Florence is best in the early
spring or late fall. I like November, when the olives are harvested
and the tourists are gone. Well, not really gone -- just less
obviously in control.
Stendahl, the 18th
century French novelist, wrote about the malaise that affects
first-time visitors to the city. They are overcome by the amount of
beauty and fine art, the reality of actually seeing that which they
have read in history books. This physical malaise was known as the
"tourist disease," and it had always been associated with
first-time visitors to Florence.
The New York Times
moved the theory along by interviewing Dr. Graziella Magherini,
head of the psychiatry department at Santa Maria Nuova Hospital in
Florence. In 1988, she said that her hospital had treated more than
100 cases of this psychiatric trauma with accompanying symptoms
such as insomnia, guilt, loss of identity and loss of
reality.
Most of the victims
were, of course, Americans. The French are not going to get dizzy
looking at Italian architecture.
With a name and a
validation, readers of the New York Times and others imagined they
were experiencing this disease while standing in front of the real
David in the Galleria or outside the Baptistry opposite the
incredible Duomo.
Eight years ago, I
was summoned to an Italian government conference to be held in
Florence. Its purpose was to discuss the state of tourism and how
more visitors could be enticed to visit Italy. I went, even though
I couldn't imagine more visitors to Florence, Venice or Rome unless
Merck came up with a pill that enabled tourists to sleep standing
up, side by side.
The meeting was
held inside the City Hall, the Palazzo Vecchio, in the huge Salone
dei Cinquecento, the work of Giorgio Vasari in the mid 1500s. I
must confess to being overcome by my surroundings and exhibiting at
least two of the symptoms of the malaise.
On this most recent
trip, I decided to avoid emotional trauma by housing our group of
foodies and culture mavens just outside the city center. We have
been holed up for the past several nights at Hotel Villa La Vedetta
Florence, a restored villa just off Piazza Michelangelo that is
thought to offer the best view of Florence. This lovely hotel has
just 18 rooms, so we sort of own it.
The terrace is the
size of two basketball courts, and just below us, we can see the
entire city center laid out like a miniature storyboard of world
cultural icons. The sienna, russet and burnt butter colors shimmer
off a series of blue-sky days and red-sky nights.
Tonight is my last
night in the city environs. We move to the Italian Lake District
tomorrow. So it is sunset as I sit and write, alone on the terrace.
The colors below me are changing as the sky darkens and the lights
of the city illuminate the Church of Santa Croce, the Uffizi and
the walls of the Pitti Palace.
It all brings back
memories, and although I have been leading a group of travelers, I
am alone for the moment.
Suddenly I hear my
name called from the rooftop. One of my favorite couples has found
an unknown stairway leading to the rooftop. They direct me up to
their special perch, a small area with a table and four chairs
surrounded by a low wall.
The table is filled
with salami and cheese from Falorni, the world's oldest salami
store in nearby Greve, which we had visited that morning. There are
several bottles of Super Tuscans, and before us, a carpet filled
with the still-functioning relics of the Renaissance. Somewhere in
the distance, church bells start ringing, and the sound of laughter
rises to the rooftop, mixed with a ballad by Gigi
D'Alessio.
And then I start
swooning, overcome by the beauty of where I am and what I am
seeing. I once again have caught the disease Stendahl had
described.
Despite numerous
trips to this wonderful place, I know of no cure.
Contributing Editor Richard Turen owns Churchill and Turen,
a vacation-planning firm, and has been named to Conde Nast's list
of the World's Best Travel Specialists since the list
began.