The Invitation

One early Wednesday morning in September 2020, I arrived in Florence for the first time, travelling from London. After taking the tram to the station and bidding farewell to the charming tram driver, who had patiently assisted me with the ticket machine at the airport, I began to navigate the old streets. My large suitcase rolled behind me as I made my way to the Oltrarno district, where I had booked a room for a month.

The room was filled with light and boasted a view of the Piazza and Palazzo Pitti. My plan was to stay for four weeks to ground myself, explore the city, and prepare for a deeper Tuscan adventure. As a photographer, my initial goal was to capture the artisans and artists of the region. Tuscany had long been a place of dreams for me, brought to life through photographs and films. The visions of rolling hills and morning mists felt like an invitation to dream.

On that September morning, my Tuscan adventure began. The summer's warmth was still in the air and after the challenging year we had all faced, it felt like a soft and hopeful new beginning. Though fewer tourists roamed the streets than usual, those who were present appeared to be savoring the city. Water mists cooled diners in the crowded piazzas, creating a sensation of waking from one dream or perhaps slipping into another. I wandered the streets, soaking it all in, and enjoyed my daily view of the sunset from the Ponte Vecchio, just five minutes from home.

I quickly gravitated toward the Uffizi, where I met an artist who became my first Florentine friend. With this connection, a feeling of liberation and adventure settled in with me each day. Despite the reduced number of tourists that year, their presence was still palpable. But it was the art that truly resonated, weaving a vibrant tapestry through the city. The stunning architecture and rich history offered new visions to explore, all while nurturing the emerging contemporary art scene.

Ancient sculptures, madonnas framed on street corners, and vibrant graffiti and stencil art spoke together in a harmonious chorus. It was an enriching experience, one I would spend many weeks trying to absorb—and still do.

As I started to settle in, I was honored to be invited to join my Florentine friend and his companions for lunches at their local trattoria in the Centro. This not only improved my Italian but also deepened my sense of community—a crucial step in my journey. The adventure had truly begun, and I was starting to feel at home.

The month passed, and I decided to extend my stay in the Oltrarno for a second month. I wasn't ready to leave; the adventure was just beginning to unfold. But toward the end of October, news broke that the region—and much of Italy—was going back into lockdown. I found myself sitting on the Loggia of the Palazzo Guadagni, my happy place, where I had grounded myself in those first days after arriving in the city, taking in the news with a mix of nostalgia and uncertainty. The next day, cafes and bars were ordered to close by 5 PM, and soon they would shut down entirely. Suddenly, I was locked down in Florence, grappling with the contrast of the vibrant city I had just begun to explore and the stillness that now enveloped it. It was a bittersweet moment as I knew there was a different adventure approaching, one I had not expected.

I remained in Florence for the next three months, observing the city from my room overlooking the empty piazza. Birds flew over the Palazzo, and I found solace in the comforting sound of the bells ringing throughout the day from the Duomo.

What began as a planned four-week stay transformed into six months. During this time, I wandered the empty streets, capturing Florence as we might never see it again. Vasari's Corridor sat quietly in the afternoon sun, and outside the Palazzo Vecchio, Hercules gazed down at a deserted piazza. Each moment felt like a rare gift, allowing me to connect with the essence of the city in a way that would have been impossible amidst the usual crowds.

There were armed soldiers guarding the palazzos, but they always smiled as I walked by. I spent my birthday and Christmas alone, yet I didn’t feel lonely; the city embraced me, whispering, “It’s okay, don’t worry, you can stay. We’ll still give you beautiful sunsets, and you won’t need to queue at the supermarket.” And it was true—I didn’t worry and never queued. On Christmas Day, the sunset arrived like it did most days, and the lights of the Christmas tree sparkled just for me it seemed.

As spring approached, I finally had the chance to leave the city and boarded a train heading south, watching the beauty of Tuscany unfold before me, rolling hills just as I had imagined. My destination was Calabria, where I planned to delve into a project about Italian traditions. However, I soon returned to Tuscany to start restoration work on an old 18th-century villa in the heart of the Chianti region—where I would call home.

In that villa, I discovered a sense of an old story waiting to ground me, while also feeling a new story which I was asked to write. It was as if the villa and I made a pact: I would tell my story here. The dream of Tuscany is incredibly real; the beauty you see in photographs and films is simply the reality of it. Beyond the stunning visuals, Tuscany feels like a cherished invitation from an old friend. When you visit, whether for a few days or a week, you might find yourself drawn to stay longer—and many, like me, do. You can leave of course, but somehow, I feel that Tuscany will never truly leave you.