In Diana Athill's 'Florence Diaries' over a third of the (admittedly slim) journal details her painstaking journey by trains across the continent.The triumph of arrival and glamour of the destination is enhanced by the pilgrimage. The immediacy of flying leaves one hurled into the surroundings. Whereas, the gentle submersion that 1940s travellers must have experienced, as they travelled through post war Italian countryside, which judging from the pervading sense of decay has changed very little since. It must have allowed them to prepare for the assault on the senses. I am very conscious that every cobbled inch of Florence is dripping with ink from awestruck travellers! No sooner had the 15:23 double decker train pulled into Santa Maria Novella stazione one is left grasping for cliches, leaning on hyperboles for support pleased to stumble over any stereotype that might seem vaguely Italian.
You can imagine my delight in being held up by the interminable road besides the flat to see a flying corps of Italian Vespa cyclists leaving a Versuvian cloud of ash. However, as you walk further and further into the heart of the city you realise that the 'authentic Italian' from the designer sunglasses to the immaculate healed shoe has been exported the world over. They are easily ridiculed but a Chinese tourist party provides the best example of how an Italian 'should' look in the whole of Italy.
As we wandered over the city in the first few days we two insidious sentiments argue amongst each other- a weird sense of familiarity but also a wistful sadness that you could live here for decades and never penetrate all the secrets of Florence.
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