The Face of Florence

The looming shadow of the Duomo, the uneven surface of the cobblestone streets, the soft curves of David’s pale cheeks – all emblems of Italy’s “La Bella Figura.” While these images create a sense of nostalgia for the Italian homeland, transcribed in the face of my nonna italiana, Loredana, I see a richer history.

A mother of three and grandmother of five, Loredana has powder-dusted skin and a broad smile that hold the true story of Florence. One look into her eyes transports me to her family suppers around a knotted, wooden table. On her lips is the residue of each kiss she has bestowed on her child, neighbor and childhood lover. Each wrinkle stores a strain of laughter shared at a festival and a sliver of sorrow upon the loss of a friend.

She walks the streets dressed in fine furs and silk scarves. Aside from her confident face, everything else remains covered. As the air breezes past her, I imagine the savory aromas of fresh focaccia and rich espresso absorbed into her skin. She is a presence of vitality on Via Frusa, where she has lived for the past 52 years. She greets her neighbors with a kiss on the cheek, a small moment of joy marked by a trace of maroon lipstick.

A gentle glow washes over her face as she greets me each morning. I imagine all of the students she has taken care of over the years, missing their own mothers and grandmothers, yet comforted by Loredana’s reassuring presence – her gesture to join her at the table for a steaming caffè latte. She is the face of all of Italy’s hardworking mothers - those who have spent years perfecting the art of fresh-made pasta, teaching their children how to respect their elders and reminding them each day of the proud heritage they represent. It is her face that is the key to understanding the strength of the Italian family, which has survived years of tumultuous politics, Fascism and new-age globalization.

Flipping through my history textbook, I see pictures of ancient ruins, commanding emperors and page after page of terraced villages– yet the moments spent with Loredana tell me more about Italy than words could ever describe. I’ve heard scholars say that history has a habit of repeating itself, weathering the earth with trials to test her strength. Filling the bags under Loredana’s eyes are images of crumbling walls and drooping rooftops of tired, rustic communities that have faced hunger and bombings, their children drafted into senseless wars. A photo’s caption renders nothing compared to her personal journey.

While I have passed by hundreds of Italian women on the streets of Florence, their designer sunglasses and tight-lipped frowns don’t reveal to me the same magic I witness when I return home to Loredana. She embodies the true Italian spirit: the charm of old-world hospitality, the practice of caring for your neighbors and the reassurance of knowing that no matter what happens, family will always remain.