Art and anticipation: last day in Florence
The afternoon light is streaming through the window of my little apartment, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. It's been four days in Florence, and I'm feeling that familiar itch again. I've spent the morning packing my bags, organizing my receipts, and backing up photos - all those little rituals that mark the transition from one place to the next.
I woke up early today, determined to make the most of my final hours in Florence. The Boboli Gardens were high on my list, but the weather forecast showing thunderstorms later tonight made me reconsider. Instead, I decided on one last wander through the city center, crossing the iconic Ponte Vecchio that I'd somehow not properly explored yet.
I arrived at the bridge just as the jewelry shops were opening their shutters at 9:00. Standing in the middle of this medieval structure, watching the Arno River flow beneath, I felt a moment of quiet gratitude. The bridge was already filling with tourists, but there was still space to breathe, to observe. A young couple was having their photo taken, an older man was setting up his watercolor easel, and shopkeepers were arranging displays of gold and silver.
"These shops have been here since the 16th century," said a voice beside me. I turned to find a white-haired man in a well-worn tweed jacket. "Well, not these exact shops, but goldsmiths have been on this bridge for centuries."
He introduced himself as Marco, a retired history professor who'd spent his life studying Renaissance Florence. When I mentioned I'd visited the small Kopač exhibition yesterday, his eyes lit up.
"Slavko Kopač? I knew him in Paris, many years ago!"
I couldn't believe the coincidence. We found a small café near the end of the bridge and spent an hour in conversation. Marco shared stories about Kopač's studio, his dedication to authentic expression, and the artistic circles of post-war Paris. It felt like one of those magical travel moments that can't be planned - a random encounter that somehow ties together loose threads.
After saying goodbye to Marco, I continued my wandering, stopping at that same quiet bakery I discovered on my first day. The grandfather was still teaching his grandson how to shape the dough, and they recognized me with a nod and a smile. I bought a small loaf of olive bread for my journey tomorrow.
As I write this, it's 5:00 PM, and I'm looking at the weather app showing those thunderstorms rolling in tonight. The yellow warning for thunderstorms starts at 7:00 PM, with wind warnings following tomorrow. I'm glad my train to Rome leaves early enough to avoid the worst of it.
I've spent four days in Florence, seen Botticelli's masterpieces at the Uffizi, climbed the 463 steps to the top of the Duomo, stood in awe before Michelangelo's David, and discovered unexpected art in hidden corners. But it's the unplanned moments I'll remember most: the conversation with Marco today, the quiet bakery with the grandfather and grandson, the barista who commented on Norwegians drinking more coffee than Italians.
Tomorrow I'll be on my way to Rome. I've booked a small guesthouse near the Colosseum for the next five days. Part of me wonders if I'm moving too quickly, if I should stay longer in these places. But after 85 days on the road, I've learned to trust that feeling when it says it's time to move on.
The clouds are gathering outside my window now. Time to finish packing, find a local trattoria for a final Florentine meal, and get to bed early. Rome awaits.
415 days to go. The journey continues.