A Very Normal Sunday In Florence

Today started like any typical Sunday here in Florence. My body clock woke me up at the usual 4:58am so I closed my eyes and went back to sleep, it’s the weekend after all. 7am called for coffee and a few hours of reading whilst the rest of the building slept, until the familiar 8:30am chorus of alarm clocks began. One by one shutters opened and the building slowly woke up.

At the time, it felt like a perfectly ordinary Sunday. In hindsight, my stomach would later disagree.

The usual internal debate starts early: do I put makeup on and venture out of the apartment, or should I just stay home? Can I be bothered with people, crowds of tourists not knowing where they’re going, and general stupidity? Nothing out of the ordinary for the internal weekend monologue.

Mid-morning video call with my parents to see their faces and the daily catch up on what happened 10 hours ahead of me back in Australia. All pretty normal. Except this time when we hung up I experienced my first wave of homesickness and sadness in 6 months. I expected this to come much sooner, like the last time, but a week passed, then a month, two months and so on. Nothing.

Perhaps it’s hormones, I have cried during a lot of TV shows this week. Perhaps it’s the Mother’s Day post I came across on Instagram which spoke such powerful words of truth that it made me cry, again. Perhaps it’s just the overwhelming need for a hug from my Mum and Dad which I know won’t be possible until Christmas. Or perhaps it’s the feeling of spring coming, signalling new beginnings or a shedding of something I’ve been holding on to but don’t quite know what is yet that needs releasing.

After another hour of internal debate, I changed out of my pyjamas, slapped on some make up and took the train into town. By the time I got on the train it was too late to buy a ticket online so I spent the 5 minute ride thinking I’d be fined at the other end whilst secretly hoping if I was it would be a very handsome policeman waiting for me.

The train doors opened slowly and as I stepped onto the platform I was very pleased I’d dodged the exorbitant fine, but a little sad for the absence of a handsome policeman. I weaved my way through the streets, dodged the tourists, and made my way towards my restaurant of comfort – because food always cheers me up.

I enjoyed a Hugo spritz whilst I waited for a table, taking in the sounds of the piazza. The strong authoritative tone of the panino man yelling out ready orders, the coo of pigeons dive-bombing for crumbs, and the persistent beep of taxis approaching alerting the oblivious tourists of their presence. Half an hour of pleasant people watching later, my table was ready, and so was I.

There’s something about sitting alone in a restaurant that never feels lonely. Maybe it’s the noise and the fact that there’s always something happening which makes you feel part of the action even though you’re action adjacent. Life is happening around you whether you participate or not. Plus, I love the restaurant experience for practicing my Italian. Conversations with the waiter are light and easy to follow, and like a creep I listen to conversations of other patrons and Google Translate new words.

Despite my cushioned exterior suggesting otherwise, I find I can no longer manage two larger courses anymore so I usually opt for a pasta and dessert. Against my better judgement, today I chose an antipasto and primi (pasta course). Antipasto was black angus carpaccio with burrata, shaved truffle and radicchio. For the primi I chose potato stuffed ravioli with ragù and washed it down with a glass of chianti. With an espresso to finish I was stuffed like a Christmas turkey and in desperate need to walk off the overindulgence.

Waddling my way back through the streets towards the stop to take the bus home I was quickly regretting my food consumption and that renewing spring sun belting down. At first it was just that familiar post-pasta heaviness. The kind where you question your life choices but still maintain you’d make the exact same ones again tomorrow. Then my stomach gave a small warning signal. Not dramatic, just a polite internal memo suggesting that perhaps the combination I’d consumed might have been slightly ambitious for a Sunday afternoon.

I increased my walking pace.

Another warning. Stronger this time.

Right. Message received.

By the time I reached the bus stop I realised two important things. First, the bus was not due for another thirty minutes. Second, my stomach had officially begun negotiations with gravity and the outcome was not looking promising.

This left me with two options:

• Option one: begin the frantic search for a public bathroom in a city that seems to have perfected the art of almost having them but never quite where you need them.

• Option two: stay put, pray to every saint available, and hope I could survive the bus ride back to the safety and privacy of my four walls.

Neither inspired great confidence.

So there I stood in the sunshine, trying to look like a calm, normal human waiting for public transport while internally running what can only be described as a gastrointestinal emergency management simulation.

Every minute felt suspiciously long.

A woman approached me asking for directions to Sante Croce. A man followed asking for a euro for “panino”. And a group of tourists beside me were loudly debating which direction the Duomo was in despite it being approximately the size of a small planet and clearly visible over their shoulders.

So I made a deal with my digestive system. Listen, I thought. We both know what’s happening here, but if you can just hold it together for one bus ride, I promise we will go straight home and never speak of this again.

Finally, like a miracle delivered on four squeaky wheels, the bus appeared at the end of the street. I have never been so emotionally attached to public transport in my life. The ride home is only fifteen minutes which, in that moment, felt spiritually equivalent to participating in a pilgrimage to the holy land. Every stop felt unnecessary and every red light felt personal. Somehow, through determination, stubbornness, and what I can only assume was divine intervention, I made it back.

Front door closed behind me, shoes barely removed, dignity… mostly intact. And as I finally collapsed back inside the comfort of my little apartment, I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Homesickness, existential reflection, beautiful Florentine lunch… followed immediately by a near digestive catastrophe at a bus stop. I would very much like to be a graceful woman. Unfortunately, the reality of being me keeps getting in the way.

And as I take my rightful place back on my sofa, press play on the next episode of Bones on Netflix and prepare myself to cry again (this show is about solving crime, it is not a tear jerker, something is wrong with me), the homesickness feels a little better.

My stomach however is not.

And I have a slight headache.

Florence: beautiful, emotional, and occasionally a little hard on the digestive system.