I was starting to lose faith, my brilliant idea not so brilliant. Only three of the nine booksellers had not yet replied. I couldn’t wait for more emails, and called the first, Pelletier Editions, in Paris. There was no answer, no voicemail. The second, Scriptorium, in Mantua, sounded like something out of a horror movie and had a number no longer in service. The last, Libreria Antiquaria di Firenze, didn’t answer, but I noted the Florence address, put it into my Google Maps, and saw that it was just on the other side of the Arno River.

It was heading into riposo, the midday break, and the store might be closed, but revved up on caffeine, I decided to take a chance. What did I have to lose?

42

The Ponte Vecchio, the aptly named old bridge, was not covered, though it felt like it with so many awnings from the stalls and shops, all selling jewelry, blocking out the light and river views. There were lots of tourists, the most I’d seen so far, people perusing necklaces and bracelets, couples staring into stall windows or haggling with owners, young women with their arms outstretched, trying on diamond rings. Everywhere I looked were couples. For the first time, I missed my friends back home, and not for the first time, I missed Alex. I still had no idea how she felt about me, about us, or where we were going—if anywhere. A young couple passed, locked in a kiss, and I had to stop myself from scowling.

The center of the bridge was open with beautiful views of the Arno, the river lined with houses in perfectly muted earth tones, but the sky had darkened, and by the time I headed off the bridge, it had started to rain. Oltrarno, as it was called, literally “other side of the Arno,” was Florence’s south bank and more bohemian, or so I’d been told. It was raining harder now, and I huddled under a store awning to check the bookseller’s address in my GPS, then found a store selling cheap umbrellas. The streets felt different from the ones on the other side of the river, grittier and more working class, some wide, others narrow and medieval looking, and right now, mostly deserted. I moved fast, trying and failing to outrun the rain, and came to an open area just across from a huge, sprawling three-story stone building, red banners hanging from the second-floor announcing exhibitions: the Palazzo Pitti, better known as the Pitti Palace, famous for its eclectic art collection. Any other time, I’d have gone in, but I was on a mission.

The streets got smaller and narrower, and there did not appear to be any gentrification here, several buildings a mess of cracked stone and badly peeling paint, and no sidewalks at all, water rising from the steady rain and sloshing onto my ankle-high boots. The uneven cobblestones made the streets hard to navigate and slippery. I was relieved when the end of the street opened into a large though empty square.