Falling in Love with Florence

Returning to Italy has always felt like a homecoming, even though I have no known Italian heritage. It’s possible I confuse pleasant nostalgia for a yearning to live in Italy.

My ancestors, as best I can tell, hailed from England, Scotland and Germany. Presumably, they all migrated from their home countries to America to pursue opportunity and live a more productive life. Some may have been forced to leave their homelands.

Many of my ancestors likely faced scorn when they arrived in the Land of the Free, much like migrants do today after crossing our southern border or escaping from the embattled Middle East. As can happen, many of the offspring of my forebearers have come to resent and oppose new migrations, especially migrants with darker skin.

Most of my immediate relatives never returned to visit their European ancestral homes. My father was an exception. He fought in World War II as part of the army led by General George Patton that liberated North Africa, Sicily and Italy. His final posting was in Florence where he was part of the team that identified bombing sites in Germany.

Like many soldiers, my father never talked about the war. I only found out about his time in Florence many years after he died, making it sweetly ironic that my favorite city in Europe is Florence. It could have been more than ironic.

One reason he never talked about Florence to me was his secret. He fell in love with an Italian woman while stationed in Florence. Like many war-time romances, his ended when the war ended. However, there had been a Catholic marriage that was annulled when my father departed. I understand why he chose not to mention that I could have had a Florentine mother.

What Might Have Been
My life would have been vastly different if I had grown up in post-war Italy instead of post-war Omaha, Nebraska. The only similarity is that I would have been born in Catholic hospital either way.

Reclaiming some semblance of normality must have been difficult in the rubble of post-war Italy. Under a reconstruction program funded in part by the Marshall Plan, Italy regained pre-war industrial levels as early as 1948. It became integrated into European commerce, took an active role in oil exploration and provided support for U.S. forces in the Korean War. Italy enjoyed an economic miracle with annual industrial growth rates of 8 percent of more for a decade.

My father, who loved managing supply lines and production plants, would have felt right at home if he had participated in that economic rebound. Instead, he headed home, only to be re-routed on a ship through the Panama Canal to join U.S. forces fighting the Japanese. He, along with almost everyone else, didn’t know President Truman had approved dropping nuclear bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which brought war in Japan to a sudden halt.

My father’s ship turned around, went back through the Panama Canal and headed to New York where he was discharged. He returned to Iowa, his birthplace, where he was introduced by his relatives to my mother. After a short courtship, they were married and, before long, I showed up in 1947. I would be their only child.

Instead of playing a role in Italy’s dynamic rise from the ashes of war, my father wound up working in the accounting department for the Omaha World Herald. His job included helping to promote amateur boxing. My mother and I attended several matches and had a favorite boxer who later competed for a spot on the U.S. Olympic boxing team. We couldn’t leave the smoky arena until my father counted and recounted the cash.

My father worked at the newspaper with an Italian-American who also fought in WWII. We frequently went to his house where he and his Italian wife prepared sumpious Sunday dinners, which were like banquets of authentic Italian dishes. I was hooked on Italian food – and Italians – at an early age.

Unrequited Italian Feelings
Our household enjoyed an unspoken love of Italy by frequently eating spaghetti and meatballs. However, my father and mother never travelled abroad before he died from a pair of heart attacks at age 60. Such a trip may have seemed awkward to both my father and mother. After my father died, my mother did travel abroad, but never to Italy. 

I spent most of my youth with Italian second mothers. When my parents moved from Omaha to Council Bluffs, Iowa, our next-door neighbor was an Italian mother with a daily compulsion to bake Italian sweets. Later, when we picked up stakes and left for Denver, my neighborhood friend’s mother was Italian who whipped up Italian treats.

Regrettably, it took longer for me to experience and cultivate a taste for Italian wine. On my first trip to Florence, I returned home with a leather jacket and three bottles of Brunello.

First Italian Landing in Positano
However, my first trip to Italy was to Positano, not Florence. I asked my travel agent for a suggestion of where to go to get a great first impression of Italy on my return home from a public relations conference in Romania. She suggested Positano, which hangs on rocks over the Tyrrhenian Sea on the Amalfi Coast and is home of the Slow Food Movement.

My plane from Bucharest landed in Naples where I was picked up in a minivan by a brusque driver who shuttled me through a seedier section of the city onto the curvy highway to Positano. After a harrowing trip, the driver suddenly stopped at what appeared to be the side of the road, motioned for me to get out and handed me my luggage. He pointed down a steep trail before abruptly leaving.

It took a few steps to realize I was in Positano with only one downhill walkway to follow. My destination was at the bottom of the hill – the Hotel Covo dei Saraceni. The route to the hotel went by vendor stands, past artists on stools and through a church vestibule. Since I was by myself, my hotel room was roughly the size of a closet.

The descent and tight squeeze was worth it. I dined on the hotel veranda and watched a procession of couples stroll up a walkway to a romantic lookout with a view of Capri. The food was delicious. The views were inspiring. The only language I heard spoken was Italian. This was where Italians vacationed.

The next day, I trekked uphill, past the highway, to a small mountaintop shop that sold ceramic paintings. I bought one depicting Positano and on the way downhill indulged in fresh tomatoes sold by an outdoor vendor. It was also when I discovered Positano and the Amalfi Coast must be the lemon capital of the world by drinking the delightful elixir called Limoncello.

After showering in what seemed like an upright coffin, it was time for lunch. I wandered around the beachfront and chose a restaurant with outside seating. Seated nearby was Joe Montana and his family. I resisted waving and learned later his original Italian family name was Montani.

Of course, Positano is just the tip of the Amalfi Coast, which resembles a Hollywood set of how coastal areas should look with dramatic cliffs, beaches, islands, caves, blue water and lots of sunshine. At night, cities on the Amalfi Coast gleam like lighthouses for travelers who want a taste of the good life. 

Yearning for Florence
As tempting as Amalfi is, my heart still throbs for Florence, which I visited on my second trip to Italy after a PR trip to Berlin. Because of surging tourists, Florence is not an easy place to visit. But what a place to be.

The art, the front porch of Tuscan antiquity and modern wineries, plus easy access to Rome and Milan by train, make it irresistible to a dreamer like me. All the more so because I can imagine being born there, growing up there and being a Florentine by birth.

On that first visit to Florence, I recall wandering around Duomo Square looking for a place to eat before choosing a restaurant at random. After ordering, I asked the waiter why there were only Italian restaurants. With a bemused look, he said: “Why would you want to eat anything else?” I understood what he meant.

Carole and I now come to Florence as often as possible. On our first trip to Florence, we rented an apartment that once was home to a diplomat, just steps away from the main square. On our second trip, we stayed in an apartment with a patio overlooking the Duomo. On another trip, we rented an apartment in the Oltrarno district across the Arno River and pretended we were living in Florence, just steps away from a cappuccino bar and a row of excellent restaurants. We continue to daydream about an extended stay in Florence.

The throbbing crowds of tourists can be frustrating, but the rewards of Florence are worth it. Where else can you see Michelangelo’s David one day and miss visiting the amazing Uffizi another day because of a bank worker strike? There is no place on earth that offers better quality leather jackets and purses. You are surrounded by history that led the western world out of its dark ages. The viewscape isn’t bad, either.

Whatever is wrong in Florence can be made right by two scoops of gelato and a glass of Tuscan wine, which can be repeated as often as necessary.

I certainly don’t regret my life’s path faraway from Florence, but I occasionally fantasize of my life if it had started there. Those fantasies have morphed into being a Florentine fan. My advice to anyone traveling to Europe to the first time is to make Florence their first stop. It’s not that Florence is the only wonderful spot to visit; it’s just the most memorable. You can love a lot of places, but you may only fall in love with Florence. See you there. Ciao.