Gone

It happened while we were eating breakfast. The hotel manager, whom we had nicknamed Gepetto due to his uncanny resemblance to the cartoon puppetmaker, was leaning out the window in anticipation. As I ripped into a croissant, an excited buzz of voices from the street began to drift into the little hotel. Curiosity drove us to abandon our pastries and coffee, and join Gepetto at the window. On the cobblestones three storeys beneath us, a crowd had formed in the Piazza del Duomo, the heart of Florence and home to its awe-striking, centuries-old cathedral.

Steady drumbeats permeated the air as a procession of Florentines in medieval dress marched regally down the narrow street. The men were like solemn parrots in their costumes of canary yellow, indigo, and scarlet, with tall feathers pluming proudly from their hats. Our coffee grew cold on the table as we watched the captivating parade unfold. At the end of the procession, a tall, ornately detailed cart was wheeled into the square by a team of white oxen, their curved horns painted gold and decorated with flowers. Gepetto clapped and cheered as we watched in rapt silence. The costumed marchers fanned out along the edges of the square as the cart reached the centre. Men danced with flags and trumpets sounded as I strained for the best camera angle. The sound of a joyous choir emanated from the cathedral, the hymn's high notes culminating with a literal BANG as fireworks began to explode from the cart in shining cacophony.

I looked over at Gepetto as the pyrotechnics display boomed and fizzled from the square. His face beamed with pride at this display of his city's rich history and long, storied tradition. He explained to us in stunted English that we had witnessed Scoppio del Carro, an Easter tradition observed since medieval times.

Red and purple smoke wafted prettily from the cart as the mob beneath us jostled for a better view, just as they must have jostled every Easter for 500 years. I knew our hotel room was well placed, but I'd had no idea just how much it would pay off. Somehow, we had managed to completely overlook Scoppio del Carro when we planned our trip, yet we were fortunate enough to have the perfect vantage point from our breakfast table. As I finally returned to my dried-out croissant, I reflected on how lucky I was to have experienced such a unique event with so many years of history behind it. Florence is an unforgettable city, but never more so than on the morning of Easter Sunday.