Tour Di Italia 2. Florence

Tour Di Italia

2. Florence.

“Dude! We’re on the wrong platform!”

We run, two girls and all forty-seven kilos of luggage in hand, to platform three, not platform five. Our numbers are as good as our Italian apparently. We make it with 3 minutes to spare, sitting in the wrong seats in the wrong carriage and not noticing until an Italian family turf us out and we find our place EIGHT carriages up.

Europeans need to give the brits a lesson on how to do trains. It’s luxury compared to the cattle train commuter lines - I have a leather seat with plug sockets, table, leg room and a TV in the isle showing the journey on a moving map as we go from Venice through Bologna into Florence. We make friends with four middle age Aussies on some kind of mid-life crisis European tour and they ask us immediately about Brexit. I feel like I’m apologising a lot for Brexit out here; everyone we come across; Italians, Americans, Australians, ask us the same question with curiosity – “is that what everyone really feels like in the UK?” Travelling around these beautiful cities it seems more absurd than ever to have cut ourselves afloat on our island, where the is so much here we need to be a part of.

Florence is hot and orange; a citrus city of sunshine that is 32 degrees when we arrive. The Duomo is every bit as breath-taking as I had hoped, but getting in however, was a challenge we weren’t quite prepped for. A strict dress code of no bare shoulders and no short skirts meant mine and Kelly’s attire would need a little altering, and in our quest for sunkissed skin, we didn’t exactly have much material to work with.

She artfully tucks the shoulder of my dress together and under my arm, adjusting the folds of the dress so there’s less cleavage, and instructs me not to move. I look like an overheated penguin, arms glued to my side walking stiffly in the que. We’re getting closer and closer, heat blazing, Japanese tourists poking me with selfie sticks and over-sized cameras, but finally we get to the front of the line, Kel adjusting my hair over any offending flesh on show. I’m as prim and proper as I’m ever going to be standing in front of the security guard, he casts his eye over me… and I’m through! Yes! I resist the urge to fist pump the air as I’m still holding my clothes together with my underarms, but wait, an arm has cut across Kelly.

 “No shorts” he tells her pointing to her knees.

“I’m not wearing shorts?” She protests, which is probably the problem. Kelly’s off-the shoulder canary yellow dress has been artfully pulled up to become an on-the-shoulder number, but as a consequence has become slightly shorter that originally intended.

“No,” he says, wagging his finger and casting her aside. Meanwhile I’m being swept with the crowd up the steps…

“Dude, go on without me!” She calls, “Go see the Duomo!!”

“No, I’m not going without you!”

“I’ll wait for you dude!” She shouts, “go see the Duomo dude, go go go!”

I wave as best I can with my arms still glued to my side and continue up the marble stairs. I’m nearly there, the grand oak door is in front of me, I’m about to go through - when a large arm blocks me.

The second security guard points to my knees- indicating for me to pull my dress down to make it longer. Slight issue here since if I attempt that, I’m going to have to unpin my arms, and then all sorts of skin will be back on show to the Italian public. I attempt to shimmy a bit, make an effort to make the skirt longer - but alas! I don’t make the cut! He moves me aside, casting me out with the other rejects. I try and peer through the door, but only darkness peers back.

We drink a pint of beer outside the Duomo and stare at it instead.

**

Bikes are always the dream way to get around on an adventure - it is my greatest recommendation when travelling as it is always cheap and European cities are very cycle friendly.  Taking our time, we wind through the long roads and cobbled paths, stopping for our picnic and a cold beer on a secret beach we find down by the canal towards the outskirts of the city.

Two grown women, exploring Italy, confident travellers… until the bike chain falls off. We stare at it like a rubix cube, my pink glittery nails turning black with sticky thick bike oil as I try to fit it back on. Its boiling hot, we have no idea what we’re doing and it’s a long way back to bike shop.

“We need a man!” Kelly calls, and I look round for a decent one.

Thankfully we’re in the right country if it’s a man you’re looking for – within 20 seconds a full-on Georgie Clooney hottie bowls over confidentially, complete with polo shirt, loafers and silver fox hair.

 “Ciao”, he says, flipping the bike upside down with one hand and flicking the chain on, spinning the peddles around before we can say tutti fruity.

“Thanks,” we swoon and off he strolls, giving us a wink.

**

The trick with travelling I think, is to be versatile - we can go from putting the complimentary restaurant rolls in our handbags for lunch the next day - to drinking prosecco in Florence’s Continental hotel roof bar. It’s a champagne life on a lemonade budget, so if you want the 5-star hotel, you’re gonna have to eat packets of ham and free bread rolls for the day. It’s a trade I’m willing to make as I watch an Italian sunset from a soft cushioned sun lounger, an Italian waiter in a bow tie serving my drink in a crystal glass. The Firenze horizon is on fire, a burnt orange lighting up the water, the yellow and orange buildings along the canal warm and stunning in the evening light.

Walking home we’re feeling very pleased with ourselves and crossing the Ponte Vecchio for the last time, I suddenly stop.

“Kel, did you pay the bill?”

“No, I thought you paid the bill?”

“Are you joking?!”

We stare at each other wide-eyed. The catholic in me squirms. It was an honest accident.

But it’s a long way back and we’re both wearing heels.

Sorry Florence - I’ll get the next round x