From the beautiful quiet streets of Lucca to the frenetic and slightly mad cradle of the Renaissance, exquisite Firenze. The greatest change I noticed since last being here was in the leather markets. Almost no Italians; African, the Caribbean and Albanian men, selling mainly reasonable looking fakes. Only a handful of stalls with the official Firenze sign put out as authorised genuine.
Had dinner in my favourite restaurant in Florence. The very charming waiter remembered me and asked after my beautiful daughter. The fungi strudel really is worth flying around the world for.
As always, millions of tourists, millions of tall men driving you mad with everything from ‘genuine’ Prada handbags to spinning tops that light up and fly through the Florentine darkness. The whole spectacle of gathering up their wares and running around the corner when the politzi drive down cobbled streets, and setting up two minutes later, I am sure is done for the tourists.
Millions of gorgeous young Japanese girls, nuns in full habit, puffing English people in their straw hats, loud Americans, gorgeous shops, cobbled streets, exquisitely dressed young men in full uniform, with Renaissance small, gold daggers on their hips, what looks like priceless art drawn with chalk on the streets; all watched over by the spectacular duomo and the statues of the piazza.
Sleeping under the stars 