Twilight quickly faded to a clear, dark night as Danny smoked his cigarette and I sipped on a deliciously strong whiskey sour from a martini glass (I must have looked like a martini glass kind of person, even though a short tumbler would have been fine with me). Fiesole has already managed to charm me, providing plenty of people watching, drinks, and conversazione. Lovey-dovey couples and groups of well-dressed gentlemen sit at tables outside on the patio, enjoying the cool night breeze afforded by being this high above the valley.
Fiesole. I had missed the chance to see the town on my first day in Florence, as I was too enchanted by the bustle and beauty of the city to want to leave it so soon. I saw Fiesole from the banks of the Arno almost every day, a blurry haze on the upper rim of the valley—the ‘Beverly Hills of Florence’. Go figure an ancient Etruscan village would become a retreat for the wealthy, where their country villas and estates would be situated with unbelievable views of Firenze and the surrounding hills.
We finish our drinks, say goodbye to a friend of Danny’s, and meander along the street. The area is spacious and open; a stark contrast to the narrow, crowded streets of Florence. Danny and I are able to walk side by side without a Florentine or group of tourists getting in the way. Store windows are brightly lit, enticing shoppers to return in the morning to buy gorgeous dresses, pottery, and furniture. Expensive of course, much like Venice and Capri (I'll have to come back when I have a job.). We head directly for a steep incline, and I am thankful that I have been walking everywhere for over a month.
“You didn’t tell me we were going hiking tonight,” I joke.
“You didn’t ask,” Danny says. “It is worth it. Trust me.”
The ground levels out, and I take a few deep breaths—not nearly as strenuous as I had feared. To my left is a narrow, rectangular park. Through the trees I can barely see the benches with couples engaging in the typical Italian displays of public affection. Rather than interrupting, Danny and I follow the stone wall upward a little further. Sounds of laughter and clinking glasses spill into the night from a restaurant (with a menu that doesn’t follow my budgeting guidelines).
Danny reaches for my hand, bringing my attention to my left again.
“Oh,” I say. That is the best I can do.
All of Florence is below me, lit in shades of gold. The Arno glitters enticingly, flowing lazily under the bridges. The city, larger and louder than life when I am walking through it, looks tiny and still. Tranquil, even. The Duomo, ever the icon of Florence, is the size of my thumb.
“This is unbelievable,” I say, smiling. He knows it, of course. He’s been here before (a few times with girls, he admits), and knew I would like it. I send a little message of thanks up to God/the gods/karma for my good fortune tonight.
I sit down on the stone wall next to Danny. He lights another cigarette. He lets me look for a while in companionable silence. Then he rests his hand on my shoulder and points to the sky.
Shooting stars. Stelle cadenti.
****
