A writer whose work belongs to an extremely successful Hollywood franchise once said, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces.” While Bridget Jones may just be a fictional character, a few days ago I thought she was damn right. Especially because my beloved city, Florence, in a sort of surreal adventure film, was playing the part of the mean aunt who savours that moment at Christmas dinner when she can finally ask you why you still don’t have a real job and a boyfriend or a girlfriend.
I’d woken really early, not because I wanted to work out, eat a healthy breakfast and seize the day, but simply because I had left the window open the night before. My lovely Auntie Florence recently decided to add yet another set of traffic lights, hence the melodious tune of the thoroughfare, which goes on from dusk till dawn, in my area. Instead of calling my landlord to tell him that I had had enough of my apartment and wanted out of the contract, I opted to leave the house surprisingly early.
Alas, I failed to consider another ugly truth you will never find in any fancy tourist guide: ATAF. Some simply know it as the city’s main means of transportation, but for anyone who has had occasion to ride a bus in Florence, it’s essentially Inferno on wheels. I kid you not. If you want to witness proper, hell-raising Italian incazzatura, catch a bus during the rush hour or, better yet—or should that be “worse still”?—the Fiesole fiasco in the late afternoon. You’ll never forget it.
I was meant to take the number 12 on my way to class, but it never arrived. At that point there was only one solution: run. When I finally made it, my professor mi ha fatto una parte, deeming my tardiness as disrespectful—thanks a lot, Florentine bus company.
To soothe my soul, I decided to take a walk around the Duomo and treat myself to lunch, but foolishly failed to take the weather into account. Florence is basically London’s sneakier sister, because you never know when it’s going to rain although it always does, so you leave home in the morning sunshine only to find yourself running through piazza Duomo trying to avoid the umbrellas with the tourists bogarting all possible safe havens.
Exhausted, bedraggled and angry with my Auntie Florence for the way she was treating me, I stopped by a bar for a coffee. The lady behind the counter saw the state I was in—wet clothes and wonderful bags under my eyes. In a strong Florentine accent she said, “You look very stressed, giovanotto. Remember that after this shit storm there always comes a rainbow!” I left the bar smiling—and guess what?—a rainbow appeared.
Moral of the story. Sometimes Auntie Florence can be very mean, but she always finds a way to apologize, and that’s why I love her unconditionally.
