A day in Florence can be spent in countless ways. You can follow the frantic footsteps of Robert Langdon and Sienna on their quest to save the world. You can climb its bell towers, domes, and hills, collecting views of the red-tiled rooftops. You can even lose yourself in the cool, quiet halls of its museums, expressing the required awe at the sheer scale of the Medici’s collection.
Over sixteen years ago, even before Langdon’s Florentine adventure, I spent my days here climbing. I scaled everything there was to climb. This time, I returned with a new appreciation for stillness, for the art found not on a wall, but in a moment. So I embarked on a different kind of evening adventure: one of ancient wine windows and lingering conversations in the open air.
Admittedly, the wine windows have become attractions in their own right, a cherished secret now shared with the world. The era of the wonderfully cheap refill is over; a glass now costs seven euros. But the simple joy each pour brings remains priceless. There’s a particular kind of magic in standing before the grand Fountain of Neptune, chilled wine in hand, watching the marble gods wrestle with the sea. And in that moment of high culture, surrounded by centuries of art, you are struck by a timeless, humbling human truth: you have to piss.