What more can be written? What stories can be told about a city bursting at the seams with tales of love, bravery, and tragedy? Every block has a face, every street has a family. Richness flows through every pore, patiently waiting with indifference to be discovered or stepped on. So many stories to be told, so many to keep track of.
       I, the humble, curious stranger, place one foot in front of the other until the path to safety mixes with the haze of the hills. I stumble upon a park nestled between a synagogue and several looming palaces that have long been converted into offices, clothing stores, and gelaterias. I am lost, completely, and I rejoice in my ability to forget street names. Every footstep leads me further into unfamiliarity. A millennium breezes past my fingertips, drawing me closer to those insignificant, overlooked snapshots into the lives that passed through these streets. Billions of shoes smacked against the cobblestone, years of cries and laughter echoed here. I observe the blurred, olive faces of Florentines as they pass by, mimicking the lives of their ancestors. Still just as stern and determined, the new Florentines march on to pursue purpose in their day, oblivious to their ancient reflections.
       I passively perceive them all. I imagine my eyes tracking the numerous ghosts that forever haunt this city. Their ghastly forms line up, as much flesh and blood as the living. I rest on a park bench and imagine one group in particular. A family of spirits—clad in high-class formal wear—stroll through the gardens. The father glances at his pocket watch and nervously swipes at his bushy mustache, eager to get back to business but obligated to his family. The mother steps cautiously to avoid catching the bottom of her gown as it grazes the stones beneath. She ignores her husband, careful to contain her anger and disappointment, and sneaks glances at the young men blowing off steam with sports after a grueling day at university. The son darts between bushes and trees, climbing every surface his hands can reach, unconcerned with the potential rips of his petticoat sleeves. The daughter clutches her mother’s dress, trying neither to be seen nor fall down—she has just graduated to full gowns and the skirts are longer than her legs. They chatter in a wholly new offshoot of Italian, twangs of Austrian German mixing with the upper-class tone that rolls from their tongues.

      The past century had been one of new cultures and experiences. The Habsburgs claimed the city and brought with them their fashion, their food, and their language.1 The lush green landscape of Tuscany was received as a gift, one they accepted happily as they held a glass of Chianti to their lips.2 The city became a playground for the bourgeoisie.3 Old land was cleared and replaced with academies and museums where the rich could gather and discuss philosophy while drinking wine and eating cake[4].
       The family fades from my thoughts into obscurity, leaving a faint trail behind that glitters like flecks of gold and smells of expensive perfume. I stroll towards the looming, emerald Synagogue. The modern population is a reflection of the conditions of the past. By this I mean there are very few Jewish people speaking Florentine Italian with a native inflection—less than one thousand—as if their tongues had been passed down through generation after generation.5 Despite the growing root of Judaism that wound its way through Florence, the religion and its people had seemed to sink into the shadows, vanishing behind the dominating presence of the Catholic Italian identity.6 With modern eyes, I stare at the synagogue. Pink marble clings to the magnificent arches like the rosy freshness of a child’s cheeks. Sea-green domes reach towards the sky, stretching above the Italian buildings beside them, refusing to be hidden behind the Catholicism so prevalent in the ancient city.
       As I think back to a time before tolerance was the standard, more spirits begin to litter the cobblestone before me. Men, women, and children dart recklessly around the shops, their faces contorted into masks of pain and suffering. Screams of horror and cries of heartbreak bounce between the narrow streets. I faintly smell smoke and dust from crumbling stone and brick. The paths are slick and wet with tears. I trace the spirits backwards, pinpointing the cause of their panic. Their homes, their livelihoods, their synagogues—all falling to dust as the Jewish Ghetto is cleared.7 They cry, and then are punished for their tears.
       The unification of Italy in 1861 led to many changes throughout the country and within the cities that now made up the nation.8 A once divided land now wanted to build a strong national identity: the Italian identity.9 Changes had to be made. The sweeping Risanamento—“renovation” in Italian, propaganda for city reform—aimed its sight at the Jewish Ghetto, destroying the whole community for the sake of the rich Italians.10 The area was cleared and a new square was made, with a massive Italian arch at the entrance.11 Piazza Della Repubblica remains a historical landmark of Florence.12 The destruction of their homes was followed by the destruction of their synagogues, as their identity was erased[13].

       The pain contrasts with the glamor of the city. Suffering yields tremendous beauty. I take a deep, shaky breath and try to refocus. There are tales of hatred, death, and disease in every alleyway of Florence.
       Black death made its way into Florence in the early months of 1348[14]. About sixty percent of people died.15 The cobblestones reeked of decay and hopelessness.
       I push myself towards the art, towards the enchantment, towards the joy.
      Night of the Bridges. August 4, 1944.16 The Nazis blew up the famed bridges, save for Ponte Vecchio, slowing the advances of the Allied forces and destroying centuries of history and culture[17].

       The echoes of past traumas ring in my ears. The cradle of the Renaissance was also a cradle for needless destruction and tragedy.
       Precious artifacts and homes were buried under twenty two feet of dirty, dangerous floodwater in November of 1966.18 Florentines used boats to maneuver around the sunken city, passing the remnants of their neighbors’ apartments.19 The force of nature was demonstrated through the aggression of the Arno river. Millions of masterpieces and rare books succumbed to the depths; at least thirty two Florentines drowned, with thousands becoming homeless.20
       Every city has its horrors. As sadness bubbles up inside me, I glance upwards, finding myself standing in front of the glittering statue of Dante Alighieri, one of the most important Florentines to ever live.The pained faces start to fade as the ghost of a legend stands before me. His artistic contributions flow through the city—ancient or modern—like water down a river. Dante exemplified the unyielding nature of the human spirit and its desire to create and transform.
       I imagine watching as he steps down from his pedestal, one hand clenching his leather-bound journal while the other anxiously taps a quill to his pointed chin. I silently follow him as he strides across the square, the remarkable images of the city reflecting in his eyes. His mind is churning with creation. I can see it in his stern expression. Words bounce around, colliding together to form flowing stanzas of poetry.
       Dante Alighieri greatly influenced both the creation of modern Italian and the modern conceptualization of hell.21
       With his masterpiece La Commedia (known now as The Divine Comedy), Dante revolutionized a whole language and religion.22 He was a Florentine[23]
       I imagine yet another phantom following, close on his heels. His eyes browse his surroundings in the same lofty, dreamy way the poet’s had. Another creator. He takes inspiration from the Florentine bodies, desiring not only to capture their likeness but their spirits as well. His hands belong to the marble, his mind to God. Michelangelo longed to capture the eternal soul of the city, recreating the perfection of Florence for the sake of the Florentines[24].
       Michelangelo Buonarroti sculpted the Pieta in Rome.25 The Sistine Chapel in the Vatican.26 The David in Florence.27 He would unrelentingly carve his marble, freeing God’s desire from the prison of rock. He was one of the greatest artists from the Renaissance and one of the greatest artists to have ever lived.28 He was a Florentine [29].
       An aura of glimmering inspiration suddenly fills the aching darkness that crept through the streets. Florence is a city packed tightly with artists, dreamers, and creativity. The reminders of true Florence joy exorcize the ghosts from my mind.
       The ghosts coexisted with each other in this city, both the painful and the beautiful. The family waltzes through the park, unconcerned with the ancestors that cling to them. The ancient ghouls follow along just as closely, the gowns and coats of the future traded for sandals and tunics. The agonizing screams of death and fear are chased away by the soft notes of a piano and the gleaming of sparkling marble. Florence has hosted many inhabitants throughout time, all possessing their own image of the city. But the thoughts and feelings remain the same. Time cannot change one’s humanity. They all struggle to find purpose in life.They love hard and get heartbroken in return.They wonder what’s beyond their city walls,beyond the stars.They gossip with each other, laugh with each other, cry with each other. They create, desperately attempting to capture that which they feel so deeply on the inside. They glance around their city, wondering what the lives were like of those who came before, yearning for the difference a lifetime can make.
[1] The Editors of Encyclopaedia Britannica, “Leopold II | Austrian, Successor, Reformer,” Encyclopedia Britannica, July 20, 1998.

[2] Ibid.

[3]​ Ibid.

[4] “Lorraine Family in Tuscany:Grand Dukes of Tuscany,” Discover Tuscany, accessed February 18, 2024

[5] Kate Karpinski, “Jewish Florence: Synagogues, Kosher Cooking and Cemeteries,” The Florentine, December 15, 2022.

[6] “Florence, Italy Jewish History Tour,” Jewish Virtual Library, accessed February 18, 2024.

[7] Admin and Admin, “The Jewish Ghetto of Florence| Florence Private Tours,” Florence Private Tours, February 7, 2023.

[8] “Young Italy | Mazzini, Nationalism, Revolution,” Encyclopedia Britannica, July 20, 1998

[9] Ibid.

[10] Admin and Admin, “The Jewish Ghetto of Florence,” Florence Private Tours, February 7, 2023.

[11] Ibid.

[12] “Piazza Della Repubblica, Florence: Center of Florence Since Roman Times,” n.d.

[13] “Florence, Italy Jewish History Tour,” Jewish Virtual Library, n.d.; Admin and Admin, “The Jewish Ghetto of Florence,” Florence Private Tours, February 7, 2023.

[14] D.T. Cesana, Ole Jørgen Benedictow, and Raffaella Bianucci, “The Origin and Early Spread of the Black Death in Italy: First Evidence of Plague Victims From 14th-century Liguria (Northern Italy),” Anthropological Science 125, no. 1 ( January 1, 2017): 15–24.

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