By: Sarah Bates (Professional Toddler in a Museum)
Look. I’m going to be honest with you. Before I went to Florence, I thought “Renaissance” was a hotel chain and “Duomo” was a brand of space heater. I’m not an art historian. I’m a person who once cried because a gelato shop ran out of pistachio.
But even a heathen like me can survive, even thrive, in Florence for seven days without accidentally touching a Botticelli or committing a federal offense in a leather market.
Here’s how. Bring stretchy pants. Bring a sense of humor. Leave your dignity at the security checkpoint.
Day 1: Arrival, Confusion, and Carbs
You land. The airport is small, which is kind of cute, like a dollhouse for nervous tourists. You take a taxi into the city. Right away, you realize two things: (1) Florence is the color of a digestive biscuit, and (2) every single street seems designed to kill a person dragging wheeled luggage.
Drop your bags. Scream briefly into a cobblestone. Then go eat.
Where to go: Piazza della Signoria. It’s an outdoor sculpture gallery with a fake David (the real one is inside a museum like a celebrity in witness protection). Stand near the fountain and watch Chinese honeymooners take 4,000 photos. You’ve done culture.
What to eat: Pasta al pomodoro at some trattoria with a name you can’t pronounce and a waiter who will visibly age while you decide. I recommend Osteria Pastella. They make fresh pasta in a glass case like it’s a zoo exhibit. You might even weep. Not from art—from tomato.
Survival tip: Order water. Not because you’re thirsty but because they’ll charge you €3 for bread you didn’t ask for. It’s fine. Think of it as a “stupid tax.”
Day 2: The Uffizi (or, How to Feel Uneducated)
You buy tickets online three months in advance because you listen to podcasts. You still wait in line for 45 minutes behind a German man wearing socks with sandals and zero shame.
The Uffizi Gallery is 90 rooms of “Oh my God, that’s the actual Birth of Venus?!” followed by “Wait, I’ve been standing here for ten minutes staring at a bowl of fruit.” Botticelli, da Vinci, Caravaggio—every painting is more famous than you’ll ever be. There’s a room full of Medici family portraits where everyone looks like they just smelled something bad.
Where to go: After you escape, limp to the Vasari Corridor (you need a special tour, book it early). It’s a secret above-street hallway where the rich walked so they wouldn’t have to smell the poor. Relatable.
What to eat: Lampredotto. Yes, this is a cow’s stomach sandwich. I know. I resisted too. But the old men at the Mercato Centrale will shove it at you with green sauce, and you’ll take a bite like you’re on a reality show. It tastes like pot roast had a baby with a dare. Get it from Sergio Pollini Lampredotto—the cart with the longest line of locals rolling their eyes at tourists.
Dinner: Bistecca alla Fiorentina—a T-bone steak the size of a hubcap. Share it with three people. Or don’t. I won’t judge if you eat it alone in a dark room. Trattoria Mario is legendary, but get there at 11:30 AM or you’re eating your own fist.
Day 3: David, the Worst Gym Body in History
Today we visit the Accademia Gallery. It contains one thing you care about: Michelangelo’s David. He’s 17 feet tall, which is absurd. His hands are comically large. His eyes have carved heart-shaped pupils (yes, really). And he’s staring at Rome with the expression of a man who just realized he left the oven on.
The line wraps around the block. You’ll see 800 other sculptures of Jesus getting stabbed before you reach David. By the time you get there, you’ll be so annoyed you could punch a cherub. But then you look up at those marble thighs, and you get it. You really do.
Where to go after: San Lorenzo Market. The indoor part has food. The outdoor part has leather belts, leather bags, and leather jackets that may or may not come from a cow that died in 1987. Haggle. It’s expected. If you pay full price, a Florentine ghost will haunt your suitcase.
What to eat: Ribollita—a hearty bread and vegetable soup. It’s what Tuscans eat when they’re too poor for meat but too proud for sadness. Osteria All’Antico Vinaio is famous for sandwiches the size of your forearm. Get the La Favola with spicy eggplant. Wait in line for 20 minutes. Worth it.
Dessert: Schiacciata all’uovo—a fluffy orange-scented cake. It’s not fancy. It’s what your Italian grandmother would make if she loved you and also wanted you slightly addicted to sugar.
Day 4: Climb the Duomo and Question All Life Choices
The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore is that giant green-and-pink marble wedding cake you’ve seen on Instagram. You can climb to the top—463 steps. No elevator. Because God hates quitters.
You’ll climb narrow, sloping passages where you can touch both walls at once. You’ll pass ancient graffiti. You’ll panic when two German tourists try to squeeze past you in a spiral staircase. But when you emerge on top, you’ll see all of Florence laid out like a red-tiled buffet. The cupola (dome) was engineered by Brunelleschi without modern math. He basically winged it and won. Legend.
Where to go after you descend (legs vibrating): Baptistery across the square. It has golden doors so beautiful Michelangelo called them the “Gates of Paradise.” They’re replicas now because the originals are in a museum, safe from time travelers.
What to eat: Gelato. Not from a place with bright blue neon and piles of fluorescent banana. Go to Gelateria della Passera or Vivoli. Order crema (custard) and fior di latte (milk). Do not order bubblegum flavor unless you’re six years old or hate yourself.
Dinner: Cacio e pepe—cheese and pepper pasta. Simple. Perfect. You’ll try to make it at home later and fail. That’s fine. We all do.
Day 5: The Oltrarno (The Cool Side of the River)
Cross the Ponte Vecchio—the bridge with jewelry shops that were once butcher shops until the Medici got tired of the smell. Now it’s gold and diamonds, none of which you can afford. Walk over it anyway. Take a blurry photo.
The Oltrarno is where actual Florentines live. It’s less polished, more “my neighbor’s laundry is drying on a Renaissance balcony.” Visit the Pitti Palace—the Medici’s giant “my-house-is-bigger-than-your-village” flex. The gardens (Boboli Gardens) are huge and hilly and filled with fountains featuring chubby marble men wrestling fish. It’s a lot.
Where to go: Santo Spirito square. In the morning it’s sleepy. At night it’s a circus of students drinking spritzes. Join them.
What to eat: Pappa al pomodoro—tomato and bread soup. It’s poverty food that tastes like love. Also crostini di fegato (chicken liver pâté on toast). I know. I know. Just try it. It’s salty and earthy, and your American brain will come around.
Cooking class: Do one. I went to In Tavola and made fresh gnocchi while an Italian nonna silently judged my rolling technique. Worth every euro.
Day 6: Fiesole (The “I’m Exhausted, Take Me to a Hill” Day)
Fiesole is a town above Florence. You take bus #7 from the station. It’s 20 minutes. It feels like another planet—quiet, pine-scented, and full of Roman ruins that nobody’s yelling about.
There’s a Roman theater, an Etruscan wall, and a monastery with a view that makes you forget you spent €80 on leather gloves you didn’t need. Bring a book. Sit on a bench. You’ve earned this.
What to eat: Pecorino cheese with honey. A pear. A glass of Chianti Classico that costs €5 and tastes like it cost €50. At Ristorante La Reggia degli Etruschi, order the tagliatelle al tartufo (truffle pasta). You’ll moan audibly. Other diners will understand.
Evening back in Florence: Aperitivo. This is where you buy a €10 cocktail and get unlimited snacks from a buffet. It’s the greatest Italian invention since the pizza box. Try Moyo or La Ménagère (fancy, but the snacks include little quiches).
Day 7: Last-Minute Leather, Panic, and One Final Sandwich
You have one day left. You haven’t bought a souvenir. You haven’t seen the Santa Croce church (burial place of Michelangelo, Galileo, and Machiavelli—the ultimate awkward dinner party). Go there now. It’s €8. Tombs are cool, I guess.
Then you panic-buy a leather journal from a man who winks at you. You eat your third sandwich from All’Antico Vinaio and pretend it’s your first. You walk to the Arno River at sunset, watch rowers glide by, and realize you’ve walked 80 miles this week and gained 6 pounds.
And you’d do it all again.
Final meal: Cantucci e Vin Santo—almond biscotti dipped in sweet dessert wine. It’s the only civilized way to end a trip. Dip, crunch, sigh.
The Bottom Line (Because You Have a 401(k) to Worry About)
Florence is not a chill vacation. It’s a beautiful, chaotic, carb-fueled brawl between your eyeballs and your stomach. You’ll fight crowds. You’ll pay €4 for espresso that takes 7 seconds to drink. You’ll see art so stunning it makes you angry.
But you’ll also eat cow stomach and like it. You’ll climb a dome and feel like a champion. You’ll buy overpriced leather and not regret it for a second.
So go. Bring comfortable shoes. Bring an empty suitcase. And for the love of God, book your museum tickets before you leave the house.
Sarah Bates is a writer, eater, and professional over-packer. She last cried in Florence over a plate of truffle pasta. No regrets.