​On my early morning walk yesterday I witnessed the start of the demolition of the locks of love from the fence surrounding the bust of Cellini on the Ponte Vecchio. I wondered why they were bothering? 

​It took all day. 

​     It’s beginning again. Early this morning I counted three new locks. I love the idea of new locks starting the cycle of love all over again.  

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​     A sunny day is my preference--for picture taking and lightness of mood.
    








​ The cost of a cappuccino is slowly rising. My favorite café still charges 1.20 euro, but 1.30 is becoming standard in the bars that attract the locals. Along the tourist route, expect to pay 1.40 or 1.50. The cafe I’m in now, charges 2.00 for its contemporary ambience. 

​     Two years ago I noticed a decline in the number of Africans selling pictures, umbrellas and gadgets. The gypsies begging for money had disappeared. Now they are back in full view. I chose not to photograph.

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    ​This morning I passed two raised umbrellas in two different spots along the street. Later when I passed by again, an elderly man was arising after his night’s sleep. Still later someone else was all covered up, I assume sleeping. I chose not to photograph. 

​      The middle of my journey. Not the journey of life (I’m way past the middle), nor a feeling of being lost, as Dante refers to in the opening words to The Divine Comedy. I’m referring to this December journey to Florence; I flew here a week ago and will fly home a week from today.
     There is a specialness to being in Florence in December--a hunkering-in winter time about it all: cold and early sunsets: coats, hats, and scarves.
      And then there are the lights that decorate every street and every building, both interior and exterior. The result is festive, usually aesthetically appealing, occasionally a tad tacky, but always heartwarming. Since I am being charged for utilities in my apartment, I can’t help but wonder who is paying for all of this wonder.
     The city isn’t over-crowded, but it is filled with all ages walking the streets and enjoying the museums, churches and restaurants. It is a happy time to be in Florence for groups and for solitary travelers like me.         Tomorrow is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, a major holiday in Roman Catholic Italy. To celebrate, the Christmas tree in front of the Duomo will be lit at 5 PM. More lights to fill my journey.

    ​The sun is on its way, predicted for this afternoon and tomorrow. In fact, here’s the view from my apartment, where I’m eating lunch and posting  this. I don’t mind the rain, but as far as taking pictures, sunlight is my preferred weather.
     Speaking of taking pictures, I’m on a roll.*  I have several themes in mind, and of course that keeps me attentive to the moment.
     This morning I was the first visitor at the Convent of San Marco. For the first five minutes I was the lone tourist. It was breath taking. San Marco is an early must-visit when I am in Florence. Every time I photograph the frescoes that Fra Angelico painted in the monk’s cells. I can’t resist, even though I have sets from previous visits; each photo represents the current moment. It is not something to check off any kind of bucket list. 
 
* Pun intended! In 1956, when in Florence with my parents, I took pictures with a roll of film. That was all that was available.

​It is misty and cloudy this morning so I ought to be a little down, for that is what ‘they’ say is supposed to be one’s mood on such a day. But here I am, wandering about alone, feeling peaceful and very grateful that I made the trip.
     My usual café is packed with American students; not a seat in the place; so different from when I was here in 1959. I was one of the first of the junior year abroad students to walk the untried territory. How do I know this? Because I had no American friends the entire year I was here. My college and I were making it up as we went along.
    As a result, I learned to be on my own, to be independent, to not be lonely. Solitude became my preferred way of being, which may surprise those of you who know me because I can be extremely social and gregarious. Meyers-Briggs tells me I am right in the middle on the introvert-extrovert continuum.   
     From time to time, especially when I come back to Florence, I ponder what effect that year so long ago had on me. Maybe that’s why I keep returning. I want the answer incised in my mind/body/spirit just as dates are chiseled into the stones of Florence.
    My answer on this misty, cloudy morning is the gift of being at peace with myself and very grateful for my life.

​I am very grateful that I am here for the third time in 2018. When I returned home after my September trip I considered seriously if my Florence days were over. But since I already had an inexpensive airline reservation, I inched forward and reserved the apartment with a view of the Duomo where I am now settle.
     As the time to fly drew near, I established a few goals for this December trip—be in the moment and delve into fourteen and fifteen century art that is Florence and that is omnipresent in Florence, in the churches and museums and on the streets. So far, I’m on schedule with both.
     Here’s a slide show of my first 24 hours. 

I stand on the edge of myself and wonder where is home?
Oh, where is the place where beauty will last?
When will I be safe?And where?
 
     Thus starts “Pilgrim or Tourist,” a poem by Macrina Wiederkehr (posted on Poems on this blog poems). It speak to me because I continue to go back and forth considering whether my pilgrimage to Florence is over or whether I still need to go back and forth from home to Florence. This is what I know!
     I know that my physical and emotional home is where I have lived for over forty years, where I am sitting right now in. It is safe, beautiful, and loving, and for that I am very grateful.
     I know I am not a tourist, at least in the traditional sense, although those tourist elements are always present as I walk the streets, visit churches and museums, and drink cappuccino. I am pilgrim, slowly on the move, luggage light, learning to love the pilgrim in me.
     I know that I long to go to a deep place in my soul and that Florence leads me there like no other place. However, the cottage-by-the-sea offered something similar, which leads me to ask what the two places have in common: Solitude for an extended period of time—four days at the cottage, fourteen in Florence. I go deep when I don’t have to negotiate, chatter or share experiences with anyone.
     There’s much more to discover about Florence, some of which is being revealed to me. This surprises me because when I came home three weeks ago I thought my pilgrimages to Florence had come to an end. But no, I am being compelled to a deeper level, to be again in the silence, solitude and simplicity in that city, walking those streets, visiting those churches and museums, drinking another cappuccino.
     I have an inexpensive ticket to Rome November 30th, returning December 14th. I’ve rented an apartment with a view of the Duomo. One of the secrets of an old woman is that she presses forward even when the odds tell her that the only safe place is home.

​ 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?

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.)