Finding Renaissance

By Jon Hite | Founder & Creative Director at HAUS of HITE

I arrived in Florence as the late afternoon sun softened into gold, brushing the Renaissance rooftops with warmth and a sense of ancient rhythm. The city, eternal in its grandeur, felt at once cinematic and deeply lived-in—like a memory you step back into. My destination, Palazzo Tolomei, lay just beyond the chatter of the piazzas, hidden behind a quiet facade that bore the gentle patina of time.

Inside, marble floors carried the weight of centuries, creaking ever so slightly beneath my steps. Candlelight flickered in heavy mirrors, catching on dust-softened frames and casting a warm, uneven glow across walls that had clearly seen generations pass. Above me, faded frescoes stretched across vaulted ceilings—still breathtaking, though softened by time, with hairline cracks spidering through scenes of angels, muses, and gods. This was not a space polished to perfection; it was gracefully weathered, like a symphony in a minor key—resonant, soulful, and rich in depth.

Daniela welcomed me with gentle enthusiasm, her presence as storied as the palazzo itself. She spoke of the Tolomei family and the many artists who once passed through these halls—Michelangelo among them, along with other luminaries of the Florentine Renaissance. Their brushstrokes and vision still linger in the architecture, even if the colors have dimmed and the walls now hum with the quiet elegance of memory.

In my suite, the fresco above the bed was a mythological tableau, worn at the edges but no less stunning in its artistry. The figures danced in a muted palette of terracotta and sienna, their gestures frozen in a suspended, dreamlike moment. Around me, contemporary furnishings offered a soft landing—white leather sofas and velvet chairs that neither competed with nor disrupted the antique mood. It felt as though I had entered an opera set just after the final curtain call: hushed, golden, and filled with story.

I knew I would return here each evening to lie beneath that painted ceiling, letting its mythology and quiet patina settle around me like twilight on old stone. In this room, beauty wasn’t defined by perfection but by endurance—by the layers of time that whispered from every surface. With a quiet sense of reverence, I stepped back out into Florence, ready to explore the living city beyond these storied walls.

I hadn’t even unpacked before the pull of Florence dragged me into its streets. The sun had already begun its descent, casting a golden hush on the stone facades and tiled roofs. I walked fast—no map, no plan, only instinct—turning corners with the urgency of someone chasing a memory. The Duomo appeared suddenly, like a revelation. Clouds rolled in above the Baptistery of San Giovanni, their dark mass split open by a patch of brilliant blue sky. The architecture was too striking to pass without pause. I stopped and tilted my head back, framing it all in a photo. In that moment, I felt creatively charged—like every breath I took held a trace of genius once exhaled by Brunelleschi or Michelangelo.

Everywhere I looked was detail: a neon MARTINI sign buzzing above the rooftops like a mid-century ghost; a single olive tree leaning over a balustrade, reaching into the street like it had something to say; a pair of grotesque bronze knockers pressed against a wooden door, as if guarding some ancient Florentine secret. Even the windows felt curated—one wrapped in ornate metalwork, another softened by a manicured topiary in a terra-cotta pot.

Time slipped away as I collected images and moments. I had intended to eat dinner, but forgot—too spellbound by the textures and light. Hours later, I found myself back in my room, barefoot, sitting cross-legged on the bed, devouring a bag of amaretto cookies gifted at check-in. Crumbs spilled onto the sheets, but I didn’t care. I was full on wonder. Beneath fading frescoes and plastered ceilings, I fell asleep hard—dreaming of domes and doorways, of hands that carved marble and minds that shaped cities.

The next morning began with soft light filtering into the salon and the quiet clink of silverware against porcelain. I took my seat at the breakfast table where Daniela had set out baked eggs in olive oil, flaking pastries, and freshly squeezed orange juice—each item a reminder that beauty and ritual live in the smallest gestures. I lingered over my cappuccino, retelling the previous night’s wanderings, still flushed with excitement. But I had somewhere to be. Today was for the Duomo.

The walk across Florence was a blur of ochre buildings and narrow lanes opening to grand piazzas. Though I paused often to take photos, I moved with purpose, each step drawing me nearer to one of the city’s greatest marvels. As I approached the cathedral, my breath caught—not just for the scale or the intricate façade, but because I recognized the golden doors of the Baptistery. They were nearly identical to the ones I had admired for years at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco. And here I was, standing before the original. A moment of quiet recognition settled over me. The world is wide, yes—but the lineage of beauty connects us more than we think.

Climbing the Duomo was a meditation in movement. The staircase wound tightly upward, narrow and worn smooth by centuries of hands and feet. Step by step, I rose into the dome—into the genius of Brunelleschi, into the drama of Vasari and Zuccari’s frescoes. When we finally emerged above the city, the red rooftops stretched like an undulating sea beneath us. Florence glowed with time.

Back inside, I stood beneath the painted dome and studied the cracked expressions of saints and sinners alike. Time had not dulled their emotion. Then I made my way to the Baptistery—its golden ceiling a starburst of iconography, telling familiar stories with a medieval hand. These were the same narratives, the same themes—divinity, mortality, ascension—but here, rendered in tesserae and gold leaf. In that moment, I felt it: art as evolution. We refine the medium, but the message endures.

Florence does not ask for your attention—it simply takes it. By my second evening, the city had already proven itself a master of seduction. I rushed out with a kind of quiet urgency, camera in one hand, intuition in the other, propelled by the knowledge that in Florence, beauty is often hidden in plain sight and revealed to those who go looking for it.

Next on my list was the Accademia Gallery. I had come for David, as so many do, and though I expected to be impressed, I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to stand in his presence. The statue is larger than memory, larger than myth—marble turned muscle and emotion, towering and still. What struck me wasn’t just the anatomical perfection or the familiar contrapposto stance—it was the subtle asymmetry of the brows, the quiet grip of his hand, the delicate veins that pulse beneath his wrist. Michelangelo carved David not at war, but at the edge of decision. He’s still deciding, still gathering courage. I circled him slowly, reverently, and then—like a pilgrim—I returned again for a few final moments, my camera tilting up to catch new angles, each one offering a different intimacy.

But beyond David, I was surprised by what moved me just as deeply—the hall of marble busts. Row upon row, face upon face, each a frozen whisper from another century. I’ve always loved busts and oil portraits for their ability to hint at entire lives with just a jawline or a tilt of the mouth. In this hall, I was overwhelmed with abundance. Some faces seemed familiar, others haunting, but all of them impossibly still and present. I took my time, letting my imagination fill in the silences between them.

Back on the cobblestones, I wandered with no particular purpose—until I stumbled into a tucked-away antique shop. The kind of place that looks like it was designed by an eccentric grandmother and a Parisian set designer. Tiled floors in hexagonal black and terracotta, crystal chandeliers dripping from high ceilings, old globes, busts, sconces, and plates climbing the walls like a curated fever dream. Florence is filled with museums, but this was something else—curated chaos, beautiful in its own disorder. I lingered longer than I meant to, my eye chasing light across reflective surfaces.

Hunger eventually pulled me toward the Piazza del Duomo, where I had dinner reserved at Il Sasso di Dante. The table offered a front-row seat to the cathedral’s grandeur, and with the light softening and the crowds thinning, I took a deep breath and let the moment settle. A caprese salad arrived, the mozzarella impossibly fresh, tomatoes like they’d just been plucked from a sun-warmed vine. My carbonara followed—a revelation. Silky, eggy, peppered just right, the pancetta crisp and rich. It was, without question, the best carbonara I’ve ever had. For dessert: a slice of olive oil cake, understated and delicate, the way Florence reveals itself.

As I sipped the last of my wine, clouds began to gather, heavy and theatrical. Within moments, the sky darkened and the first drop fell. Then a second. Then a downpour, sudden and cinematic. The piazza erupted in motion—umbrellas sprang open, waiters rushed to cover tables, and diners laughed in disbelief. I bolted beneath the arches of the Loggia del Bigallo along with dozens of others, each of us momentarily equalized by nature.

It wasn’t just the volume of the rain—it was its drama. Thunder cracked across the sky like ancient applause. Lightning illuminated the cathedral façade in flashes, revealing its ornate pink and green marble against a thunderous, bruised sky. It was nothing short of operatic.

For forty-five minutes, I stayed under the arches, watching, recording, marveling. Some people ran through the storm with jackets over their heads; others lingered, awestruck like me. This storm, this deluge, had turned the Duomo into something else entirely—a temple caught in a myth.

Eventually, the rain eased, though puddles still rippled in the square. I stepped into the night, soaked from head to toe, my shoes squelching, my shirt clinging to me like a second skin. I ran through the narrow streets, grinning, absurdly happy. There was no way to stay dry, so I surrendered.

Back at the palazzo, I peeled off my wet clothes, took a hot shower, and climbed into bed. Above me, the saints of the fresco ceiling gathered, frozen in eternal communion. I stared up at them, letting my day unravel in reverse—from rain to pasta to marble to myth. It felt like Florence had shared a secret with me, one I wasn’t meant to explain, only to remember.

And I will.

I awoke to the soft light of Florence slipping through the window, my clothes still damp from the storm the night before. A linen shirt in sage green, picked up impulsively in Venice, had managed to dry overnight—though the same couldn’t be said for my shoes, which I set in the open window, hopeful that the Tuscan sun would finish what time hadn’t. I padded barefoot down the tiled corridor, each step a chilly reminder of my lack of preparedness, and entered the salon for breakfast, where Daniela greeted me with laughter and understanding. We exchanged tales of last night’s tempest as she poured coffee into a porcelain cup. The cappuccino was warm and comforting, an invitation to settle into the rhythm of a Florentine morning.

The breakfast was simple and perfect: baked eggs, flaky pastries dusted with sugar, and a glass of fresh-squeezed juice. Outside the windows, the city had already begun to stir, the sky washed clear after the rain. I lingered just long enough for the sun to warm the leather of my shoes, then slipped them on and stepped back into the streets, the stones still dark from the night’s storm.

The Palazzo Vecchio was my first stop, towering over the Piazza della Signoria like a sentinel of history. I wandered through its echoing halls, each chamber opening onto another, painted ceilings and carved stone whispering of power, politics, and the human impulse toward beauty. A doorway framed a glimpse of a Renaissance painting—figures in anguish, draped in sorrow and silk. And just beyond another arch, the bronze figure of Perseus stood triumphant, Medusa’s head held high, sword gleaming in the morning light.

Lunch came with a view—the very clocktower of the Palazzo rising behind a crisp Caesar salad, its ancient stonework contrasting with the delicate slivers of Parmigiano atop the lettuce. The two felt oddly alike: simple ingredients, artfully composed. I lingered over the last bite, watching the crowd swell and scatter in the piazza below.

Afterward, I crossed the Ponte Vecchio, that ancient corridor of gold and timeworn romance. Its shops glittered with jewelry and tradition, but I pressed on, past the crush of visitors, toward something quieter. I climbed upward, toward the gardens and stillness, toward the shade of towering cypress trees.

Boboli was vast and grand, but it was the moments in between—the weathered statues half-swallowed by ivy, the ancient walls faded by sun and centuries—that caught me. Far above the rooftops, the Duomo rose in the distance, its terracotta crown glowing between trees, the city stretching endlessly behind it like a painted backdrop.

I paused again at a small villa perched in the hills. Its shutters were faded green, its walls dressed in a frescoed geometry of dusty red. In front, a garden plotted with hedges in clean, deliberate lines, where roses still bloomed in the heat of late summer. I thought about all the lives that had passed through these spaces, all the morning routines, the coffee cups, the linen shirts, the steps across cold floors.

There’s something about Florence that makes you want to linger. Not just because of the beauty—though there is that, everywhere—but because the city seems to understand your pace. It never asks you to rush. It holds time differently, in slow walks and long lunches, in windows framing domes, and doorways framing paintings. By the time I made my way back down into the city, shoes finally dry, I felt as though I had been inside a museum of memory—curated not by curators, but by the city itself.

Florence doesn’t need to announce its greatness. It’s in the light falling on a statue’s shoulder, in the way pasta tastes just a little deeper here, in the worn wood of an old table under a marble bust. It’s in how you carry the day with you, long after it’s passed.

My last evening in Florence was reserved for something sacred. Not a chapel, not a cathedral—but a shop. Though to call it that is wildly insufficient. The Officina Profumo-Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella is not merely a store—it’s a centuries-old temple of fragrance, craftsmanship, and devotion to the art of living well.

Founded by Dominican friars shortly after their arrival in Florence in 1221, the Officina originally produced herbal remedies and balms using medicinal plants grown in the monastery gardens. In 1612, it opened its doors to the public and has remained in near-continuous operation ever since—quietly threading together the legacy of apothecaries, perfumers, and physicians who healed through scent and science.

I entered through an unassuming arched doorway tucked off the main street, and immediately felt the city soften around me. The cool hush of its interiors stood in stark contrast to the lively summer streets outside. Each chamber—once a chapel, pharmacy, or sacristy—was appointed with 18th-century frescoes, gleaming vitrines, and walls lined in rich walnut cabinetry. Florentine tile underfoot. Ceiling frescoes overhead. It felt like walking through time, perfumed with rose water, amber, and clove.

I was on a mission, sent by a friend to retrieve their favorite waxed botanical candles—small slabs of floral and herbal wax so beautiful they hardly needed to be lit. But as I wandered the rooms, that task became an excuse to linger. To breathe deeply. To slow down. Terracotta pomegranates infused with scent rested on glass pedestals like relics. Apothecary jars hand-painted with mythological creatures and saints lined every surface. In a side gallery, vintage perfumes and elixirs whispered of a Florence long before us.

The staff, dressed in muted uniforms as elegant as the building itself, spoke with a kind of reverence for the products—some of which are still made from the original 13th-century recipes. I chose a few candles, but also a small vial of Acqua di Colonia—not out of need, but as a talisman. A reminder of this moment, suspended in golden light and botanical perfume.

As I stepped outside, dusk had deepened into night, and the air had cooled. My bag crinkled softly with wrapped candles, and I walked with a sense of quiet fulfillment through the city’s narrow corridors. Just before turning back toward Palazzo Tolomei for my final night in Florence, I stopped at a glowing pizzeria window and ordered a single slice. I stood on the curb, savoring it slowly while the bells from a distant tower rang out across the rooftops.

Florence has a way of making even the most ordinary acts—shopping, walking, eating—feel ceremonial. And on this last night, in the perfume of Santa Maria Novella and the rhythm of my own quiet footsteps, I felt it: the joy of being not just a traveler, but a witness to beauty.