Early Afternoon
Munich Airport
The flight over was smooth and, with German efficiency, landed right on time.
This time, I was in one of the massive new Airbus 400's, an experience both pleasant and quizzical. In the process of building this plane of tomorrow they managed one major design flaw. The restrooms are on the lower level in the center of the plane. Once downstairs, there are only five of them to serve the nearly 250 passengers in economy class. As if this wasn't bad enough, the access is through a very narrow corridor that the flight attendants must also use to stow the food carts and then down a staircase designed for one person at a time. And this has to serve both entering and exiting patrons. The result is a permanent jam and an "every man for himself" attitude among those in the supposed line.
I managed a fairly decent amount of sleep on the plane and never even bothered to look out the window until we were already in descent through German airspace. I've always been a big fan of the approach to the Munich Airport. The plane comes in low over the vast sweeping plain that represents the last flat earth before the jagged eruption of Lower Bavaria. Any reputation that the Germans may have for orderliness and conformity is well on display here. The fields are cut into large symmetrical portions and alternate shades of green. Villages erupt every few miles. Each are made up of a church with a tall steeple, a town hall with a dome and clusters of small houses. All of these buildings - religious, civic, commercial and residential - are painted in the same off white with red roofs the color of dried blood. Rather than monotonous, the beauty is in the uniformity, the fixed attention to a single aesthetic.
Once in the airport, I picked up 200 Euros at the ATM and began the always confusing task of finding my connecting gate. I don't know what it is about European airports and their desire to see how confusing they can make the transit between planes. Zurich is the worst, but Munich seems determined to take the crown from it. Here, there are two separate G concourses, one for domestic flights and another for international. The distinction between the two is not mentioned. You're just expected to know. Add this lack of information to the requisite exhaustion one feels after a long flight and the result is a mass of confused tourists trying to figure out where they're supposed to be.
I was one of these. At one point, I went down a long escalator only to get to the bottom and look up to see a sign for the G concourse at the top of the stairs. Getting there meant taking the stairs. I hauled myself back up and was about to go through the G concourse door when an officious young German woman called out to me.
"You must not go there!"
I don't know how she knew to address me in English, but she did. Possibly there is an assumption that people who are lost must be Americans. When I told her that I was going to the G concourse she demanded a look at my boarding pass.
"You are going from Germany," she said. "You must go down."
She pointed back down the escalator as if I might somehow miss it. She then handed me back my boarding pass and, with an advance on me that could only be called intimidating, moved me toward the escalator. After a few more confusing twists and turns, I eventually found signage to the other G concourse. Now I have little else to do but take a cat nap and wait for my flight to Florence.
Early Evening
Hotel LaScaletta, Florence
The flight in was spectacular. Normally, the hop from Munich is done by prop. These planes have to use the north/south runway. Since this starts at the base of a mountain the necessarily hair-raising descent is terrifying.
Today, though, we came in on a commuter jet so it was necessary to circle the city to get to the east/west runway. The result was a slow pass over the center of Florence. From the air, the dominance of the huge Duomo and Campanile of Santa Maria dell' Fiore is just as breathtaking as it is from all ground-based angles. The only way to think of its scale to the rest of the city is to imagine what the Eiffel Tower would look like if it suddenly appeared in the middle of Lincoln Square.
My eyes trailed along the Via por Santa Maria past the Piazza Della Republicca and the
Porcellino markets, over the Ponte Vecchio and on to the Palazzo Pitti. Although I had never seen Florence by plane, I realized that I knew this perspective well. At least three or four times a year, when I'm really missing Florence, I do a Google Earth search of Florence then mentally take my favorite walk.
The trip through the airport was hastened by that rarest of occurrences: my bag was one of the first off the plane. I practically ran out of the building to find a cab.
The driver, a swarthy man in his early forties, had a lit cigarette balanced on the ashtray right next to the "vietato fumare/no smoking" sign. I gave him just enough directions so that he would know that I knew the way and we took off.
The ride was through familiar territory. This may have been helped by the fact that I asked him to make sure we crossed the Arno at the Via di Fossi. This offers the best view of the Ponte Vecchio, and it's the angle that most makes me feel like I'm home.
Just off the bridge at the Via di Fossi is a left that we should have taken. Anticipating that I would catch this, he quickly called that the turn was no longer allowable. We continued straight until the bend of the Via Guicciardini met the road we were on. At this intersection stood a female police officer who stopped us and told the cabbie that the road was closed to traffic. When he explained that I was staying up that same road, she signaled us to go ahead.
I can't remember the last time I saw so many petrified tourists.
Upstairs at the La Scaletta, I was given a royal welcome.
"Mr Falzone," said the very pretty concierge, "you are back! I saw your name on the list this morning." We chatted a moment, then she led me to my room. Shades of Ragdale, it's one I already had before. Twice.
Once in the room, I took a quick shower then had a good long Skype with Bridget. Then, it was time for a walk and dinner.
I always have my camera with me, but almost decided to forego it this time. After all, I was tired and God knows I've shot this city from every conceivable angle already. Still, it would have felt strange not to have it with me.
I knew the minute I walked out the door that I would have bitterly regretted leaving it behind. The sun was setting, the moment of perfect light in a city famed for the way the sun catches it. For the next half hour I walked along the same path I'd just seen from above. All the while, I was taking pictures of the light - the way it fell, the way it illuminated colors with a hint of gold, the way it makes the city look like it's on fire.
By the time I had completed the circular walk, I was in front of La Sagrestia, a neighborhood ristorante of which I've always been very fond. I went in and immediately recognized the same waiter who had attempted to serve Linda, Tim and I lunch last year. At that time, he was crazed, constantly running into the kitchen and loudly terrorizing the staff for things he had obviously done wrong.
Well, one year has improved his manners, but his waiting skills still leave something to be desired. At one point, he came out of the kitchen and served a party of four. He then went to get the order of an older American couple at the table next to mine. The man, unsure of some of the descriptions, asked the waiter about one of the selections. 'You wait,"said the waiter. He then turned, went back to the other table and "borrowed" a plate that one of the guests was eating from. He brought it over to the American couple, and said, "This! The meat all inside.". The American perused it carefully then decided against it. The waiter put the plate on the empty table between the couple and me then took their order. Only then did he return to plate to its rightful customer.
I opted to get my gelato elsewhere.
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