Museums, markets, churches or ancient palaces abound in Florence. The alleys of the historic center of Florence bear witness to the greatness of the city during the Renaissance period. We will see what to do in Florence in this guide published on the blog.
And yet, Florence is not a museum city, as it is often criticized in Venice. Florence is also very alive! Visiting Florence is to discover the museums and historic buildings of the city, but also enjoy a recent city, its many shops and restaurants.
Finally, in this guide dedicated to Florence, you will find all the information you need to prepare your weekend in Florence. This guide should answer the various questions you can ask before visiting Florence: where to sleep in Florence, what to do in Florence, how to get there, places of interest in Florence, ...
Visit Florence: Places of interest in Florence
Of all the cities in the world, Florence is undoubtedly one of the 10 most important cultural cities. The city is full of ancient palaces, museums and religious buildings. Strolling through the streets and alleys of the historic center is a true immersion in the Italian Renaissance era.If you are wondering what to do in Florence, this publication will give you many ideas for places of interest to visit in Florence. However, you must know that a choice of visits will be necessary! In fact, it would be impossible to visit all the monuments or museums that must be seen in Florence.
Here is the essential, the essential thing in Florence, places of interest that you can visit during a trip to the city of a few days in Florence.
.” He gently, tenderly, rolled his buddy’s limp body off his lap. The deceased Marine had a gaping six-inch hole torn out of his back, and the guardian’s lap had trapped a deep pool of blood that was just now beginning to seep out into the sand beneath his knees. Sometimes love was the only efficacious treatment. “So if not home, then where?” Laura looked at her questioningly. “You said he’s flying somewhere.
Where do you think?” Laura considered the question a long moment. She recalled sleeping with her body glued full-length to his, first time in decades. She wondered if somehow his dreams had transmitted through his flesh into hers. “He’s making amends. It’s not been painful but hopeful, and ultimately peaceful. He’s almost finished.” Angie nodded. “So he is flying home.” Laura shrugged. “You might say—different home, maybe better.” “We hope.” Laura nodded. “If you think you’re O.K., I’ll leave you for a little while.” Angie said, “I’m O.K.” “I’ll be in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee.” “Make it strong.” “I always do.” “Extra strong.” Laura smiled and left silently, pulling the door partway closed on her way. So here she was. It’d all happened so quickly—the phone call, the request for emergency leave, the flight home in a vast cargo bay with two dozen other silent soldiers (all male) and four tarped Apache helicopters (one with dried blood on its port-side landing skid), securing the rental car from the civilian side of the airbase, the long drive over dark and empty roads, the homecoming to a dark house that was no longer home, to sit beside the death bed of a man who was once her father but seemed now (and looked) a stranger. It’d all happened so fast.
Yet, on another level, this latest sequence seemed part of a larger and longer arc, an arc that began that day she came home from school and watched her father—this same though changed body hidden beneath the sheets—arched in rhythmic undulations over the girl she’d trusted to be her best friend, an arc that continued through her exodus from a home and family that no longer existed, exodus from a childhood and adolescence balked in an instant, an exodus that also marked an entrance—into adulthood, where possibility was constrained, potential truncated, hope starved. This downward-curving arc of destiny had connected the dots of a half-starved life to return her to the bedside where it had begun. So not an arc but a circle, Angie thought—a circle begun at betrayal to end at death. She’d thought her way through that loop of self-pity without once looking at her father. She’d looked at the door Laura’d pulled halfway closed as she left; she’d looked at the mahogany dresser and matching framed mirror; she’d gazed blankly at the blank darkness beyond the picture window. But she’d resolutely avoided looking at her father. Finally, with a deep breath like that taken before jumping from the high quarry wall toward the frigid water far below, she forced herself to look at the unconscious man before her.
And, like the plunge from the quarry ledge, it was a shock; but she of course survived. On closer examination, she saw that he was indeed her father—the deep-set eyes beneath the bony brow, the dangling lobe of his ear (that she shared), the thin white scar line on his lower lip. His face in profile summoned a rush of images of the younger Josh, the one she’d grown up with and cherished. She saw him racing down the beach, holding high a piece of leathery brown seaweed that trailed behind him like a pennant, saw him swinging a machete to clear a path through the brush as they sought a site for her treehouse, saw him winking at her as she sat to one side while he taught his class at the university on the day she trailed him to work.
These and many other memories flooded her mind; and in each of them he was moving, full of life and vitality, a stark contrast to the unmoving dying man lying before her. Yet the unmoving man before her was still her father; and she’d traveled a long way to be beside him now—not to recollect the bygone father (which she could’ve done anywhere) but to be with the current one. But she didn’t know what to do with the current father. She couldn’t talk to him, couldn’t say she was sorry for not keeping in touch (was she sorry?), sorry for not letting him into Mom’s cancer and funeral (she was sorry for that), sorry for not opening those gifts and cards of those first years apart (had one of those packages contained the chance of trust restored?)—so many sorrys to say. So she said it—“I’m sorry, Dad.” He didn’t move at the words or give the slightest sign of acknowledgement, but it seemed the room did—vibrating ever so slightly at the sound waves, the picture window brightening, the air in the close space taking on a kind of tangibility of weight and pressure.
Angie actually turned and looked behind her to see if someone or something had entered the room—but no, nothing. So she slid the chair closer, till her knees touched the bed, then leaned forward and wrapped her right arm over his head on the pillow, curved her left arm in front of her on the mattress beside his hand, laid her head gently on his chest atop the neat covers, closed her eyes, and quickly passed into a state between blank sleep and dreaming. In the distance there was a rhythm, like the gentle lap of waves striking a far-off shore—this rise and fall, rise and fall.
That rhythm eased her into a realm of peace, comfort, and security. She felt safe, truly safe, for the first time in—what? months certainly (since being deployed), but maybe years, maybe since fleeing (or being ejected from) home and childhood. She was, well, home again—a place, finally, of rest, whatever the circumstances. And rest came in a vision of a sloping treeless hillside in full morning sun, succulent spring grass bright and inviting green beneath the crisp blue sky, the gentlest brush of a breeze, the scent of spring flowers—violets, lilacs. And there on the hill, in soft middle distance, a troop of white farm geese, plodding upward in single file from the pond below toward the crest of the slope. The geese moved as if not walking, in their clumsy side-to-side goose waddle, but as if being carried forth by the earth and time in a graceful effortless flow toward the ridge. And Angie realized now that she was at the base of the hill, lying on a soft blanket on the grass beneath a tree in the shade.
The blanket was almost unbearably soft, as if she were floating on air, though she could smell the grass so near at hand, smelled the fertile loam that had given the grass life. So she didn’t panic at the soft airiness of the blanket, didn’t fear being dropped. She closed her eyes, inhaled the scents of spring, reveled in the soft breeze brushing her cheek, basked in the leaf-filtered sun. It was so good to be loved. “Find Joan.” Angie didn’t open her eyes. She was not startled by the voice. It seemed part of the whole scene, part of what she’d been expecting. “Find Joan. Tell her I’m sorry. Let her tell you she’s sorry.” “Why?” “She’ll save your life.” Angie had no response. So Josh added, “Save the life I helped create but could never save, hard as I tried.” “That wasn’t your job.” “If not that, then what?” “Love.” “Easy.” “Just love.” “Always.” “I know.” “Finally?” “All along.” Josh was silent. “It’s been there all along.” “Yes.” Angie held her eyes closed, waited to hear more. Then she realized there was no more; she had all she’d ever need. She opened her eyes. The hillside was still there— brilliant green under resonant blue. The sun was higher in the sky, brighter. The troop of geese had vanished.
The breeze picked up, ruffling the spring grass, birthing a fragile dust devil or two at the base of the hill, there by the pond. Oh, to sit cross-legged on the pinnacle of the highest peak with the universe laid out before you in dazzling array of myriad stars brilliant in crystal clear night sky, stars so close and intense that it seemed you might reach your hand out and collect a scoop, drop them in a jar to light your path home; infinite stars so remote and ponderous that it seemed they hid, there just behind their shine, the source of all time and space. Oh, to be in such a spot, Josh thought as he gazed out on all eternity. What did I do to deserve this? “Nothing.” “Then why?” Josh asked. “It’s the gift that’s been waiting for you.” “Since when?” “Since the start.” “The start of me?” “The start of everything.” “That’s a long time.” “Or short.” “Either way, thank you.” “So few say that.” “Thanks?” “It’s not required, of course.” “Seems obvious. Seems only right.” “Yes.” There was a sudden brilliant streak across one small sector of the panorama, then gone. “What was that?” Josh asked. “You.” “Seemed so brief.”
“Come and see for yourself.” Day Seven Angie found Joan standing in the light rain without an umbrella or hat out by the line of cars parked on the paved drive that looped around the cemetery. She stood watching from afar the proceedings that were taking place under the green tents five rows of headstones away. Some of the minister’s words reached their ears on the slight breeze that blew their way—whether we live or whether we die—in the company of all your saints—lo, I tell you a mystery—we commit his body—but most of the ceremony was lost to the rain and the low clouds and the rustling leaves. Angie came up from behind and stood beside Joan, mere inches away. Joan looked at her calmly, as if she’d been expecting her all along, had said “See you later” just yesterday, not twelve years ago. “I figured you’d be with the family, such as it is.” “I am, such as it is.” “I meant down there—lowering him into the ground, saying your good-byes.” “I said my good-bye.” “Was it hard?” Angie looked up at her. It was unclear if the water streaking Joan’s cheeks was rain or tears. “It was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” “How?” “He told me to find you.” “They said he was comatose.” Angie turned back toward the grave site.
The minister was tossing dirt in the hole. “He was.” Joan was silent. “He told me to tell you he was sorry.” Joan nodded. “He told me himself.” “When?” “About then.” “And?” “That you’d find me, that I’d have a chance to say what I’ve wanted to say every day for twelve years.” Joan turned to her. “I’m sorry, Angie, more sorry than you can ever realize.” “No.” “No?” “Not more sorry than I can realize. I know it perfectly. I’ve lived in that regret all this time.” Joan nodded. “Long enough.” “Long enough.” The gathering around the grave site was beginning to break up—the minister shaking hands with Laura, Devon, the Chair of the English Department. A few grad students tossed roses into the hole. Joan turned to Angie. “I’d like you to meet someone.” She walked toward the end of the line of cars. Angie followed. Joan stopped beside a well-kept but older model Japanese compact. She tapped on the passenger-door window. The rain-splattered glass descended into the door. “Angie, I’d like you to meet my son.” Angie stepped forward and peered into the car. A blonde-haired boy of about ten or eleven gazed calmly at her. After a pause, he unleashed a beautiful and familiar smile. “The rain makes it look like you’ve been crying.” Angie smiled back. “Not anymore.” She extended her hand toward the car. “I’m Angela Earl.” The boy took her hand in his. “We have the same last name.” Angie nodded. The boy said proudly, “I’m Joshua Earl.” “Pleased to meet you,” Angie said.
Duomo of Florence and its Campanile
The Duomo of Florence is the symbol of Florence. The most famous monument in the city! In the heart of the Historical Center of Florence, the Duomo reigns over the square of the same name. The full name of the Cathedral is actually the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. But in Florence, everyone calls it Duomo di Firenze, which means in French the dome of Florence.This cathedral is impressive and is one of the gems of Florence. Its construction extended for more than 100 years and ended in the 15th century. Its dome is the largest in the world, with 45 meters in diameter!
Next to it, its bell tower, Giotto's bell tower, reaches 85 meters.
Visiting the Duomo will take some time. Actually there are 3 possible visits:
- climb to the top of the belfry to have a 360 ° view of the city, including the magnificent dome / dome Filippo Brunelleschi
- Go to the foot of the dome to see a panorama, at the end, relatively close to the bell tower.
- Visit the interior of the cathedral (free admission).
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