Florence is the kind of city that makes you feel uncultured and deeply cultured at the same time. Every corner is a masterpiece, every piazza a stage. For someone who grew up surrounded by the intricate carvings of Indian temples, the Renaissance felt less foreign and more like a conversation across centuries.
I arrived in April, when the Tuscan hills were turning impossibly green and the wisteria was dripping from every wall. Five days. Not enough, but just enough to fall in love.
The Duomo at Dawn
Everyone photographs the Duomo, but few wake up early enough to see it without the crowds. At 6:30am, the marble glows in a light that Brunelleschi himself must have designed the dome to catch. I stood there with a cornetto and a cappuccino and understood, for the first time, why people move here and never leave.
Oltrarno & the Artisans
Cross the Ponte Vecchio and you enter Oltrarno — the "other side of the Arno" — where Florence is less museum and more neighbourhood. Here, leather workshops still operate the way they have for generations, and trattorias serve ribollita that tastes like someone's grandmother made it, because someone's grandmother probably did.
The Gelato Situation
I need to be honest: Florentine gelato has ruined me. Specifically, the pistachio at Vivoli. Every gelato I've had since is just a pale imitation. This is not a review — it's a warning.
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