A current of fluorescent back-packs flows steadily between the sights while black umbrellas, incongruous in the Mediterranean sun, are held above the crowds by tour reps, like buoys around which to navigate to your next destination.
It can be difficult, especially on a short trip such as I was on, to avoid being carried along by the smooth muscle of the masses, occasionally cast up onto the steps of another 'unmissable' monument or museum, only to be dragged back into the noisy human tide that seems to ebb and flow according to the Uffizi's opening times.
On a recent visit, however, I cut myself adrift from the crowds and, wandering through the dark back streets, by chance came across a little church sitting brightly in the middle of a cobbled square. Although unremarkable in itself, unusually for a city where most buildings of interest are open to the public, its main doors seemed to be bolted shut. My curiosity aroused, I tried a small side-chapel door I had noticed.
Inside, my eyes adjusting to the light, several candles smoked sombrely in the shadows. I could hear the faint sound of singing and, treading silently, made my way over to what I assumed was the entrance to the main church, grateful for the momentary relief from the stifling afternoon heat.
I had almost reached the connecting door when, out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly noticed what could only be an open coffin, its lid leaning precariously against the altar. My heart beating fast, I looked around to make sure no-one had seen me and slowly approached the casket, taking care not to trip up on the uneven marble floor and fall headlong into it.
As I got closer I could make out feet, then a black dress and, finally, a gentle old woman with a fierce knot of white hair, the loose flesh of her hands tightly clasping a rosary. I had never seen a dead person before and I stood, motionless, for several minutes, the faint scent of incense and disinfectant tickling my nose.
As I watched, the play of colours across her face from the stained glass window directly overhead seemed to animate her worn and now translucent skin until, half expecting her to wake at any moment, I could have sworn she began to smile.
Abruptly I heard voices from the church, and I retreated guiltily back across the chapel under the watchful eye of a delicately frescoed Madonna and Child who frowned down on my intrusion until I had closed the door behind me.
Back in the warmth of the square, and feeling somewhat exhilarated at my brush with death, I wondered about the old lady - who was she and how many people like her had been laid out in that chapel over the centuries while others had come to mourn, or like me ogle?
But my thoughts were interrupted as the doors of the church were thrown back to the sound of organ music and a thick shower of confetti. People spilled out and a newlywed couple appeared on the steps, happy and smiling. I found myself engulfed, swept along by the delirious crowd as they hugged and kissed and clapped, apparently unaware of the lifeless guest lying nearby, a silent witness to their union.
Later, after the square had cleared, I headed back to the noisy familiarity of the ice-cream stands and postcard stalls, my little excursion having led to rather more excitement than I had bargained for. But it seemed strangely appropriate that I should have witnessed this powerful illustration of the cycle of life against a backdrop of a city that has seen just about everything over the centuries. After all, where better to see love and death side-by-side, than the city of the Medici?
JDR Twining visited Florence in June 2001
