venus. It was a magical moment.
     The corridors were empty, the city shone through the upstairs window. I enjoyed Michelangelo’s holy family with a man in a wheelchair. Then I took the elevator to the ground floor and out I went to walk along the Arno.  

​     In the book The Secret of San Miniato (Renzo Manetti) a father tell his son: As long as anger and arrogance fail to gain a foothold in your heart, you will be able to find the beginning of the path. He’s referring to the path to God, to peace, to wholeness, whatever you name it.
    As I wander about Florence by myself, it feels relatively easy to release anger and arrogance from gaining much of a foothold on me. Acceptance can usually replace anger—acceptance and adjustment. For example, I accept that bicyclists weave in and out among the pedestrians and thus I have adapted to the universal, unwritten rule—keep walking and the bicyclist will peddle around you. Arrogance has always been more of a challenge than anger; in Italy I am continually humbled by my lack of language learning.
      One of the benefits of solo travel, or of taking appreciable amounts of time alone, is that I have the opportunity to step away from the anger and arrogance I feel in my every day life with others. Instead, I have time to practice love and humility, to wipe the state clean. 

Random observations from a rather frequent solitary traveler to Florence for the past ten years. Some things change, others stay the same.
​
   In the change department—since I was here in April:
• Cover/service charge now added to restaurant bill
• African males are not on the streets selling
• Street artists display an official permit
• Gypsies and their family business have disappeared
• In leaving the Pitti Palace you must show your ticket
 
   In the stay the things stay the same department
• Stone buildings are still standing.
• Cappuccino still costs 120 euro
• Shops on the Ponte Vecchio only sell jewelry
• It still takes 463 steps to reach the lantern of the Duomo
• I am still taking pictures of everything I see

​I think of my first twenty-four hours in Florence in two parts: arrival day after successful travel minus sleep; this morning, after successful sleep in my comfortable apartment located between the Duomo and the Piazza della Signoria. I’m ready to go. ​

  This morning’s walk was strange because usually I start out about 7 when the city is getting ready for the tourists.. Today I stopped by the Uffizi to renew my Amici degli Uffize card for 2018, before joining the crowd along the Arno and crossing the Ponte Vecchio. I am now enjoying my second cappuccino at Gelateria Ricce at Piazza Spirito, my go-to early morning writing café. I’ve got to keep going so I’ll post this and then walk up Via Romana to the out of the way entrance to Boboli Gardens. Buona giornata.   

Don't know why this pictures are lying on their sides. Maybe they are tired.