Colle Bereto

Tired of the study-abroaders-at-night scene, four American girls  and I followed our gracious host Antonio to the small upstairs bar overlooking Santa Maria Novella. The upstairs is small and generally packed with bodies flailing to the latest Euro-club favorite, Elvis or Britney Spears, so soon we found ourselves surrounded by Italians, glistening in the hottest fashions as we sweat ourselves sober. 

"Gli Americani non vengano qui mai." or "Americans never come here," we were told four or five times, at least two of those times by the bartender who found it in her heart to spray us down with water and aim for cleavage with ice cubes.

As hot as it was and as small as it was, this bar was the best time any of the five of us had in Italy. We danced, for fear of being the one person in the room to stand still. We met Italians - real Italians - not the Italians who show up at all American clubs looking for some blonde tail. We all lost our voices from laughing.

Go to Colle Bereto at night

‘Maria!’ ‘Maria!’ Amidst the racketing cacophony of glasses clattering and espresso machines steaming like old trains, the call of ‘Maria!’ floats above, peppering the air, saintly but urgent. Maria is manning the coffee machine. Maria is squeezing juice. Seems everyone here is called Maria.
I manage to shoulder my way into this bustling café – my boots were begging for mercy after a morning of galleries and I wanted salvation. Colle Bereto is a classic Italian eatery, located in the heart of old Florence at Santa Maria Novella. Perhaps it was the proximity to the famous cathedral that possessed me to order a Bloody Mary (a Bloody Maria?) - puree of tomato with a devilish kick.   
After the cocktail has done its soothing, I order coffee and pastry and let the atmosphere possess me. I watch the locals dining outside, lit by the Italian sun; I watch the locals inside, sitting at the bar, basking in the caffeine aura of Maria. As she serenely pulls another macchiato, the calling of ‘Maria!’ continues unabated. It even spills over into the pastries, as Canoli Maria, and Zabaglione Maria slide across the bar. 
I want to go back – I’ll just have to scratch out my name in my passport and replace it with ‘Maria’.