Swilling on the Steps of Santo Spirito

It was time to see where Jackson Ward types live in Florence.

That meant a walk to the Ponte Vecchio, a bridge across the Arno river built in 1345, to the Oltrarno neighborhood, the city's poorer, working class cousin.

My kind of people.

Crossing the Arno, I saw rowers in short shorts, shoulder muscles flexed, passing underneath me as I took pictures of the river, the hills, the boaters.

Once on the south side of the Arno, the real fun began at the Pitti Palace with the second best collection of paintings in town.

Here one gallery has the second largest Raphael collection in the world, second only to the Vatican ( a place this heathen will probably never see).

Did anyone ever paint such exquisite Madonnas?

The Pitti felt endless with room after room of paintings hung salon-style, which I love, except that seeing those works hung 8' over my head was all but impossible.

On the plus side, it was like a High Renaissance art class with an array of Titians (oh, the portraits!), Vasaris, Tintorettos and Fillippo Lippis to impress me.

There were even works by Velazquez, unexpected among so many Italian artists.

In what was originally the grand duke's bedroom, I looked at myself in a gilded mirror taller than myself.

Rosy-cheeked figures populated the Peter Paul Rubens paintings, so much more vibrant than in books.

There was a room called Napoleon's bathroom where I learned that the French had ruled Florence for a while (before that whole Elba mess), I admired his sarcophagus-shaped bathtub.

And just for the record, Nap's loo wasn't as big as some suburban ones I've seen in ostentatious McMansions.

Words can't describe how thrilled I was to discover an Artemesia Ghentelleschi there on a wall.

Much like with the Ghentelleschi the VMFA owns, it is a unique pleasure to see a painting by a woman done during the male-dominated Renaissance.

And speaking of American museums, I was surprised and charmed to find several galleries with their tall windows open to the sunlight and a gentle breeze.

Not to mention a view of the Tuscan hills in the distance.

As if a palace full of art wasn't enough, after the galleries come the Royal Apartments, testaments to sheer ostentation and decorated in a blend of French and Italian styles.

With elaborate, flocked wallpapers, enormous chandeliers and more square footage in each room than a studio apartment, they are fine to admire but unappealing (to me) for daily life.

Good thing I wasn't a royal.

After a lunch of cold seafood salad (mussels, squid, cod) and pizza with sausage and ham, we wander through narrow streets in search of yet another church I want to see.

Along the way, we pass a parochial school just getting out, parents standing around to collect them, many leaving on bikes with children in seats in front or behind them.

In the area where they gather sits a hearse with an open back door revealing a coffin inside.

Several of the older kids (maybe 9 or 10) make a point to touch the coffin before heading home with their parental unit.

Everywhere around us are real people, not tourists, or at least not nearly as many.

People carry groceries and briefcases, not cameras and guidebooks. It is my own little J-Ward, Oltrarno style.

Further on, we happen on San Carlo dei Barnabiti, a deconsecrated church turned community center.

Venturing inside, we find a guerilla art show adorning walls still showing evidence of its former life.

The walls of the church are crumbling but the frescos are still visible, some clearly and others mere shadows of what they once were.

It is curious and yet not at all surprising to be in a church space looking at paintings, drawings and sculpture.

It occurs to me that even if all the work in this room was done by Florentines, the imprint of globalization is clear.

An Asian face stares out at me from a painting, something impossible to imagine in a Renaissance work.

On the way out, I see a flyer for the show saying it runs only from October 3-9.

It is pure chance that we happened by during its run or it would have just been another anonymous church facade on the way to somewhere else.

The "somewhere else" was Santo Spirito, a church with a Brunelleschi-designed dome and a Michelangelo crucifix.

The 17-year old Michelangelo made the crucifix as a thanks to the church for letting him dissect corpses from the adjacent monastery.

Cause nothing says thanks for stiffies like religious icons.

Clearly it was still an active church, though, because I saw four different people come in and light candles, some kneeling to pray afterwards.

The church steps were apparently the meeting place for happy hour because clutches of people swilled, played guitar or sang along in the early evening air.

Walking back across one of the many bridges that cross the Arno, we stopped for gelato obscenely creamy with a butterfat content I don't need to know.

Sitting on the stone wall of the bridge eating gelato, we had a picture perfect view of the hills and the sun sinking down over the Florence rooftops.

Stylish women in high heels pedaled by on their bikes. Mothers pushed babies in carriages (not strollers). Middle-aged men (none of whom had pot bellies) looked effortlessly cool.

A passerby offered to take our picture and who were we to turn down a stranger's thoughtfulness?

I think I could get used to this place.