Back in Florence: a morning of arrivals and quiet reflections

It's strange to be back in Florence. Just a few days ago, I left this Renaissance city for medieval Siena, and now I find myself returned, standing once again beneath the towering Duomo as morning light plays across its marble façade.

The bus from Siena arrived at 10:15, right on schedule. I had checked out of my Siena accommodation by 9:30, leaving myself plenty of time to reach the bus station without rushing. The journey itself was pleasant—rolling Tuscan hills under a partly cloudy sky, the landscape a patchwork of autumn colors. I spent most of the ride lost in thought, mentally cataloging the memories of Siena I wanted to preserve: Paolo's weathered hands crafting leather, the rain-slicked cobblestones of Piazza del Campo at dawn, the striped magnificence of the cathedral.

Now I'm sitting at a small café near Santa Maria Novella station, a cappuccino cooling beside my laptop. The weather is mild for mid-November—13°C with intermittent clouds passing overhead. According to the forecast, we'll see more clouds rolling in this afternoon, but for now, the morning has a gentle clarity to it.

The rhythms of return

There's something peculiar about returning to a city you've barely begun to know. Florence feels simultaneously familiar and foreign. I recognize landmarks and street corners, but the city hasn't yet revealed its deeper character to me. It's like meeting an acquaintance for a second time—the initial introduction is past, but the real knowing lies ahead.

My previous visit to Florence was brief and somewhat hurried. This time, I'm determined to approach it differently. Siena taught me the value of slow observation, of sitting still long enough to feel a city's pulse beneath the tourist veneer.

I've booked a small apartment for the next four days, not far from the Arno River. After checking in and dropping off my backpack, I plan to visit the Accademia Gallery to see Michelangelo's David—a sight I missed during my previous stay. The Uffizi Gallery is also high on my list; Botticelli's Birth of Venus has been calling to me since I first learned of it in an art history book as a teenager.

Morning observations

Even in these first moments back, I'm noticing things I overlooked before. The way Florentines move through their city—purposeful but unhurried. The smell of fresh bread from tiny bakeries tucked between high-end boutiques. The sound of church bells marking the quarter-hour.

At the next table, an elderly man reads a newspaper, occasionally glancing up to watch passersby. His espresso cup is empty, but he shows no sign of leaving. Perhaps he comes here every morning, occupying this same chair, observing the ebb and flow of tourists against the constant backdrop of local life.

I wonder what he thinks of travelers like me, temporary visitors trying to absorb as much of his city as we can in a handful of days. Does he find us amusing? Irritating? Or are we simply part of the landscape, like the pigeons that gather in the piazzas?

Thoughts on time

It struck me this morning that I'm now 84 days into my journey. Almost one-fifth of my sabbatical has passed. Sometimes it feels like I've been traveling forever; other times, like I've barely begun. With 416 days still ahead, there's so much world to see, so many experiences waiting.

I find myself thinking about time differently these days. Back home, working at the hospital, days had a predictable rhythm—meetings, troubleshooting, lunch breaks, more meetings. Here, each day unfolds according to its own logic. Some days stretch languidly, filled with quiet moments of discovery. Others rush by in a blur of activity and new impressions.

This morning feels like the former—a gentle unfolding, a day that invites contemplation rather than conquest.

Plans for today

After finishing my coffee, I'll head to my apartment to check in. The host said I could drop off my luggage any time after 10:00, though the official check-in isn't until 14:00. Once unburdened, I plan to wander toward the Duomo, perhaps climb to the top if the lines aren't too long. The forecast suggests clouds moving in later, so morning might be best for views across the city.

Later, I hope to find that small bakery I stumbled upon during my last visit—the one where the owner was teaching his grandson to shape bread dough. Such moments of everyday life often mean more to me than grand monuments.

For now, though, I'm content to sit a while longer, watching Florence wake up around me, feeling the subtle shift from visitor to temporary resident. Eighty-four days in, I'm learning that the journey isn't just about moving from place to place, but about being fully present wherever I am.

The cappuccino is finished. Time to begin again in Florence.

!Morning light on the Duomo, Florence Morning light softens the marble facade of Florence's cathedral