Florence in July is a pressure cooker with better architecture. I’m not saying that to be dramatic or to sound like some jaded travel influencer who thinks they’re too good for the Duomo. I’m saying it because on July 14, 2018, at exactly 3:15 PM, I almost threw up on a group of teenagers from Dusseldorf because the heat radiating off the stone in Piazza della Signoria hit 39 degrees Celsius and my brain just checked out. I had spent forty minutes in a line that hadn’t moved, clutching a lukewarm bottle of water that cost five euros, surrounded by the smell of hot asphalt and too many people wearing heavy cologne. It was miserable. I hated the city. I hated the statues. I even hated the gelato, which was melting down my arm faster than I could eat it.
If you go between June and August, you aren’t seeing Florence. You’re seeing a theme park version of it where everyone is angry, sweaty, and overcharged. It’s a scam. We’ve been conditioned to think summer is the time for Europe, but for Florence, it’s the absolute worst possible window.
The November sweet spot (and why I was wrong)
I used to tell everyone to go in May. I thought the flowers in the Boboli Gardens were worth the rising prices. I was completely wrong. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently: May is just ‘Summer Lite.’ It’s already getting crowded, and the ‘shoulder season’ prices are a myth invented by hotels to keep their occupancy up.
Now? I go in November. Or late February. People think I’m crazy because it rains. It does rain. It’s gray. The Arno looks like a giant bowl of muddy soup. But you know what you don’t have? A two-hour wait to see a piece of marble. In November, the city feels like it belongs to the people who actually live there again. You can walk into a trattoria without a reservation made three weeks in advance. You can actually see the floor of the Uffizi, which—fun fact—is actually quite beautiful when it’s not covered by thousands of pairs of sneakers.
I might be wrong about this, but I think the city is actually more beautiful when it’s moody. The stone looks darker. The streetlights reflect off the puddles in these narrow alleys, and for a second, you can actually imagine what it felt like in 1450. You can’t do that in July when there’s a guy with a selfie stick hitting you in the ear every five seconds.
The best version of Florence is the one where you have to wear a coat.
The numbers don’t lie
I’m a bit of a nerd about this, so I actually tracked my wait times over my last four trips. I’m not a scientist, but the data is pretty damning. I logged the time from joining the queue to entering the Accademia (to see the David, obviously) at roughly the same time of day across different years:
- June 2019: 144 minutes.
- October 2021: 38 minutes.
- November 2022: 12 minutes.
- February 2023: 6 minutes.
You are literally trading hours of your life for the privilege of seeing the city when it’s at its most expensive. It makes zero sense. Also, hotel rates in November are usually 40% lower than in September. I stayed at a place near Santa Maria Novella for €110 a night in November that was listed for €285 in June. It’s the same bed. The same breakfast. Just fewer people screaming in the hallway at 7 AM.
A hill I will die on: The Duomo is a letdown
This is the part where people get mad at me. Everyone tells you that you HAVE to go inside the Duomo. You see the photos of the dome and the marble facade and you think it’s going to be life-changing. It’s not. The outside is a masterpiece. The inside? It’s a warehouse. It’s surprisingly plain, kind of dark, and after you’ve waited ninety minutes in the sun to get in, the payoff is just… underwhelming. I refuse to recommend it to my friends anymore. Look at the outside, take your photos, and then go spend your time at the Bargello or literally anywhere else.
Speaking of things I refuse to recommend: All’Antico Vinaio. I know, I know. It’s the most famous sandwich shop in the world. It’s all over social media. I actively tell people to avoid it. I’ve stood in that line once—for 55 minutes—and the bread was dry and the meat was just fine. It’s a tourist trap masquerading as heritage. Go to I’ Girone De’ Ghiotti instead. There’s rarely a line, the truffle cream is actually good, and you don’t feel like a sheep being herded through a social media experiment.
Anyway, I’m getting off track. The point is about timing.
The light is different in the winter
There is this specific thing that happens in Florence in late January and February. The air is crisp—like, really sharp—and the light hits the yellow buildings in a way that makes everything look like a painting. It’s not the hazy, humid light of summer. It’s clear. It’s the Uffizi is basically a very high-end IKEA for people who like Jesus paintings, but when you see that art in the winter light, it actually makes sense why they painted it that way.
Is it cold? Yeah. It’s damp-cold, too, the kind that gets into your bones. But that’s why they invented ribollita and heavy red wine. You haven’t lived until you’ve ducked into a tiny, wood-paneled hole-in-the-wall to escape a November drizzle and had a bowl of bread soup that costs eight euros and tastes better than anything you’ve ever had in a Michelin-starred restaurant.
If you absolutely must go when it’s warm, go in late September. But even then, you’re pushing it. The crowds are starting to thin, but the mosquitoes—and let’s talk about the Florence mosquitoes for a second, because they are basically small drones designed to ruin your sleep—are still out in full force. In November, the mosquitoes are dead. That alone is worth the trip.
I don’t know why we all feel the need to travel when everyone else is traveling. Maybe it’s a FOMO thing. Or maybe we just like the sun. But for me, I’d rather have a gray sky and a city I can actually breathe in than a blue sky and a panic attack in a crowd. Go in the off-season. Wear a scarf. Eat the soup.
Does it make me a snob if I prefer the city when it’s empty and miserable? Maybe. I genuinely don’t know if I’d even like Florence if I only ever saw it in July. I think I’d just remember the sweat.