A bike ride in Florence

A bull was loose in the hotel. At least one could have been, such noise did reverberate through our room, waking us. It’s not like we could sleep in anyway, with a bike tour to get to, but it was annoying all the same. “BANG! CRASH!! Oops, he just found the kitchen and there goes the crockery.”
Dressed and ready we went downstairs for a quick bite, where we just so happened to find the source of the noise. There was no bull. But it could easily have been the stage for World War III: the cook was doing his best to get out of cleaning the dishes by dropping them like bombs, hoping to level the mountain rather than climb it. The sounds of chairs dragging across the terracotta tiles; ballistic missiles roaring off.
Our bike tour started with a walk. A walk so long it could have been a tour in itself. The tour guide, Andrea, was an Aussie ex-pat and strengthening our numbers was her friend from Sydney. Her name, China. Her heritage, part British. What a global culture we are. But not the Italians. If we were going to cycle in their country it was going to be astride an Italian bicycle. The mighty Bianchi in striking orange. Built with passion, suspension forks and… what? Gears?! Alysia was instantly gripped with fear. And those levers on the handlebars?! Brakes? Holy shit! And no back-pedal brakes.
On a couple of occasions Alysia has recounted her one and only experience on a mountain bike. The story doesn’t end well. Pedal, pedal, pedal, hill, wee… back-pedal, what? No breaks? Panic. Jump off back of bike. Hit ground. Bike hit fence.
Alysia was one of the first to be sized up and sent out of the garage with the instruction to “go get aquainted”. It was probably a good thing that my bike was one of the last off the rack. By the time I emerged with some excitement Alysia had already had one big stack. Riding alongside with my words of encouragement seemed to help little. Here comes another corner. Oh yes, here’s the panic again, and BANG. Into a parked scooter. Thankfully the most shabby one in the line and it stayed upright. And it was only a small stack apparently, the one two minutes ago ended square on her arse. Did I hear right? This would be a 15km bike ride… right? We could be back here in five minutes.
Off into the inner streets of Florence we pedalled without any dramas. The streets, we were assured, were relatively empty with many locals on holiday. A little longer and we reached the Roman-period “city door”. We got off. And walked through a tree lined park up past the old Medici family stables (themselves massive, three-storey jobs) to what is now the institute of art. Mind you, if we were not told of its former life we would never had known. There’s a statue in the courtyard probably five metres high. It’s a shame the place is looking so shabby. Being “outside the city walls” it’s a little overlooked by the government as it is by visitors, I guess. Back down through the park we turned to face our first hill. No worries. With a low gear selected we set off. On and on a bit further, people pass us. A bit further, the proper English girl all dainty passes us too and then we reach the top. I wasn’t game to pant even a little. Yet I was a little smug that I did it in comparative ease to Alysia, who, at the gym, kicks my arse in the bicycle class. Finally, my pleas that the two are completely different, were heeded. We passed the high school, which used to be the summer palace of the Medici family (all of three kilometres from the Duomo) and around the corner… we’re in the country side. Stone walls line the roads and keep the greenery at bay. A substantial climb later and we arrived at Le Villa Piazzole, which has been in the same family since it was built during the renaissance, some 500 years ago. We checked to see the roses were healthy (and yes so were the vines) and entered the three-storey residence chewing on some tart Pinot grapes (yes, wine snobs we were in the making). Through the opulent foyer with its high ceiling we popped onto the rear landing to survey the rows of hedges and statues - recreated by the latest family member from some sketches that documented the garden - his aunt had let the place go quite a bit apparently. The statues were amusing, all characters from Comedia Dell’Arte, while the building façade was typical of the renaissance style, having larger windows than in medieval times affording the family more light. Quite a departure from medieval times when living hard, with low light, helped assure your afterlife. You can just hear the concierge now: “welcome to the renaisance, leave your flagellation tools at the door, come and enjoy yourself, with some wine, no need to sleep on the floor.” Symmetry was also big in the renaissance we’re told. Hence, if windows couldn’t be installed, they were painted on for posterity. Further to the trend, our guide had even been working on the owner to cut down one tree, to reveal the full extent to which symmetry was chased. Apparently the villa had been built in symmetry with another building on an adjacent hill. The truth hidden by that one tree. Alas, we walked back through the garden. And past an innocuous mill wheel (now a flower pot stand) and into the basement. Centre stage was a large dark dining table where the mill wheel used to live, we were informed. Donkeys used to pull it around to make the olive oil. The olives are still grown at the villa, even if they are pressed a few hundred metres up the road. Anyhow, it went pretty well on the bread, which was unsalted in the Florentine way. But more on that later. “Always pour the oil over the bread, never dip it,” we learnt. Dipping is an insult to the Florentines, especially since the 1985 frost which killed virtually every olive tree in the area. A broken bottle of oil is greater than any Greek tragedy too. It’s bad luck and people will delay their travel plans in such an event to stay in the relative safety of their home. The corks were pulled on the wines and our Aussie compatriat, like us, was getting twitchy to try it. But Andrea was determined to educate us well before it doth part our lips. We felt it smelt of pear, and a bit like green apple, applying our appreciation techniques. I liked the pinot-chardy blend. It was a pretty straightforward drop but good. The red found more friends, a san gevauais variety, with hints of blackberry and tobacco. And quite nice. “bring your glasses and we’ll look at the cellar,” Andrea beckoned. And what a treat it was. The “cellar” was the original foundation of a thousand-year-old Roman tower, in the bowels of which were a few of the villa’s own wines along with a few gifts from other wine makers. Alysia spotted one bottle dating back to 1964 ... Very impressive. The villa, then, was extra impressive, I guess at the 260 euro-a-night room fee. And one family had just held their wedding there. Love to know how much that was.
Beside our bikes back in the “car park” were some invaders in the form of four Fiat 500s. These vintage bug-like cars were even fitted with a picnic basket on the back - so small are their interiors I guess. At least they had interiors I guess, unlike our orange bicycles. Which one was mine? That’s right, 327, right where I had left it. Back aboard and up the next hill more of the lovely country side revealed itself, with lines of olive trees, in front of terracotta roofed houses. Further up the hill Andrea pointed out the convent in which Galileo’s daughters lived, and just a few hundred metres later, where Galileo himself lived, under house arrest. The Medici family, members of which he named the moons of Jupiter after, had extradited him there when the church wanted him killed - so explosive was his theory. How dare he contradict the church by telling people the earth was round?! Even while under house arrest Galileo continued to smuggle his theories out via his daughters. Cycling up the very last hill - Andrea promised - we grabbed some figs out of a huge old tree with a great view. I had only tried figs once before and must say, however, I was doing it wrong before. Because these were beautiful, just the seeds we ate, a great interlude to lunch. Down the hill and back past Galileo’s we found the restaurant and were quickly seated. The unsalted bread and ultra-local extra-virgin olive oil were waiting for us and, of course, the Chianti, which was lovely. The stuff has a dicey reputation back home, because it was all we could get for so long I guess, but this was great. It went down even better with the chicken liver and artichoke pates, and the salamis, and the proscuitto. Though these were appetisers, the waiter insisted everything was finished. Then came the ribbolina soup, a specialty of the Tuscan region. Besides tomatoes the core ingredient is bread - because the bread is unsalted it’s only fresh for a day and they have to use it somehow. I couldn’t complain. But for me the chickpea soup was better. Thankfully, because the waiter insisted we finish it all too. He was having a great old time talking to the Canadian couple (Italian descendants) recommending this and that. Still, whatever they were talking about, I’m sure it didn’t come close to China’s revelation her dad was branching out into paintings for mourning families - using the ashes of their beloved one. It’s so strange I could see it becoming the next big trend, of which China’s dad is sure too, no doubt. Yet, this wasn’t as troubling as the talk about wedding sizes. The engaged Canadian couple had recently been to an Italian wedding with 800 guests… and theirs was going to be 500 or some equally ridiculous number. The proper English girl and her Canadian partner, were also engaged and shooting for a similarly big number. If I needed proof I was in the company of the insane it was confirmed by the size of the rock on the finger of the girl from Connecticut. It’s a wonder she didn’t have a box trailer hitched to the mountain bike parked out the front just for it. She and him wondered how we could get three months off…hmm. Time to go. But we wouldn’t get out of there before a typically, syrupy-strong espresso. It tastes good enough but it’s as thick as a shot of tar. The rest of the Chianti helped wash it down of course - to not drink up would offend the house.
The group was well greased walking out of the restaurant then and how there were no accidents on the steep descents I do not know. Maybe it was ‘one last hill’ that sobered everyone enough to avoid drama - Andrea lied! In any case we found the lookout Alysia and I had spotted from town the day before. We had “10 minutes” to check out the church and its crypt. Alysia had warned me from the start I would be sick of churches by Italy but this was special in its own right. While smaller than the Duomo in the centre of Florence the detail was much greater - it just had more atmosphere. The crypt itself with its art-decorated ceiling was inspiring. Twenty minutes later, as we were dragged from the church toward the bikes, we were still taking photos and especially of the view. Just a shame it was so hazy. The run down the switch-backs to town was fun even if Alysia was a little scared. By the time we reached the city outskirts I was well in love with cycling again. I didn’t want to get off. Alysia was more grateful though to be back at the garage. By about 3pm we were both head down on the pillows at the hotel snoring.
About 6pm we stirred to get something light and cheap for dinner. Only it wasn’t so light and not so cheap. Good, cost effective food is hard to come by here. Like our Lonely Planet travel bible tells us; Florence is a devisive beast. It can enthral one with its beauty but quickly annoy, being overly geared toward tourists. For that night at least I was rapt with it.
Sam (August 9)