It's not Tuscany without a Medici Villa

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Truly.

But one has to work at it.

I spent some of the morning shopping, but the weather was nice and I wanted to continue to do things that I did not do last time.  Getting out of the historic center for the afternoon also looked good.  I'd always wanted to visit one of the Medici Villas, so this seemed like a great opportunity.

I walked across the city to the tourist office and got bus information.  Those of you who have read my previous chronicles know that I dislike taking buses.  I never know when to get off.  I alight either Too Soon or Too Late and seldom Just Right.

I went to Santa Maria Novella train station not as a result of a sudden loss of sanity, but because I needed a toilet—sixty euro cents worth—but it’s nice to know that one can usually find one in a train station although it took some major hunting.

Then I went to a Tabacchi.  Ugh.  But one can get bus tickets there, and it’s better to buy them in advance.  I sought out the bus stop.

The area around stations bus and train are rarely charming.  I had to wait about ten minutes for the bus.  I got on, validated my ticket, and found a seat.  Off we went.  But where should I get off?  The young woman at the tourist office implied that this particular bus would take me near the Villa Medici Petraia.  So I watched the display for any stop that made sense.

A young American couple got on.  They had no tickets, but figured out they could get them from the driver—it’s cheaper to get them beforehand—and did not know they needed to validate the tickets.  I spoke up.  Travelers code.

Old cities feature narrow twisting streets definitely not meant for motor vehicles, but they are clogged with cars and motorcycles.  Riding along in a bus is an experience in itself.  Most of the streets are one way, and there's no straight shot to wherever one wants to go.  I did see some sights.  We passed pretty parks and remaining fragments of the city walls. 

So we wound our way from the historic center to some real people neighborhoods with my eyes flapping.  I began to see signs for my destination.  Cool!

And we proceeded and I saw more signs.  Gee.  Should I have gotten off?  Or may be the bus would wind up hill?

Or not.  End of the line.  I got off determined to walk back and find that Villa.  So.  I turned back the way we'd come.  Found a sign and turned up hill and walked.  Up hill and followed signs.  It took about twenty minutes including an encounter with some Carbinari with some bloodhounds who showed no interest in me whatsoever.  Too bad because I liked the dogs and the guys were. . . Ahem.

Then another turn uphill and I saw the villa.

You see, Florence is in sort of a bowl.  Inhabitants of Los Angeles will understand the words basin and conversion layer.  I visit in spring because it’s pleasant enough at this time of year, but during the summer the heat and humidity are awful.  One cannot blame the rich for fleeing the heat and crowds  for refuges in the foothills such as this.

The design of the house is typically Italian, and the style survives to the present day.  The villa has flat walls, stained yellow with small walls and shutters.  Although the exterior is plain, the inside is decorated with frescoes.

 A formal garden with fountains and balustraded stairs leads up to the building.  I mostly wandered among the flower beds enjoying the fresh air and the view.  I eyed the wooded parkland behind the villa longingly.  I would have enjoyed a stroll under the trees, but the park was closed.

So I managed to find the villa, but apart from that I had no idea where I was or how to catch the bus back.  Downhill seemed my best bet, so at every opportunity I walked downhill until I came to a main street and saw bus stops.

I had my ticket. I waited. Urban Italian bus stops are high tech.  They will not merely tell you the line but how long it is you have to wait, and it was not long.

By this time the afternoon had turned slightly sultry, and my thoughts turned inevitably to gelato, but I noticed something on the bus and walking along the streets.  I felt warm, but I was the only one on the bus with my bare arms hanging out.  The rest of the people on the bus, and most of the Italians on the street were bundled up, some in their leather jackets and nearly all had a scarf wound around their necks.  I noticed this in Milan last year, too.  I do not know why it is.

The flavors of the day consisted of rose—highly recommended by the proprietor—sweet and fragrant, some pine nut—tasty, but too subtle for me, and one of my favorites, Amarena.

Ciao!