by Sara Downing
Hang on a minute, what am I doing thinking about men? I surprise myself at how soon after a broken relationship I find myself ogling these three. (I’m not really ogling, am I? More like just appreciating the scenery.) But then they are a huge cut above most of the men one comes across in the UK. Not wishing to put our dear old pale English chaps down at all, but the chances of being in a room with three UK blokes, and even one of them equalling these Italian gods in looks and style, has to be highly improbable. And here I am, merely hours after setting foot in this place, surrounded by wall-to-wall Italian male totty. How can a girl complain about that? I must have died and gone to tall-dark-and-handsome heaven…..
I’d managed to put Ed and all the emotional baggage surrounding him out of my head during the journey down here, probably because I’d had too much physical baggage to contend with. There hadn’t been a lot of time for contemplation, which was probably just as well. And I can see there are going to be plenty of distractions here too; that all has to be cathartic doesn’t it?
Ed and I had been together for the entire first two years we’d spent at uni. We’d been one of those sickeningly loved-up couples who hook up in Freshers’ Week and are glued at the hip forever after. Only our forever after had been cut dramatically short when I’d found him in my bed with my housemate, Jules. He’d promptly become my ex-boyfriend, and she my ex-friend. Fortunately we’d all been due to head home for the summer a week or two later, so I won’t have to face either of them ever again – and by the time I return home from Florence to complete my final year they will both have finished their degrees and be long since gone. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Ed and I had talked about the future, marriage, mortgage, babies, all that sort of stuff, and I’d just assumed, naively it would now seem, that I’d found ‘the one’. I thought we’d just drift from uni to fantastic careers, followed a few years down the line by domestic bliss in a home of our own. How stupid I’d been. Apparently he and Jules had been at it for half of our second year. Why hadn’t he just done the honourable thing and finished with me if she was the one he wanted to be with? But no, he’d decided to keep me hanging on too, to cover his options, no doubt, in case Jules blew him out. Bastard. And there she was, fully aware of his relationship with me, AND pretending to be my friend, whilst they were both making a complete fool of me behind my back. I’d had the last laugh, though, if you can call it that – I hadn’t felt much like laughing – when Jules had promptly dumped him as well, before they’d left for the summer. Served him bloody right.
The summer at home with my parents hadn’t done much to ease the pain of deception. I’d drifted from job to job in an attempt to distract myself as well as to save a bit of cash towards coming out here, but the diversion hadn’t worked and I’d felt like I needed a complete change of scene to really thoroughly erase all thoughts of Ed (and the treacherous Jules) from my mind. Well it looks like the local eye-candy might be able to help with that. Of course I’m not so shallow as to think that a quick fling with a gorgeous Italian will completely cleanse my broken heart of all the torment it has been through over recent months, but it has to be a tonic, doesn’t it?
Even if I’m never lucky enough to hook up with one of these gods, then looking at them alone is enough to give a girl’s spirits a huge lift, from a purely aesthetic, study-of-the-male-species perspective. I’m here to appreciate the arts, after all, so why shouldn’t I start with the inspiration for much of it – the male form? It certainly puts a smile on a girl’s face, and it’s wearing said smile that I boldly venture forth to be introduced to them all.
‘Ecco l’inglese!’ one of these extras from a Dolce & Gabbana ad exclaims. And it doesn’t sound in the least pejorative, in the way that we English can sound when referring to another person by their nationality. No, he is clearly eager to meet me, whoever he is, and now that all eyes, both male and female are on me, I feel myself blush, which can’t do anything but emphasise my blotchy English Rose complexion, compared to my Italian counterparts’ smoothly glowing ones. Let’s just hope some of the men in this country have a penchant for paler skins.
I’m never great at the best of times at walking into a room full of strangers, but fortunately Leonora gets up to greet me and physically escorts me across the room to meet the others, who are all immediately on their feet and kissing me on both cheeks as though I am their long lost English cousin. Sophia, the other as yet un-met flatmate, envelops me in a huge hug. ‘Welcome to Florence,’ she says. ‘You are going to love this place, I know it. And we are going to be such friends!’ I needn’t have worried, they are all so lovely.
The three male models are introduced to me as Stefano, Dante and Lanzo. God, even their names are sexy. I just can’t imagine them being half as alluring if they were called Bob, Dave and Pete. I start to wonder whether two of them are romantically linked to my flatmates, and hope to goodness that the plan isn’t to set me up with the ‘spare’ this early on in my stay, so I immediately start watching for body language between any potential pair to see if I can deduce who ‘belongs’ to whom. There’s nothing obvious at this stage, no chemistry between any of them beyond the usual Italian all-round effervescence, so I just hope they are simply a bunch of friends who are being generous enough to include me immediately in their inner sanctum. A large group of ready-made friends is just what I need right now; lots of lively conversation and nights out and plenty of people to show me the sights, with no strings attached.
‘Allora, la bella signorina inglese,’ Lanzo begins, shuffling up on one of the sofas and patting the gap where I’m now expected to squeeze in between him and Sophia. ‘You are to be ours for this year. That is truly wonderful. We are honoured to have you.’ Were he English, I would be thinking What a sleaze-bag, but he manages to carry off, with the utmost sincerity, what could otherwise be a highly flirtatious comment, without making me cringe in the slightest. ‘My friends and me, we will show you everything,’ and he gestures with both arms in a big sweeping movement, so presumably he means the city as opposed to the contents of their trousers. That’s a relief. ‘Firenze is a wonderful place, you will settle in very quickly, be sure of it, and you need never feel homesick or alone. Our friends will be your friends,’ he says, both hands moving to cup his heart.
I’m not used to such gushy friendliness – we Brits just don’t do the whole welcoming thing in quite the same way. I used to find groups of friends at uni quite cliquey and exclusive sometimes, and not very receptive to newcomers. But I’m quite glad he is so full-on, and as he’s another one who, once started, doesn’t quite know when to stop, thankfully I’m not called upon to say too much.
‘Thank you, you’re all very kind,’ is all I can manage, as I grin from ear to ear, feeling relieved that I’ve landed where I have, and looking forward to the evening ahead.
Three
Three hours and four – or is it five, maybe? – bottles of prosecco later, (who knows, the waiter hasn’t left the empties lying around to be counted) and I feel as though I have been in this city for ever. I haven’t even slept here yet, unless you count those few zzzz’s I managed to grab on my gorgeous four-poster earlier, and already Florence is my new spiritual home. It’s not even as though I’ve seen many of the sights, because I haven’t, although it is pretty lively here in the Piazza della Signoria, and there have been plenty of ‘sights’ passing by to keep us entertained. Not generally of the cultural variety though.
I have a feeling of total contentment, and I’m fairly sure it’s not entirely down to the relaxing effects of alcohol. There’s just something about the atmosphere of this place that has already hooked me in and is making me feel as if I’ve lived here longer, almost a sensation that I might have been here before, a very strong déjà vu effect. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve read so much about Florence, and I had pretty much committed the map of the city centre to memory. So now as I see these churches, monuments and piazzas leap off the page and become real, they are more
than just buildings to me, there are the essence of the place.
Leonora, Sophia and the boys (no, they’re not boys, they are definitely men) had insisted I go with them into the centro for the evening, and that was fine by me. I hadn’t taken much persuading, and they’d waited patiently for me to have a quick shower, smarten myself up a bit and unpack something a little more glamorous to wear. Fortunately my clothes seemed to have survived the journey OK. One thing I have always been good at is packing, which is probably just as well as I always seem to travel with so much stuff in tow. My Mum taught me years ago about the virtues of packing with tissue paper, and my suitcases bear testament to her painstaking way of folding, wrapping, tucking and stacking, to ensure that everything arrives looking as though it has been freshly plucked from the wardrobe, instead of having been ferried half way across Europe. Given my glamorous companions’ easy style and grace, I am eternally grateful to her that I can instantly find something suitable, and un-creased, to wear at a moment’s notice.
The gang, for want of a better word to call my new friends, had planned to spend aperitif hour (which is usually about three hours long, according to them) in this bar in the piazza, then move off to a club later in the evening, should the fancy take them. Despite a level of fatigue which has left me feeling quite hollowed out and not-of-this-world, I couldn’t say no – they are my entry point into the Italian way of life and I’d have been a fool to turn them down for a spot of tiredness. I felt sure I’d pick up as the evening wore on, and I seem to be doing just that.
So here we are still, sprawled over a couple of pushed-together tables in front of the Café d’Epoca, a somewhat more glamorous establishment than your average café, to the north of the square. Aperitif hour is long since over, but we have stayed, all far too comfortable with the location, the incredibly balmy evening and the relaxed company to be bothered moving on to somewhere more lively. It’s pretty lively here, in any case, and the clientele largely young and trendy and quite clearly fairly affluent. Waiters buzz around us, clad in the traditional black uniform with white aprons tied around their waists, trays raised high on pointed fingers as they scoot by with their neat bottoms between the tightly-packed tables.
I am glad of this slight change of plan; I certainly don’t have my dancing head on tonight. I’m not sure my addled brain could keep pace with club-land noise either; for the time being I need to be able to hear what my companions are saying if I’m to stand any chance of keeping up with the conversation. I know my Italian lip-reading skills wouldn’t hold up amidst blaring music. At the moment they all communicate with me in a mix of Italian and English, which is great, but I’d love for them to feel quite soon that they don’t need to explain things to me in my own language. I want to integrate here, be one of them, learn the language properly, and having this ready made group of friends thrust upon me has to be the best way possible to blend into the Italian lifestyle.
‘So, Lydia, have you left a trail of broken-hearted men back at home?’ Lanzo asks, cheekily I think, seeing as I hardly know him and don’t really feel I’m at the sharing confidences stage of our friendship just yet. Or maybe I’m just taken aback because he’s hit on a bit of a raw nerve and so far today Ed has barely popped into my head at all. But now he’s there again, damn him. I struggle to think how best to answer Lanzo’s question.
‘Well, I did leave someone behind,’ I start, falteringly, ‘but he won’t be missing me. In fact it was all over before the summer. We’d been together for a long time but it turned out I wasn’t quite what he wanted.’ I hope the vagueness of my reply will be enough to satisfy his curiosity and avoid further questioning.
‘La poverina bella Lydia,’ he replies, looking genuinely sorry for me, and he pats me gently on the hand. There are no fireworks as he does that, I’m glad to note, and he doesn’t give the impression that he is checking for sparks either. Although these men are all so lovely, and gorgeous to boot, the last thing I need right now is for one of them to think he has a chance with me. Not for the moment, anyway. Male attention is all very nice, and most definitely a big morale-boost, but I certainly don’t want it to be at a level which is anywhere beyond just friendship.
‘Allora, what are you going to get up to whilst you’re here?’ he goes on. For my own state of mind and composure I have to assume he’s referring to my day to day life, and not my love life, so I start to regale him with my plans on the art front and what I want to study and get involved in. He listens with interest, so clearly I have been barking up the right tree, and not failing to interpret any ‘signals’ he might have been intending to send out.
‘…….and I’m supposed to do lots of research for my dissertation – shouldn’t be too tricky with all this on hand, should it? And then the plan is that I head back to the UK with that all done and my final year should be a doddle!’ He looks a bit confused at my last word. Proper, long dictionary words like ‘dissertation’ are clearly no problem for him, but throw something dodgy from the vernacular such as ‘doddle’ and he’s lost, poor chap. I set out to explain the meaning of it and he laughs, begging me to teach him a few more slang words. I love how the idiosyncrasies of our complex and bizarre language are always a source of fascination and amusement to foreigners. He flashes a winning smile at me but it’s a friendly one and not overly flirtatious, which is a relief.
There is a wail of sirens and screech of brakes as two polizia cars appear from nowhere and pull to a sudden halt just in front of the café. Two armed policemen jump from the first car and run off into the bar a couple of doors down. Whilst I follow the events with open-mouthed amazement, the others seem completely unfazed by the whole thing, and barely glance in the direction of all the excitement. Sophia explains to me that it’s just the way they do things here. Chances are there probably hasn’t been a murder or an armed robbery, it’s just the Italian police force’s way of dramatically over-reacting to some small crime such as petty theft or a disgruntled customer causing trouble in a restaurant. Can’t say I’d want to be on the receiving end of it, even though I have to admit they do look pretty fetching in those uniforms. It seems I have a lot to learn about the way things are done over here, the sort of stuff the books don’t tell you. Good job I have my new friends.
Four
Sunday morning finds me dozing lazily in my gorgeous bed, reluctant to stir, in case reality kicks in and this fabulous place turns out to be a dream. I can’t believe this bed is all just for me, I ponder as I stretch out like a starfish in the middle of it. It’s practically the size of a tennis court, and sleeping under these drapes makes me feel like the heroine of a period film. By rights I should be woken up by a maid in a mobcap, tiptoeing in to open the blinds, presenting me with my breakfast on a tray and calling me ‘ma’am’. But then I’m not really dressed for that – I don’t think my Tatty Teddy shorts-and-cami PJ’s would pass muster as the cameras started to roll.
I am quite excited about tomorrow morning – heading off to the University for the first time to meet my tutor and find out what they have in store for me. Although I do actually know that I will be pretty much left to my own devices this year, which is great. All those fabulous resources on hand, experts to consult if I need to, plus the added bonus of being completely surrounded by the art itself. What better place could there be to study, paint, and just generally immerse myself in the culture? I can’t wait to get stuck into it.
Apparently I’m supposed to attend two tutor groups each week, mainly to touch base and make sure everything is going OK, then there are optional lectures and classes I can sign up for if I want to. Of course I want to – what’s the point of being here if I don’t seize the opportunities coming my way? I’m going to grab them all with both hands and wring every ounce of benefit from them, educational and otherwise.
As for today, Sophia has offered to take me to the Uffizi Gallery and show me round. I’ve done the online virtual tour, but I can’t see how the on-screen version can possibly do justice
to the reality of actually being there. I am in awe of it. The place sounds like heaven, room after room of Italy’s artistic heritage, paintings and sculptures all there for public consumption, thanks largely to the Medicis and the other wealthy Florentines over the centuries who had the means and the passion to collect these fine things and make them available for the masses. And all that amidst the backdrop of the building itself, the corridors, the archways, the views across the Arno, the architectural splendour of everything. I can’t wait.
Voices in the kitchen and a heavenly aroma drag me from the final dregs of sleep. I manage to pull myself out of my cosy pit as if led by the nose like a sniffer-dog, in search of the coffee my sense of smell has already detected. Its redolence is almost tangible, and attacks all my senses in the nicest possible way, giving me a wake-up kick before even a single drop has passed my lips. Nobody does instant coffee here, which is a blessed relief after two years of stolid student-made coffee of the cheapest, nastiest sort. We always made sure we had the proper stuff in our house, but there was no accounting for what you could be given to drink at friends’ places. Maxwell House has a lot to answer for and should be put on trial for crimes to the taste buds.
Sophia and Leonora are gassing away at full throttle at the kitchen table as though they have been awake for hours, which I’m sure they haven’t, given the lateness of the hour we all got home last night. They look as gorgeous this morning as they did last night, even without the make-up, and as a contrast I consider my tangled and almost vertical hair, baggy eyes and blotchy skin as I catch sight of myself in the shiny fridge door. Leonora hands me a coffee without asking if I’d like one, and it disappears without touching the sides, despite its strength.
