"...there seems always to be rather a wistful sense of
something lost to be regained, than the desire of discovering something new. "
David Leavitt, in his wonderful book, Florence, A Delicate Case, poignantly describes many of my feelings about Florence. I have solo featured three other favorite insights of his, in my now-and-finally finished Bistro 3906 book, but this quote stirs me to my core. He gets me!
The city is many things to me, and any return trip, past or future, would evoke the same feelings. I seem not to realize how much is not present in my life until I am there, feet on uneven ground and chasing the illusive sun. Florence gives me things no other place can, internally and externally. There is a version of me that I am, only in that space.
It was a wistful mood that found me a couple nights ago, revisiting several journals of mine: the very petite DaVinci, the larger red velvet, the Florentine marbled paper one, and the two palm tree cover mini books that I rotate by seasons. Most are filled with quotes and toasts written for holidays, mementos and wine labels tucked in several pages of each book. One held a business card long forgotten, from a beloved Firenze restaurant that Spoke and I frequented.
In my book, I introduce a recipe for Limoncello with a story of a trattoria on a side street just yards from The Duomo. If you order espresso after your meal, the waiter goes over to a wood and glass curio cabinet and brings from it to your table three chosen bottles: a Grappa, a Limoncello, and a Vin Santo; any or all on the house. I chose the Vin Santo all but one time, going for the grappa which on that snowy afternoon sent me to LaLa Land until the next morning.
I decided that night, feeling nostalgic from many journal entries, to take a leap of faith from these 5,473 miles away and research if the restaurant still exists. Indeed. It does!
Across these decades that I've not been there, the trattoria has become a ristorante by the same name. It looks much like I remember though the chairs and art works have changed. Granted, memories fade but I don't remember it being quite as large as it appears now.
I do hope the family's next generation has taken over. The warmth, the romantic archways, the paintings, all made my heart go thumpa-thumpa, but none so much as seeing a recent enough post to know that the curio cabinet and its bottles still stands. That speaks volumes no matter the years or distance.
Salute!
David Leavitt, in his wonderful book, Florence, A Delicate Case, poignantly describes many of my feelings about Florence. I have solo featured three other favorite insights of his, in my now-and-finally finished Bistro 3906 book, but this quote stirs me to my core. He gets me!
The city is many things to me, and any return trip, past or future, would evoke the same feelings. I seem not to realize how much is not present in my life until I am there, feet on uneven ground and chasing the illusive sun. Florence gives me things no other place can, internally and externally. There is a version of me that I am, only in that space.
It was a wistful mood that found me a couple nights ago, revisiting several journals of mine: the very petite DaVinci, the larger red velvet, the Florentine marbled paper one, and the two palm tree cover mini books that I rotate by seasons. Most are filled with quotes and toasts written for holidays, mementos and wine labels tucked in several pages of each book. One held a business card long forgotten, from a beloved Firenze restaurant that Spoke and I frequented.
In my book, I introduce a recipe for Limoncello with a story of a trattoria on a side street just yards from The Duomo. If you order espresso after your meal, the waiter goes over to a wood and glass curio cabinet and brings from it to your table three chosen bottles: a Grappa, a Limoncello, and a Vin Santo; any or all on the house. I chose the Vin Santo all but one time, going for the grappa which on that snowy afternoon sent me to LaLa Land until the next morning.
I decided that night, feeling nostalgic from many journal entries, to take a leap of faith from these 5,473 miles away and research if the restaurant still exists. Indeed. It does!
Across these decades that I've not been there, the trattoria has become a ristorante by the same name. It looks much like I remember though the chairs and art works have changed. Granted, memories fade but I don't remember it being quite as large as it appears now.
I do hope the family's next generation has taken over. The warmth, the romantic archways, the paintings, all made my heart go thumpa-thumpa, but none so much as seeing a recent enough post to know that the curio cabinet and its bottles still stands. That speaks volumes no matter the years or distance.
Salute!
