Fortuna, Firenze

In the birthplace of the Renaissance, DOUG O’NEILL discovers a people who take the idea of good fortune as seriously as they take their food, art and architecture

The head of a Medici lion on display at the Loggia dei Lanzi.

It’s always a good time for gelato.

The Gioconda Royal Suite at the St. Regis.

The city seen from Giotto’s Bell Tower.

A sculpture of Menelaus holding Patroclus.

Florence’s cathedral remains one of the world’s architectural icons.

Being party to marital discord on the train from Rome to Florence was not my intention.

But I found myself to be the cause of a rift between my train compartment companions, true Florentines, freely and loudly vented passions at each other, ignited by my seemingly innocent question, one that had been brewing in my thoughts since my first visit to Florence 20 years earlier.

My theory, really just a conversational gambit, went like this: “Are Florentines more so than others motivated by the quest for good luck? Would you say there are more good-luck customs in Florence than in most other Italian cities?”

Signor Bianchi, sensing a kindred spirit, smiled: “Of course, it’s our affinity for luck that brings us happiness. It’s in the small things, like touching iron, that brings us la fortuna, as we say, and love. And remember,” he continued, turning to his wife, “what my nona used to say about touching the hump of a hunchback for good luck?”

Signora Bianchi’s eye-rolling confirmed they were not of two minds: “E basta. What nonsense. That’s silly superstition. Finiscila!”

They say a wise man doesn’t challenge a strong-willed Florentine woman. I, clearly, was not wise. I told Signora B. my own good-luck story, involving Il Porcellino, the little pig of Florence, a bronze statue of a wild boar which sits outside the 16 th -century market of Loggia del Mercato Nuovo. By tossing a coin into the boar’s mouth and rubbing its snout or belly, visitors are rewarded with good luck, often in the form of a return visit. My own belly-rubbing gesture two decades earlier not only rewarded me with this second visit, but also, I believed, helped me retrieve a lost passport.

“So, my good friend,” she said slowly as if talking to a confused child, “you’re here again in Firenze because you rubbed the belly of a boar—and not because you simply bought a plane ticket?”

And thus the two of them debated loudly until our train pulled into Stazione di Santa Maria Novella, where I wished my new friends buongiorno. Snippets of the debate replayed themselves as I navigated once more Florence’s narrow medieval streets. I revelled in the good fortune of my return visit as I gazed up at the red-tiled cupola of the iconic Duomo and ambled across Piazza della Signoria to ogle yet again at the statue of David. After a full afternoon that included Fra Beato Angelici’s frescoes inside the Museo di San Marco, I sat at an outdoor café at the edge of Piazza della Republica and basked in the city’s charms. There’s something ethereal about the main square of Florence as the afternoon sun fizzles and casts its buttery glow onto the earth-brown tones of the medieval buildings. I was glad to be back.

My thoughts turned to the doubtful Signora Bianchi the following morning when I revisited “The Bridge That Wouldn’t Die,” which is how many Florentines describe Ponte Vecchio, the famous medieval arched stone bridge that spans the Arno. Of the thousands of bridges bombed to smithereens during the Second World War, Ponte Vecchio was the only one spared. Some believe it was a matter of essere baciato dalla fortuna—that it was kissed by good fortune. Just saying.

The artful lures of Florence, like the refurbished Uffizi Museum, still held me in their clutches. But I was also taken by the new face of the city, which included the ultra-modern Opera di Firenze, a huge, tilted cube of Tuscan marble, terracotta and gold. In the culinary scene that once favoured (almost exclusively) traditional Tuscan food, I scrolled through menus highlighting sushi and dim sum as well as lamb dishes from Abruzzo. I was smitten with the bohemian Le Murate Caffè Letterario bar in the Santa Croce neighbourhood. First a monastery and then a prison, it’s now a literary café popular with artsy types and the Florentine version of hipsters (without the plaid).

Dropping by for afternoon tea at the St. Regis.

Florence Cathedral is the largest brick dome ever constructed.

The living room of the Signature Suite of the Portrait Firenze Hotel.

I’d heard whispers about the burgeoning hotel dining scene so I saved my final night for the SE•STO on Arno, the elegant rooftop restaurant at the Westin Excelsior. I’d just ordered a glass of Tuscan dry white when a large group, celebrating a birthday, invited me to join them. Florentine hospitality. Magnifico! As the evening of shared stories, plump gnocchi and copious amounts of vino drew to an end, Giuseppe, the birthday boy, thanked me profusely for joining his party. “My cousin cancelled at the last minute. Without you at our table, we would have been 13. Such an unlucky situation that would have been! Buongiorno e grazie.”

Before leaving Florence I paid one more visit to Il Porcellino. Rubbing his belly 20 years ago had led to this return visit. Who knows, perhaps I’ll be third-time lucky.