Inside the museum there’s a sense of calm. It is already very obvious to me that the people of Florence hold the business of art to be a serious one, sacred almost, so intertwined with the iconography and the churches and cathedrals that stand shoulder to shoulder here. We clip along the endless, light-filled hallway, one side given over completely to windows. We stop along the way to examine the delicate busts and statues here and I marvel at the way that the softness and warmth of flesh and cloth can be depicted in chill, pure white marble.

We duck into the galleries that lead off the hallway and the artwork that’s on display is almost comically famous. There’s Botticelli’s Venus rising from her shell, and Titian’s Venus of Urbino with her frank stare, and the little dog curled at her feet. There are paintings by Michelangelo, Rembrandt and Raphael. It is almost overwhelming, but Ben is the perfect guide, pointing out little details and explaining different techniques that the artists used.

In one room we find several works by Caravaggio, and Ben is amused by my bloodthirsty enjoyment of his depiction of Medusa – a screaming, severed head with twisting serpents instead of hair.

“I always liked the idea of Medusa having serpents instead of hair,” I admit. “At least she had company.” I tip my head to consider the painting. “Snakes were probably better than most of the humans she encountered anyway.”

We stop outside the Uffizi so that Ben can buy us both gelato, handing over a fistful of coins for the two small dishes. I’ve never eaten it before, and mine is pale green and tastes of sunshine. “Pistachio,” I murmur, spooning the smooth, sweet ice cream into my mouth and closing my eyes as it melts on my tongue. “It’s wonderful.”

We walk along, eating our gelato and watching the world go by. We’re by the river now, and the sunlight dances on the blue water, leaving spots of light glittering like sequins scattered on the surface. We cross over the Ponte Vecchio, the famous bridge, lined with higgledy-piggledy rows of shops, mostly jewellers, their wooden shutters flung open for business.

When we turn down another narrow street, full of life and car horns and crowds, and past the Pitti Palace, I feel my heart speed up. There has been one place I’ve been longing to go since I heard we were coming to Florence, and we’re about to arrive. We continue to make our way down the road which grows narrower and narrower, until we stop in front of an unassuming facade with a small stone plaque beside the door. “Museo di Fisica e Storia Naturale,” I breathe. “The Museum of Physics and Natural History.” I dance from foot to foot.