Florence, mostly Oltrarno
strangers I want you to meet, sights I caught, a last dispatch from Italy for now
The Arno streams through Florence. The river originates in Mount Falterona, a near detour via Arezzo, it crosses Florence before Empoli, drawing a line between the Rive Gauche vs Rive Droite of Florence. I love to peek at the rowers on Sunday mornings and at the painters who set their easel on small barges all week long.
On Wednesday, I ate dinner at Bocca d’Arno, one of my favourite restaurants in San Niccolò. ‘Bocca d’Arno’ is also the nickname for where the Arno flows into the sea at Marina di Pisa. Mouth of the Arno, where I ate gnudi alla crema di scampi and the waiter still remembers the joke we shared two years ago (it involved a tiramisù). The food is wonderful, but I come back for this stranger I know, a hand to hold. I’m hugely emotional about a place when I love its people.
I will be leaving Florence to return to London in a few days. I could write mountains about rediscovering Renaissance art and architecture, Brunelleschi’s Duomo and the Uffizi; Tuscan osterie, the orange of the buildings; the blue sky at 16:57 and the hills that surround the city; I could go on, but I won’t. Instead, I want you to meet some characters who have populated my days.
Notes, in no specific order:
On my way to the square outside of Santo Spirito, I spot a child with a selfie stick. I shiver, once, and a second time for being judgemental before 10 am. At the market, Antonella has lost her voice. She points at the fennel, then at the bietola; she walks away from the stall to scrap her cigarette and comes back. Clementines, too. The merchant hands me my shopping and adds celery and parsley for free so I can make a battuto. I told him about the couscous I had made the day before.
Two of my favourite schiacciate flavours: cecina and aubergine; grilled courgettes, dried tomatoes and stracchino.Â
Walking under the Tuscan blue sky, mist settles over the Arno. Pink in the morning, the cold itches my eyes and the sun is low. The air tastes of endings, something about the hail that bends car shells, that I’m enjoying. My body lets down my mind and I can’t stop looking at the thick clouds that envelop the Duomo. I smile at the birds; they move in waves every morning outside of the window.
Oltrarno means on the other side of the Arno.
Pappa al cavolo nero at my friend Nicco’s restaurant, A Crudo on via Mazzetta. The recipe derives from the classic Pappa al pomodoro, a soup made of bread (stale, preferably), tomatoes, garlic, basil (if any) and plenty of olive oil. It’s the first time I eat a white pappa and I find it heartier; the temperature went down to minus 6 this morning. Nicco has a contagious smile.Â
I run up to San Miniato al Monte, then onto Piazzale Michelangelo and back down across the Arno – I’m chasing sculptures by Henry Moore. There is a retrospection of his work across the city of Florence and the second one is on Piazza della Signoria. Once a hub for local life, the square is home to historic cafés, including the caffè Rivoire that is most famous for its hot chocolate in winter. You might have spotted the old-fashion terrace in the Hannibal movie, but inside the marble material makes the décor heavy. On the left wall, behind the incoherent stuffed giraffe, a notice hangs in memory of Conte Cammillo Negroni who invented the eponymous cocktail in the mid-twenties at the bar. I leave, troubled, this place is much.
Did I tell you about the chanterelles we spotted when we ran up Poggio Imperiale with Ludo? Â
I stop by the newsagent to buy the 2023 edition of the Sesto Cajo Baccelli, the Tuscan yearly lunar calendar. The booklet is filled with traditions and recommendations about works to be done in gardens and in orchards across the next four seasons. Each edition opens with the famous sestina and the list of eclipses and lunar phases; there are articles about agriculture, astronomy, a list of postage prices and a section dedicated to fairs and markets to be held that year around Tuscany. It’s full of grounded tips and Tuscan humour.Â
A glass of Maremma (red) at Caffè Notte bistrot before dinner. Two old women are having tea, it’s 20:08. They both wear smart shoes, one has dyed her hair purple (it’s recent, her skin is stained next to her ears) and the other has colourful, stripy glasses. I share a long table for ten at dinnertime and I’m reminded of how much friends in a group like to recycle the same joke – I do too, and we hit the dance floor in Borgo S. Frediano afterwards.
A pug in a buggy; two men walk a cat on a leash.
A good combo salad: chickpeas, 1-euro rocket, tinned mackerel, and leek (the white bit, thinly sliced). Ludo made it.
I take a breath of the city from the balcony at the Villa Bardini. A trip around the garden to pick some oregano, thyme and sage for my minestrone. There is nobody because they always speak about the Boboli gardens.Â
A woman walks into a clothes shop. Items are classified by colour patterns instead of seasons. There are no seasons anymore anyways. She stops in front of the long mirror, her hands slide along her hips, her eyes wander across the room in reflection. She watches being watched.
The light is at its most playful on Ponte a Santa Trinita. A crushed landscape on one side with houses and the Ponte Vecchio, the horizon opens with the Parco delle Cascine at the other end. In Florence, street numbers gravitate around the Arno River: even numbers are closer to the water, and the numbering of the buildings follows the stream of the water. If the street is parallel to the river Arno, then numbers start from the source; if perpendicular, the numbering starts from the riverbank.Â
January has been shadowed by a stubborn habit of eating weekday lunches in front of my laptop (omelettes with chard or artichokes), so Ludo goes to the bar around the corner to pick-up a parcel for me. He comes back enchanted at the story of the man behind the counter who sings everything he says. I love receiving posts and I make sure to go the next time – ‘Margaux, Margaux Margaux’. His coffee is good too. Â
I’d like to say that the Uffizi from 15:30 on Sundays is the way to go (don’t quote me, visiting museums is an intimate affair). The Accademia, my favourite, suits an early morning. The red painting in the Sala di Giotto makes me miss the red of the old lipstick I packed away with my stuff in London. I walk into Kiko, pay, and the woman behind the till gives me an encouraging smile when I stop in front of the mirror to apply my new lipstick. First touch of makeup this year, I like it. Â
Red fagiolata, red minestrone, artichokes and cicoria in umido:
With the first Sunday of the month, comes the antique market on Santo Spirito. Barbour jackets hang and vintage fur coats smell like long-cut hay. It’s been raining often. At the back, the remarkable shape of the church oversees the show and people sit on the stairs at its knees, generations mix. The organic market takes place two weeks later. The silverware stall is part of the daily market, yet it moves around the square to keep me on my toes – I nod at the horseshoes for a bit of luck when I walk past it. At the centre of the piazza, a fountain where dog owners meet and scroll through their phones first thing in the morning and last in the evening. Workers, tourists dressed in fleece jackets, eat sandwiches at lunchtime. Il Pop Café, always beating. I stop for an amaro at Caffè Ricchi, where I can have a chat with the man who has kind eyes and is hard of hearing. Our pace is gentle, which accommodates my shy Italian, and I’m grateful.
Il Vinaio di San Frediano, Vernaccia di San Gimignano, for an aperitivo on the pavement. Al Tranvai for any meals – I’d recommend the fagioli e gamberi to start; any of the primi, they change regularly; for secondo, their baccalà tingles my tongue like no other dish does (I find saltiness tricky). A game of table soccer at the pub next to the Piazza del Carmine, then I’m heading for a dance at the bar in San Frediano I can never remember the name of. The next day, a glossy pasta:
taglioliniÂ
courgettes, grated
onion, thinly sliced
cayenne pepper
egg, beaten
olive oil
parmesan cheese, grated
In a pot, bring water to the boil.
In the meantime, in a separate pan, heat some olive oil with the onion and cayenne pepper. Fry until golden, throw the grated courgettes and reduce the heat. Let them sweat.
Cook the pasta following the package instructions. Beat the egg and grated parmesan together in a bowl with the help of a fork.
Turn off the gas from the vegetables and mix the cooked pasta inside. Pour in the egg preparation and mix while the pasta is still warm (this way the egg will cook without scrambling).
On via di Camaldoli, L’ornitorinco bookshop and bar. I go on my own to browse and I settle on the duck blue velvet sofa to read, a beautiful Golden Retriever dog sits still; a few days later, I return to share drinks and discuss books.  Â
Soup soups soups. I’m in my cannellini beans era and this is new, so allow me one earnest tip: in a bowl, smash the beans with the water from the can into a purée (I like to preserve a few of them whole too), and pour the paste into the soup. Simmer. I’m not sure how much this process changes the taste, but the texture is dreamy.
I’ll walk out of the door and turn left on via Romana, at which point the pavement narrows down. My suitcase will be heavier than three months ago with notebooks and books, film photos and postcards, a new pair of trousers and three plates I bought on a whim one Saturday when I craved a home. I thought owning a piece of a future kitchen would fix it. It didn’t and I’m (re-)learning that ownership rarely does. I’ll curse at the weight of the suitcase, the wheels bumping against the cobblestones, and I’ll cross over the river Arno yet another time. Santa Maria Novella, a train, I’ll leave and I’m hopeful for a gentle nod with a stranger along the way.
Margaux