The places we want to visit

I was going to write a post about how Florence had changed since the last time I visited the city.
  
I'd write about how the price to walk around the roof of Duomo jumped in just a few years from 8 € to 30 €. I'd write about the enormous hordes of tourists descending on the markets, tavernas, and tourist sights. Buying every little knick-knack and drinking the town dry of Aperol spritz.
  
I'd write about how on my first visit, I bought a wallet for 15 € from the leather market that was made in Florence. And how the same market was choked with tourists perusing suspiciously identical-looking, marked-up leather goods.

But I'm not writing that post. 

I've been thinking more about the impact of my traveling decisions. Especially my purchase decisions while I travel. 

Do any of us visit a place like Florence for the cheap magnets, the machine-crafted leather goods, the silly Panama hats, the shot glasses, miniature Davids, cheap sunglasses, or anything else arrived on a super-freighter from a faraway sweatshop? 

Yet, we mindlessly buy this shit. Myself included. I bought a same-same machine-made leather wallet to replace that older wallet I bought years earlier from the same market. I instantly regretted buying it. 

 

We can loathe the pushy street sellers and roll our eyes at the ridiculous novelty items, but they're selling them because we're buying them. 

Worse, we're buying things we don't need from people who like as though they don't want to be selling these things.
 

We can lament the death of neighborhoods in Lisbon, Barcelona, or Florence and wonder why Dubrovnik or Venice doesn't feel "authentic." 

But, we're the ones staying in cheap Airbnbs, putting our money into souvenir shops, and pretty much avoiding the local businesses that cater to the local and made that neighbourhood in that city worth visiting.

What can we do?

We can stop believing that tired argument that buying garbage from a souvenir shop is putting needed money into the local economy. We can start making purchase decisions that will leave the place we're visiting a little better off than when we left it. Let's use our judgment, before we use our money.

  

Bringing a toddler to Florence

So, you want to go to Florence with a toddler. 

Are you sure? Yes? It will be tough. But, tough doesn't mean it's bad. It's actually pretty great.  So, here's a few things we learned while we were in Florence.

Early mornings.

We woke up early every morning to the sounds of street cleaners and garbage trucks. An adult usually mumbles something, rolls over, and falls back asleep. Not a curious toddler. They're compelled to investigate these things and when they're awake, they're awake. 

So, to let his mom get some sleep, I'd take him out for a walk around the piazza to watch Florence's city workers do their street cleaning thing. The grumpy part of me wanted to say it was difficult, but it's hard not to admit how refreshing it is to walk the tourist-free streets of Florence at 6am.

A 6am stroll at the Duomo. 

A hotel with a history.

Once upon a time, our hotel was a palazzo. Built in the 1700s, it was owned by dukes and princesses until it has turned into a hotel.

We had breakfast beneath a 17th-century fresco. We climbed grand old staircases. We explored  all sorts of hallways, stairwells, long corridors, dead ends, and mysterious little corners. I'm certain there are some secret passages and the website confirmed that a ghost haunts the premises. 

It was a playground for a toddler. Levi raced up and down the corridors, explored the stairwells, and tried every closet to see if it was unlocked.

Our hotel's grand old breakfast room. 

Early, early evenings. 

A spring evening in Florence is close to perfection. The setting sun casts long shadows across the piazzas. The city truly comes alive as the sun sets. Locals gather in the squares. The tourists sip their Spritz's on cocktail bar terraces. 

Of course, you won't see any of this with a toddler. It's bed time. 

You'll need to shower the toddler, wrestle on the pyjamas, and read a few stories. When he finally falls asleep, that's it.

You're sitting in a dark hotel room. No cocktails. No setting sun that evokes some Longfellow verses. Maybe a movie on the iPad, but more likely you crash before 9pm... because you were up watching street cleaners in front of the Duomo at 6am. 

Your stroller might not make it.

I don't think the medieval Florentines had strollers in mind when they paved their streets with cobblestones. You'll develop strong forearms from bumping along the street. Then blow out a knee as you try to pivot the stroller off the street onto a narrow, uneven sidewalk to avoid a car. Then back onto the street because the sidewalk is impassable with all the parked Vespas. 

But! The stroller is a valuable tool. He fell asleep while we toured through the Uffizi. Whenever his feet got tired, we coaxed back into the stroller. 

When to say enough

The problem with old Italian cities is also what makes them so lovely: the walking. You can spend all day walking around the city, discovering new things, poking around ancient churches, walking up stairs to the top of some church tower, romantic strolls along rivers, walking and gazing at masterpieces in some huge palatial art gallery. Then more walking. 

A toddler is tough, resilient, and has the endurance of an ultramarathon runner. But, at some point enough is enough. You must know when to call it a day. So, plan what you want to do, but don't plan too much on the day. He'll need breaks, gelato, and a visit to a playground.  

Our structure was a playground in the morning, then some tourist-y activity after an early lunch. Nap (hopefully). Then supper between 4-5pm. Then back to the hotel room for the night routine.

Yes, it Is worth it.

There was a point where the toddler walked into the Medici chapel, looked around at the sculptures made by Michelangelo himself, and asked, "Where's the ice cream?"

It's hard to know if he will remember much of this. He slept through the Uffizi, but he enjoyed the playgrounds and waving to the pigeons. He developed a love for Spaghetti Carbonara, which the waiters, who are accustomed to requests for Spaghetti Pomodoro for the kids, instantly respected. You could see him taking it all in, and processing it.

This experience might be imprinted on him, without the memories. It might develop into an inexplicable appreciation for Michelangelo. A love for Carbonara. Some Italian language skills that stick with him. Grazie! Prego! Ciao bambino! Or something deeper, like a willingness to try new things. If it's just one of those things, then the struggle was worth it.

Come prepared to the restaurant.

Our little circles of influence

The professional day drinkers who usually gather in front of Sudkreuz train station were pleasantly surprised about a month ago. Someone had pitched a tent, laid out some food, and put out foldable tables and chairs.

It's exhausting work to stand outside all day drinking and panhandling, so Sudkreuz's hard-working professional drinkers made themselves at home. They stretched out, drank their beer and cheap wine, and enjoyed the sun.

The next day, the tables and chairs were roped off and guarded by volunteers wearing yellow vests emblazoned with the blue and yellow Ukrainian flag. What the hard-living party folks of Sudkreuz mistook for their beer garden was a meeting point for refugees arriving by train from the war. Mostly women and children.

Sudkreuz is the last stop before Berlin's central station, where thousands are streaming into the city. A colleague arriving at Berlin, schlepping luggage with two kids trailing behind her, was graciously greeted by eager volunteers, mistaking her for one of the many mothers coming from Ukraine with small children.

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You would know Under den Linden in Berlin if you've visited Brandenburger Gate. It's a popular street in the Mitte for strolling shoppers, tourists, and locals. You'll also find the Russian embassy dominating an entire block on the street.

The embassy, which also sued to be the Soviet embassy for East Germany, is now walled off from pedestrians by barriers and patrolled by cops. 

The big headlines-grabbing protests usually take place on Sundays. 

But every day I've passed, there's always this quiet crowd of protesters on the tree-lined boulevard, holding Ukrainian flags that hang limply in the wind.

They don't do much. They don't chant or march. They stare at the embassy, its curtained windows, and its imposing stone facade.

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It might be easy to lose hope. There's an overwhelming feeling of despair about this war, its utter pointlessness and cold brutality. We all wish we could bend the arc of history in a better direction.

Most of us don't have the influence to start or end wars. But we all have our own circles of influence. We can do what we feel is the right thing to do within this circle. We can donate to a cause we believe in. We can let strangers from a war-torn land into our homes. We can march on the streets. 

The point isn't if we can change the world. The point is to make decisions and act closer to what we believe is right, and be able to live with ourselves. If we can live that way, then we might change our little circle of influence for the better in the process.