The leather smell was everywhere. Mornings, it was the first thing that registered in my mind, and at night it lingered in my hair and clothes. I didn’t mind; indeed, I liked it enough to bring some of it into my room, in the form of a new jacket. Ultimately, once my nose got used to the smell it blended into the Florentine backdrop, overshadowed by the dazzling art and architecture.
That was before I knew about the bag, a textured dark-red leather handbag that was incredibly smooth and supple to the touch. The thin, ethereal material demanded careful handling. I gingerly guided it off the shelf and immediately discovered that its color changed dramatically depending on the quality of the light. A deep wine-red in the shop corner’s dim shade, it was absolutely striking under the intense fluorescent light, where it glowed like blood and muscle and life. The rich aroma had a unique depth that revived my leather-weary nose.
But was it worth 65 euro? What an exorbitant amount for such a small purse, no matter how attractive. The burly shopkeeper quoted bags more than twice its size at around 80 euro. I tried to bargain and offered 50, only to be rebuffed with a gruff “No!” and something that sounded like “great quality.” I agreed on the quality remark, but I was sure I could easily find the same bag at a much lower price somewhere in the hundreds of other shops and stalls outside. Or at least a nicer shopkeeper. 55 euro? 60? Still, “No!” and “Ma, no. Non mai!” Never, he said, and he refused to settle for anything less than 65 euro. “Great quality.”
So I stepped back out into the sun and bustle of the San Lorenzo market, on a quest for the perfect Mindy-bag. Everywhere I saw flashes of red from the purses lining the stalls, and I was reminded of the wine-red gem I had just left behind. I stopped occasionally and pointed at various red items, and miraculously a six-foot pole would appear in the merchant’s hand to retrieve them for me. Invariably, I was not satisfied. Too crimson. Too shiny. Too stiff. Was that even leather? That felt like plastic.
The Duomo and a date with Michelangelo’s David distracted me from the quest, but each day I took some time to walk through San Lorenzo or Mercato Nuovo to chase those glints of red leather. Each day I returned to the hotel with nothing. Nothing was good enough, and no other stall had the same bag in stock.
Living above San Lorenzo was at first a blessing, a dependable kind of daily aromatherapy. But now it was a curse, and my heightened awareness of the enticing leather smell that wafted in through the hotel’s breakfast room windows each day was paralyzing. Every time I smelled leather, I thought of that bag’s warm, robust scent. Its luxurious silkiness was beyond compare. After one too many trips wading through the market, I braced myself and returned to the only place that sold it – the one with the stubborn shopkeeper.
Who was no less stubborn that day, it turned out. He opened with 70 euro, and told me that the earlier “group discounted price” of 65 was no longer valid. I was indignant. His colleague (or should I say accomplice?), an older and very severe-looking man - this did not bode well – produced a calculator, and after a flutter of his fingers punched the keys forcefully. The display shoved in my face read 70. I shook my head vigorously and took the calculator from his wrinkled hands. Just as forcefully I tapped out a 60 and passed it back to him. Without a word, he clicked the keys and dropped the calculator into my still outstretched hand with a venomous look of disgust. 70 again. He would not budge. “What about 65?” I asked in my most confident Italian. No such luck. His finger jabbed the calculator so violently that the display rippled blue and black. They refused to spare me even 5 euro. Criminal. Once more, I turned and left, this time with a slight pang of disappointment.
Like a scarlet cloud that always hovered over my head, the memory of the Florentine bag followed me all the way to Venice and haunted my return to Rome. With every glass of red wine, I was reminded of its living, shimmering red. It mocked me at every turn, at every leather shop I visited, and with every purse I saw. Its distinctive smell even made its way into my dreams.
On our next trip to Florence, I left my common sense behind and went back to the same shop. And bought the red bag. To make that merciless cloud disappear? Worth every penny of the 65 euro I paid (I think everyone had gotten better at bargaining by then). I told myself I would deal with my damaged pride and bank account later.
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