Cher in Florence

Last night I had dinner with friends in Santo Spirito, a lively square on the other side of the river (Oltrarno). Tourists chatted away at the cafes and dreadlocked kids sat on curbs, laughing and drinking and smoking like it was Saturday night. A jazz band played bossa nova opposite the church. My friend Elizabeth and I were trying to explain to (French) Christophe what it is that American women “want” in relationships. Over and over, I found myself pronouncing “Independence!” in typical American fashion. The hunger for independence is my American birthright, isn’t it? Elizabeth agreed wholeheartedly: “Yes, a man should support a woman’s independence.” I told Christophe that my boyfriend at home in Brooklyn is supportive of my three-month stay here, because he wants me to be happy. I realize it could be otherwise if we weren’t from the States. My Taiwanese hairdresser asked me, for instance, if my boyfriend told me not to go. And an Italian I met last week said that he would never let his girlfriend go away that long; he would just break up with her if she refused.

When the bill came, we all paid separately, of course. Gone are the days when a man pays for women out of obligation. There is no need for him to play that role. We make our own money, and we can buy our own dinner, thank you very much.

We made our way across the piazza toward another square that was having a big party. But we were stopped by this:

The beautiful voices, along with the sight of hundreds of nuns carrying paper lanterns, were so calming that little mind-defenses made themselves known immediately:

“But the Pope hates women!”

“I hated Catholic church when I was a kid! Too stifling!”

“This guy’s balding head is in my way!”

But soon, I shut myself up and listened. Most people were quiet and respectful, with little smiles on their faces. Some young guys shushed their barking dog. All the while, Mary was lifted up, led up the church steps, and turned to face the gathering crowd. A woman was being honored.

It’s easy to get romantic about such transcendent moments. I wasn’t independent; I was in something. As I felt my heart expand, and my eyes water, I spotted an old man in a dirty red t-shirt curving his way through the crowd of nuns, screaming something about the devil.

I landed firmly back on earth, and smiled.