We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.  The phrase seemed all too appropriate as we wound our schoolbus-sized Mercedes Vito maxivan through the renaissance streets and alleyways of Florence, a town whose thoroughfares were laid out at a time when oxcart was the prevalent mode of transportation.  There is a reason Smart Cars are so smart.

Cannara and Florence may be separated by a two hour drive, but they are light years apart in nearly every other respect.  As we finally made our way past Santa Maria Novella and the Florence train station, at last finding our bearings for our final approach to the Hotel Pierre, those differences had become quite apparent.  For one, there were more American tourists crowded on the sidewalk outside the train station than there are Italian inhabitants in our little village.  And for another, the leisurely driving in and around Cannara, a village where you see more three wheeled Apis than cars, was replaced by a LeMans style road race.  Driving in Florence is like competing in the palio in Siena, with cars instead of horses.

I have written before about the street layout in Florence and how the center is protected by a series of one way streets and diversions that acts like a force field, ejecting all who hope to enter.  Over the years we have discovered a single labyrinthine path through Florentine auto defenses, leading to our usual haunt, the Hotel Pierre.  But that route requires us first making our way to the train station, and we were having a tough time finding it today.  At last, after adding a few extra kilometers to our Vito, we found the train station and began our initial descent.  Within minutes we were announcing over the Vito’s P.A. system that we had arrived in Florence, where the correct local time was 12:08.

Our only problem was that we were expected at a lunch meeting at 12:30.  So we unloaded our passengers, checked into the hotel and climbed back aboard the Vito express for our meeting with Maria Elena Angeli, our contact at Artex, the representative of two Tuscan organizations that promote artisanal, hand crafted products.

After our fabulous lunch with Maria Elena at a little Tuscan hole in the wall called Osteria delle Tre Panche – which means the Osteria of the three benches, as it has only three tables inside (I had mistakenly read the sign as le tre pancie which, in my Italian would translate to the Osteria of the three stomachs, leading me to believe we were going to be eating tripe) – we headed back to the Pierre to begin our Florence holiday.  A pair of Italian women was determined, however, to delay our return.

As we made our way back toward the train station to vector into the flight pattern for the Pierre, we were routed onto some minor backstreets.  Having already spent over an hour in Florentine traffic over the course of the day, however, I was confident of my ability to maneuver the oversized vehicle through the narrow streets and began to get a little aggressive, at one point nearly crushing a pair of Kleenex vendors and clipping the front ends of a number of parked cars.  I avoided trouble, however, until we nearly reached the Mercato Nuovo, the enormous indoor food market that is surrounded by the outdoor San Lorenzo leather market.  About to make a turn that would lead us to the train station, the traffic stopped.

There were a couple of cars in front of us, desiring to make the right turn down the final street leading to the station.  But traffic on the intersecting street was stopped as well.  We had ourselves a situation.

Patiently we sat and a minute passed.  Then another.  And another.  Then, another minute passed.  Then what seemed like an hour but was really only a minute, passed.  I looked at my watch.  It was a minute past.  (Apologies to Monty Python).  For about five minutes we, and a growing jam of Italian motorists patiently and good naturedly waited for the traffic to begin again.  Then a passenger from the car in front of us got out and walked around the corner to see what was up.  She returned a minute later and got back in her car.  I followed her lead and walked around the corner.  Ahead, about 20 yards from the next intersection a large garbage truck blocked the road.  It was unable to pass a car that had been parked on the sidewalk but not far enough over to allow the garbage truck to pass.

By then blocked motorists began to shut off their engines, preparing for a long wait.  As I walked back to the Vito I heard my name called out.  Wendy, who had been to lunch with us, had got out of the Vito as well and was in the caffe on the corner buying Suzy and me an espresso.  We walked back to the car and stood on the sidewalk, leaning against the Vito and enjoying our outdoor coffee break, this snarl of traffic beginning to transform into a mobile block party.  Drivers got out and stretched, conversations broke out and people sunned themselves under the bright blue sky.  What was missing, other than an occasional transgression, was furious honking and road rage.  Our little makeshift group of shipwreckees was making the best of a bad situation.  It was actually kind of fun.

The chef of the little trattoria in front of which we were stopped came out and sat on his stoop, greeting locals who recognized him and keeping a running commentary on what was going on.  I walked around the corner every few minutes to monitor the growing crowd and get a better handle on the situation.  After a few visits it became clear that someone had parked on the sidewalk, far enough over for most cars to pass, but obviously not all.  The passenger side mirror was dangling from its moorings, having been clipped off by a larger car, perhaps a Vito, and there were scrapes along its right side.  But there was not enough room for the garbage truck to pass and there were now so many cars, about 40 or so from two separate streets that fed into the blocked alley, that backing up and taking an alternate route was out of the question.  Everyone would simply have to wait this one out.

A few minutes later a pair of policewomen arrived to manage the situation.  They started interviewing anyone they could find, the garbage truck driver and workers, bystanders, the usual suspects.  Then they began writing up reports and radioed for a tow truck.  I have a soft spot for attractive women in uniform, and these two definitely fit the bill.  So I did what anyone in my situation would do, I began to snap pictures of Angie Dickinson with my phone’s camera.  After a few pics the cop looked up at me and challenged me, shouting at me from across the street whether I was taking pictures of her.  No, no, I lied, solo l’incidente!

A moment later the tow truck arrived and the situation was about to be resolved.  As the front end was about to be lifted, however, two things came to my mind.  Car. Bomb.  I hightailed it around the corner, got into the Vito and covered my ears.  Nothing happened.  So newly emboldened I went back to the scene of the parking and noticed the crowd, which had grown to about 50, begin rise up.  Just as the car was about to be towed away, the owner and her friend returned, oblivious to the 30 minutes of inconvenience they had caused this mob.  The crowd erupted, pointing and jeering at the two women.  The common word they chanted – vergogna.  Shame.

A few minutes later when we had made our way to the train station after the jam had been relieved we saw the lovely policewoman writing up a ticket for the old lady.  No doubt the fine would be steep.  But it would not and could not possibly sting as much as the shame they felt when the crowd reared up and publicly condemned them with chants of vergogna.  Here in Florence the crowd, with its moral sensibilities, has been condemning the transgressor since the time of Cosimo the Elder.  As uncomfortable as it was to experience, it was nice to see they have not lost this sense of justice.

I have never witnessed Italians standing in line.  It is not in their constitution and by that I don’t mean their governmental charter.  But today I saw dozens of Italians maintain calm and order and good cheer, making the best of a bad situation.  I also saw them uphold standards of decency required in a crowded, social environment.  They did so firmly and clearly but without overwrought passion or mobbism.  Sometimes life in a city can be pretty ugly.  But today, for a half hour at least, it seemed to me as though Florence and Cannara are not so different after all.

Ci vediamo!
Bill and Suzy