I鈥檓 lucky that my work allows me to spend a good part of the year in Italy. Here, lifelong travel memories are like low-hanging fruit: They鈥檙e yours to harvest. Even after 30 years, Italy continues to pelt me with experiences and delight me with new memories and insights.
In Florence, the epicentre of the Renaissance, civic pride and the Florentine celebration of good living enliven city streets. The best place to get a sense of the rustic old town is in the Oltrarno, where artisans still ply the traditional trades of their forebears.
As I strolled through this crusty neighbourhood, an artisan drew me into his shop as if inviting me on a journey. Under a single dangling bulb, he hammered gold leaf into a dingy halo, breathing life into a faded saint that was originally crafted by a neighbour of his from five centuries ago.
For dinner, I found a great restaurant called Antica Trattoria da Tito that helped me put my finger on why Italian restaurants in the United States just can鈥檛 compete with the eating experience here. The quality of ingredients is unbeatable, the local life-loving crowd creates an unmatchable ambience, the power of the owner鈥檚 personality keeps the energy right, and the 鈥渢erroir鈥� of eating after a day in Tuscany you can鈥檛 get anywhere but here. And nothing prevents you from being in the moment: When dining under medieval vaults, there鈥檚 no cellphone reception.
Enjoying the now-pedestrianized, virtually traffic-free centre of Florence, I ended the evening on what鈥檚 considered the first square of the Renaissance, Piazza S.S. Annunziata. I鈥檝e always loved picnicking here during the day with the riff-raff, who remind me of the persistent gap 鈥� today as in Renaissance times 鈥� between those who appreciate fine wine and those who appreciate cheap wine.
But there was something enchanting about being out here at midnight, when all the bums were tucked away out of sight, surrounded by the beautiful harmony of this square.
In Lucca, an hour鈥檚 drive from Florence, I was inspired by the simple joy of watching an old man bicycling with his granddaughter atop the wide, fortified wall that once protected this proud city from its enemies 鈥� and now seems to corral its Old World charm.
Then, on rented bikes, one of the many tour groups I send to Italy each year frolicked by. Their enthusiasm was contagious. Squinting at their smiles, surrounded by dazzling sunshine, it struck me that the sun in Italy seems to have a special glint. It鈥檚 as if it鈥檚 telling visitors, 鈥淓mbrace life!鈥�
At one of my favourite new trattorias in Tuscany, the chef cut open a cantaloupe-sized rock of aged pecorino cheese, sniffed it like a fine wine, and then passed it to me. The dank, rustic smell took my mind straight to an agriturismo barn I had visited, where rays of sun cut between the weathered boards, filtered by floating dust from the hay, and bathed the sheep in a timeless Tuscan light. The next day, I returned to the restaurant, needing again the fragrant ritual splitting of the pecorino.
Rome continued to enthrall and seduce me like never before. For centuries, pilgrims have been climbing the Scala Santa鈥檚 Holy Stairs on their knees. Brought to Rome from Jerusalem, these are purportedly the stairs from Pontius Pilate鈥檚 palace that Christ climbed the day he was condemned.
For decades, I鈥檝e watched this ritual. But this time, a voice inside me said, 鈥淒o it!鈥� Knees screaming, weathered faithful struggling up the staircase with me, fresco of a crucified Christ high above, I climbed the 28 wooden steps. With each polished step, I learned a bit about both the bone structure of my knees and the value of pain when praying.
Venice鈥檚 St. Mark鈥檚 Square has always been littered with kitschy souvenir carts and jammed with tourists throughout the day. But this time, I saw it in a different light.
At an early-morning film shoot, it was just me, my crew, a few businesspeople and the occasional jogger. I marvelled at how the history popped with the architecture and without the modern tourism. The Gothic was so lacy, and the Renaissance so capable. It looked like a computer-generated Venetian cityscape 鈥� only real.
I always sign off from my public-television show by saying, 鈥淚鈥檓 Rick Steves. Until next time, keep on travellin鈥�.鈥�
But last summer, on a gondola, surrounded by the watery majesty of Venice, I was moved to change it up a bit. Script covered and show in the can, I looked at the camera and said, 鈥淚鈥檓 Rick Steves. Life is good. Be thankful. Ciao.鈥�
听
Rick Steves (ricksteves.com) writes European travel guidebooks and hosts a travel show on KCTS Seattle. Email him at [email protected] and follow his blog on Facebook.
