The Beautiful Light in Florence: The Start of a Three City Trip Through Italy

The Duomo, or The Basilica of Saint Mary the Flower, in Florence.

Part 1 of 3

Part 2: Rome |Part 3: Naples

The Italy of my youth was framed by Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, but most importantly, by the God of my mother.

Marguerite’s God was a white Italian man who probably sounded like her Italian professor at Bronx Community College and wore the same dour expression. I imagined that this God had thinning hair and judged me constantly for failing to say the rosary, or even hold one as often as my mother did. I also imagined that he loved her, probably, but never as much as me.

What I knew of Italy was framed by New York and New Yorkers when I had to cross through Little Italy in the Bronx on my way to school, inhaling the heavenly scent of freshly baked bread made by Italian immigrants in America who imprinted us with their pizza and with Catholic saints. I never imagined I would actually go to the continent shaped like the boots I coveted (and I am proud to say that I did, in fact, once own a pair of delightfully decadent-to-me suede leather thigh-high boots, thank you) until my sister moved there, and invited me to come for my milestone birthday.

The older I get, the more I whine about the life of an introvert. (Sorry, friends who have been subjected to said whining.) Newly…