The past comes alive for Mariella Frostrup during a nostalgic trip to Florence.
When I was a child in rural Ireland, we never went on holidays, let alone holidays brimful of organised activities to keep us cerebrally stimulated. We lived in abject fear of "culture". The museum visit (dressed up as a treat) was our nemesis: trotting after one parent or the other, who would break the dust-speckled silence by droning on, as we trailed our fingers over the Do Not Touch signs and counted the long, dreary minutes until we would be liberated. This world of relic worship seemed completely alien.
So maybe it was no bad thing that it took me decades to reach the glorious city of Florence. Instead, it was love at first sight as I found myself in a living museum that brought the past alive without battering me with its provenance. It's impossible to cross the Ponte Vecchio or wander past the Duomo without considering its rich artistic history.
Ancient art rubs shoulders with hotels, restaurants, boutiques (read: shopping) and, of course, the year-round bustle of tourists, students and residents who thread their way though its medieval streets.
Unlike the UK, where all roads lead to London, Italy has always been admirably democratic when it comes to celebrating its cities. Naples is the bad brother, tousle-haired, petulant and edgy; no-nonsense Milan also totters on high heels, a prancing fashionista; Rome is the grand old lady, spectacular in her crumbling charm; while Turin plays patriarch — looking down from on high while siring fast cars and football heroes.
Florence, meanwhile, is always presented as the composed contessa, and there's no question it's a conservative city with a small "c". It's also a place of rich and evocative history, spawning both Dante and Machiavelli. The Medicis presided, Michelangelo flourished and patronage provided for a glorious renaissance in art and culture while ruling families battled to build the most ostentatious palazzi.
