A Florence by Any Name or Region

I grew up, for most of my adolescent and teenage years, in a small town called Florence, NJ. Known for breeding incredible football, basketball and baseball athletes – at least at the high school level. However, it wasn’t exactly a center of excitement off the athletic field. There’s a Main Street, a couple of taverns, Rocco’s pizza, a small Wawa, a brand new boat ramp to the Delaware River, a pretty park by the river, and I’m told a new high school now. It’s small town New Jersey – suburban and happy to stay within its borders. Borders that were always a little too suffocating for me.

From early on I knew there would be no way that I would be a townie. I didn’t have three generations who lived there, none of my family had ever worked in the Roebling Steel Mill (the blue-collar litmus test for being a true townie), my brother went to Catholic school 30 miles away, my parents both worked in corporations and they did strange things like biking, hiking, driving all the way to Cape Cod for summer vacations and even going to Europe. All of this was different from my friend’s families. I dreamt from an early age of getting somewhere where I didn’t know everyone since I was in kindergarten.

My senior year something amazing happened. They opened the doors to Florence High School to its first real influx of international exchange students. I don’t know if they continue the program still, I hope they do, but this decision brought one of my closest friends into my life, Katharina.

Katharina was different. She didn’t care if she blended with the townies. She knew she never would. This was liberating for me. We did different things… actually left town. Did beach runs. Went to Princeton and New York City. Talked about what our lives were going to be like when we were out of that town. Sang and laughed and basically laid the foundation for a lifelong friendship. After graduation, I knew that she would go back to the big city, Frankfurt, Germany, eventually to attend law school. I knew I was heading to college where I could be anonymous amongst the 42,000 enrolled students at Rutgers University. We committed to being friends forever, but knowing how many of those promises fall by the wayside when growing up, I don’t think anyone thought we would actually do it.

There’s a great song by Sade called, Maureen, and every time I hear it, it reminds me of Katharina. “You were a souped-up car in that rent a go-cart town, and I miss you, Maureen.” And I did miss her when she was gone.

That was 20 years ago, we figured out while out to dinner two nights before her wedding in Amalfi, Italy. She was the reason why I planned the trip to Italy in the first place. Her marriage to Stephan, THE ONE (she told me early on), gave me the perfect reason.

Over the years we had stayed in touch, closer at times and more distant at others, but always finding our way back to each other. Meeting up again like we had talked yesterday about our careers, relationships, the updates from Florence, reminders of the songs we used to sing while driving to the Shore.

I visited her in Paris while she was in school there for a year. I visited her in Boston during her law internship. She arranged to be part of the exchange program at her law firm which led her to be in New York City for three months – the best three months I had had in years… boy did I miss her when she left then. And now through the advent of email, instant messaging, cell phones and salaries that allow us to travel easier – we continue our friendship closer than ever.

I told her when I got to Italy that I would have to take a detour on my way to Amalfi to stop in Florence. The real Florence – technically Firenze. She jokingly told me that it was going to look a little different than the one that I came from – the Rocco’s pizza would be different. She was the first person I called when I arrived to the ringing of the bells at the Duomo.

So I got off the train after winding my way through the hills of Tuscany and dragged my 1,000 lb luggage (notice it gets heavier as the trip continues) into the middle of Florence. I had seen pictures of Florence’s terra cotta roofs, the Duomo, the Campanile. I knew it would be different. Here was a Florence I could live in.

Now, most travel writers have chronicled the beauty of Florence for centuries. I will not be able to improve on their prose, but suffice it to say that Mark Twain was right when he wrote, “Lump the whole thing! Say that the Creator made Italy from designs by Michelangelo!” I will add the footnote, “Especially Florence!” It is a beautiful city and under the perfect blue skies of Tuscany you can see where Michelangelo (a Florence native) found his inspiration for the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Florence is a thoroughly walkable city and you can’t really get too lost if you use the Duomo as your homing beacon, which was also only a half block from my hotel. And given the picture perfect days that I had while there, I could not bring myself to duck inside out of the bright sunshine to view the priceless artistic treasures of the Uffizi, or any of the many museums. Even Michelangelo's David paled when compared to that blue sky. Why go inside when God was putting on an incredible display of light and beauty on the walls of the city’s churches and buildings? Crimson, terra cotta, gold – the warmest colors heightened to be almost too vibrant by the angles of the sun. Morning brought cooler light cutting through the mist from the Arno River – casting it in ethereal light. But dusk is magic time in Florence. Like God created the sun only to light Florence. The Ponte Vecchio glowed like a sunset against the blue waters of the Arno. The hills in the distance warmed to the sun’s embrace before letting it go for the day.

On my first night in Florence, I sat in an outdoor seating area of an English pub called J.J. Cathedral that is in the square anchored by the Duomo. It seems to be a gathering spot for ex-pats as well as locals. While there I met people from Ireland, other parts of Italy, Australia, New Zealand and Texas (the rowdiest of the bunch). The most fascinating conversation was one I had with three guys from Florence. I complimented them on the beauty of their city. The response was a wistful reply of, “It’s ok, but it’s too small. I think New York City is much better.” I nearly spit out my beer I was laughing so hard. How many times had I said that phrase about my Florence? They looked at me like I was nuts until I said, “If you want to see a small Florence, visit my hometown in New Jersey.” After explaining about my non-cosmopolitan roots, they understood my reaction better, but after trying to convince me that this Florence was still too small, we agreed to disagree and ordered another round.

Thinking back on that conversation later, I thought, maybe everyone’s hometown is still too small for them. Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Otherwise the explorers would have stayed home and new worlds would have never been discovered. So a “Florence” in any location, is still where you come from and where you want to get the hell out of as soon as possible.