Florence. That road doesn’t look big enough for a car.

One of the greatest advantages of relocating to Europe is the easy access to its many cities. When someone is visiting and they ask if you want to meet them in say, Florence, you can. This is where I was earlier this month when my Bremerton, Washington, friends, Mark and Marie, who you might remember from our trip to Normandy and Brittany last year, came back to Europe. This time they came with our other dear friends, Eric and Patricia. They scored a travel deal that included airfare and rooms in a 13th-century castle in the hills of Chianti, the stunningly beautiful region between Florence and Siena.

When they reached out a few months ago asking if I was game to meet them in Chianti, first I salivated at the thought of all of that beautiful Chianti Classico, Vino Nobile di Montepulciano, and Brunello di Montalcina wine we would be drinking. Mark and I share a passion for Tuscan wines. Then I considered the art in Florence that certainly, Marie, a professor of art, would be absolutely making us visit. Then I remembered the hidden alleyways, the Duomo, and the Arno River, all awaiting my lens. And then visions of the thick cut Florentine steak, the tender cinghiale (wild boar) over homemade pasta, the intensity of the espresso, the Vin Santo after dinner, the peppery green olive oil, and even the crappy bread (what gives, Tuscany?). A lot of things passed through my brain in just a few seconds, but I was clearly in.

I stalked this couple until I got the perfect angle.

Unfortunately, the castle they were all staying in was completely sold out—a wedding party I think—so I opted to stay in the heart of Florence at the Hotel degli Orafi, practically attached to the Uffizi Museum and a few short steps from the Ponte Vecchio. It’s a beautiful boutique hotel with outstanding service, good beds, a rooftop bar, a stunning breakfast room, and best of all, it’s walking distance to everything you want to do and see in Florence. Doing what I do best when traveling, I took responsibility for all of our restaurant reservations and the arrangements to visit wineries in Chianti while Marie handled the museum tickets.

The breakfast room at the Hotel degli Orafi

Florence is famous for its high quality leather work

When the day came to go to Florence, I opted to fly. I could have taken the train, or the bus, or even rented a car and driven the five hours there. The convenience and speed of flying was just too good to pass up, although I did have to go through Zurich. When we landed there for our short layover, I wasn’t expecting to deplane on the tarmac in the snow. Was I dressed for that? Of course, not. Am I pliable and stretchy like a toddler when I travel these days? Why yes, yes I am. That’s how it works. I left Nice at 10:00 a.m. and landed in Florence at 1:30 p.m. Piece of cake. Piece of almond liqueur-soaked cake.

You may be thinking by now, “Where is Chien-hui?” Our friends, Charles and Gayle, were still in town and had tickets to go to the Menton Citrus Festival, which was more interesting to Chien-hui, especially since she doesn’t drink. So we split up and did double duty so we could spend the most amount of time with our friends. Luckily I was able to spend several days with Charles and Gayle before I went to Florence, and I even got to have dinner with them one more time when I got back before they went home.

From the Florence terminal I hopped the bus to the rental car center where I had a prepaid Fiat 500 waiting for me. When I got to the counter, they asked me for my International Driver’s License. Hmmm. I used to get one of those at AAA before I traveled when I still lived in the US, and never once was I ever asked for it in Europe. They are only good for a year and I haven’t been home in more than that, so no dice. The agent explained that, in Italy, they were cracking down and her company, Europcar, who I always rent with, required that additional license now. My US drivers license wasn’t sufficient (but obviously still necessary) to rent. Uh-oh. I could get to my hotel in the old city easy enough by cab, but what about all of the wine tasting in the hills of Tuscany over the next few days? Mark, Marie, Eric, and Patricia had their own car that would just barely hold them, so I wasn’t going to be able to fit in their car. Nor was I going to ask them to drive all the way to Florence to pick me up so we could just turn around and go back to near where their castle was to taste wines. I needed a car. What to do? I looked the agent in the eye and said calmly that this was a big problem for me and would not do. She looked me back in the eye and told me to go to hell. But with a smile, of course. But then she suggested that I go down to the end of the building to a “local” car rental company and see if they “bend the rules.” I dialed up the toddler-flexibility dial to 11.

“No problemo.” What a relief.

“But if you get pulled over, it’s your responsibility. You might have to pay a fine. On the spot.”

Visions of my last trip to Italy in 2018 when I was shaken down by an Italian policeman on the train for not “validating” the ticket I had in my hand that I just purchased from a machine on the platform before boarding the train. Threatened with being thrown off the train at the next stop—at least it wasn’t moving—I paid the officer a €69 “fine” in cash. My ass has burned red ever since that day when I think of the Italian police and I clearly didn’t want any kind of repeat experience.

“I guess I better not get pulled over, huh?” Insert Italian pinched hand emoji here.

I did get my money back on the first car rental, but this car was double that price. Not seeing any other options and my stretchiness at its maximum, I readily agreed. The next thing I know, I am sitting in a sweet little black Audi A3. Never mind that I haven’t driven a car in about 11 months, I was psyched. The built in satellite navigation was fantastic and so off I went. Oh, did I mention that the guy also told me that I wasn’t allowed to drive in the old part of the city where my hotel was conveniently located? Yeah, that.

What he actually said was, “You need to get the permit from your hotel, so if you get pulled over, it shows that you are allowed to drive in the core. But don’t get pulled over.”

I asked him how I was going to get the permit without going to the hotel? “You’ll be fine.” Repeat Italian hand emoji.

I called the hotel from the car in the parking lot and asked the man who answered the same question. The man at the desk said, “You’ll be fine.” So, off I went.

The Florence airport isn’t that far from the historic core, it should have taken me about 20 minutes, mostly by the autostrada. I left the parking lot and the GPS told me to turn left, then right, right again, then left, then right, then get over three lanes and turn right, now a quick left and all the while the roads seemed to be getting thinner. Where was the freaking autostrada? I am on a good sized city street and moving along fine. Okay, I think, maybe this is the back way. Suddenly, I am on a street that the tiny Audi can barely traverse without taking out the mirrors, mine or theirs, on either side of the car. “Now turn right.” Wait…what? There? How?! After a two point turn, I am doing my best Jason Bourne with three cars pushing me hard from behind. Seriously, I had to back it up and then turn harder to make the right. “Now turn left.” This time I make it. But wait, what is that? The road is blocked ahead. A construction crew. Oh no. I look in my rearview, but the cars are gone. How did those cars behind me know not to turn when I did? Now I put it in reverse and back down the street quickly like Jason Bourne driving backwards. I back into the tiny intersection I had just come through. I block traffic while making a three point turn this time. Nobody is happy about this and I hear it. F it, too bad. (Oh God, where are the police? I know they are close.) Blood pressure at 145/90. Just go!

After more hairpin turns through an ancient part of the city where I am sharing the road with pedestrians, an hour later I finally turn on the street where the hotel is. Sweat is beading in my eyes. Or wait, are those tears? The street runs right along the Arno river, in front of the Uffizi, and there are hundreds of pedestrian tourists meandering along the road, in the road, many of them looking at me wide-eyed like I am a super slow killer looking for a victim. I am going maybe 3 miles per hour inching along. My GPS is telling me to GO ALREADY, you sissy. But the street signs are those red round ones with the white line through it. On both sides of the street. They are definitely telling me that I am not allowed to go down this street. Am I even allowed to be here? (Oh sweet Jesus, where are the police? I know they are coming for me.)

I see a small parking lot and pull in, there is no where else I can go. Miraculously a car pulls out of the only space which is now available and I dash into it and park. I free one hand from the steering wheel with all of my strength and then use it to peel each bloodless finger back off of the steering wheel of the second hand.

I call the hotel again. “Bongiorno. I am in this little parking lot and I am as close as I can get to the hotel, I think.”

He says, “Oh yes, I know where you are. Just stay there. I will send somebody to get you.”

Ten minutes later, a guy shows up. Very peppy. He says we will go to the hotel first before he takes the car to the parking garage. He asks me if I want to drive? (Very funny, asshole. Oh, you’re serious?) “No, I’m good.”

He backs out of the space and guns it. Oh, Jesus. The hotel is only one block away but because of the tiny one way roads we actually have to drive for a bit. He is flying. Left, left, left. I could reach out of the window and unbutton anyone’s pants we are so close to people walking in the streets. I just look out the window to the right so he can’t see me about to cry. (Oh look, a wine shop.)

Then just as suddenly, we are in front of the hotel and he says “Welcome to Florence.”

I exit the car, grab my bags and go into the hotel, which is lovely. It’s about 4:00 p.m. at this point and I need food and more importantly, I need a glass, or five, of wine. The hotel manager, the one who answered both of my previous phone calls, writes me a list of places that are good that I can walk to, and even better, open.

I go to my room. Again, fabulous. Check the view. So, Tuscany. I throw my bags on the bed and turn right around and head out the door.

Two blocks later, I am in a fantastic little restaurant, Auditore, a Florentine steakhouse. “Table for one, please.” I am sat in front of the window where I can look onto the street see the people passing in all directions. Many of the same people I apparently tried to run down in slow motion earlier. I wave. They ignore me.

I order a slightly expensive bottle of Chianti Classico, and a big-ass steak. I take my fist sips and my first bites of this extremely rare meat, letting the wine pass through it in my mouth, and I feel the rubber band inside me begin to untwist, until it is limp. And then it dawns on me; I am in Florence. As I enjoy both the fine wine and the beautiful meal, I begin to get excited all over again.

Here I am after my harrowing drive in Florence.
(Bacchus by Caravaggio at the Uffizi Museum)

A thousand year old door and modern graffiti

The oldest bridge in Florence, the Ponte Vecchio

The next day I will see my dear friends, who I haven’t seen in a year, and we will tour Florence and see some of the world’s finest art and architecture together. Then over the next few days, we’ll drive through the Tuscan hills and visit four amazing wine estates. I’ll get to see their historic mountain castle, and we’ll visit the beautiful towns of Siena, San Gimignano, Greve, Volpaia, and Montespertoli, and every bit of it will be incredible. But, I’ll save that for the next post…

The guy was right, I was fine.

You’ll be fine.

Carnaval de Nice

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