The Villa San Michele
Florence, Italy

Munching a crosini on the loggia of Villa San Michele and gazing at Florence’s Duomo my meditation is interrupted by the loud hum of engines. Back home in California it might be a group of rowdy Harley Davidson riders, but here in the hills of Fiesole nothing so crass exists, and that makes me curious.

Craning my neck to look below the hotel on the sinuous craggy road from Florence to Fiesole I spy the buzzing’s source. One after another vintage sports cars wind their way through the hills on their way to what my waiter tells me is a popular club meeting.

As I watch a shiny red Bugatti followed by a lovely old Ferrari I think even James Bond might feel a tinge of jealousy. Then again this is the kind of hotel James Bond would feel perfectly comfortable in. I can almost see his Aston Martin making the sharp turn up the driveway.

Though Bond might have been able to keep his mouth closed when he pulled up to the 15^th century monastery cum hotel, he surely would have raised an eyebrow when he noticed the stunning façade attributed to Michelangelo. I doubt though, that Bond could have kept his jaw from dropping once he walked into the lobby, and realized his check in was taking place in the monastery chapel.

The lobby at the Villa is the first sign you have arrived. A marble altar gleams in the glorified reflection of high-strung crystal chandeliers—history and luxury collide to give even the most jaded traveler pause to reflect.

My husband and I are staying at the Villa for three days during a too quick stop in Florence. We are led to our room by the Villa’s manager,an affable young man with a penchant for the Villa and it’s property. In many ways he is just as good a caretaker of the land, as he is a hands on manager.

Our room is a junior suite located outside the main building overlooking the villa, the garden, and the city of Florence. We enter through a sliding glass door on our private patio.

Our suite is a study in refined elegance. Fine antiques mixed with modern comforts like our television, which lifts by the push of a button from a hidden compartment in the table at the foot of our bed—again I can’t help but feel James Bond would love that amenity.

After our first long days tour of the wonders of Florence we return to the villa, plop down on white cushy chaises strewn about the formal garden and reflect on the city from whence we came. When we feel sufficiently rested we return to our room—my husband for a powerful shower, I for an invigorating dip in our Jacuzzi tub—then it’s off for a one of those meals Italy is famous for.

Dinner is served in the Cenacolo Restaurant under a newly restored 15^th century fresco of the Last Supper. Locals find the food as good as visitors, so the place is a heady mix of wealthy Italians and jet setters from around the globe.

When we retire to our room, our bellies full of exotic fungi filled risotto and fresh pasta I am too full to sleep. It is then that I slide into my soft mustard colored terry cloth robe and walk the path in monastic silence to the heated outdoor pool.

Up stone steps, past fresh lemons and rows of neat hedges I make my way to the top of the property where the lush oasis is located. I am alone in the darkness, and it is then that I slip off my robe off and dip into the warm waters of the pool. For nearly half an hour I float silently, not another soul to disturb me.

When I lay on my back I can see the treetops and the lush hills of Fiesole wrapped around me like a green womb. The only sound is the soft gurgling of a hillside spring, its water splashing into the side of the pool. When I stand up I can see the top of the Duomo. The tendrils of light that work their way from the illuminated cathedral look like a sunflower at dawn—James Bond eat your heart out.

 Shannon Willitts Falk     November  2001

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