"He says the tower was built in the year 900," I translated to the others.

     "Piano piano, attento la testa!" Don Gamberucci called gaily to me.

     `Watch your head and go slowly, he says!" I called to the muffle of bodies below me. Clambering onto a platform we observed four beautifully ancient bells in the purple evening dusk.

     "They are endangered bells," I translated, "so they aren't played anymore, but he'll let us just hear their tone, which he says is still perfect."

     Don Gamberucci demonstrated how we could ever so gently pull the heavy tongue and touch it against the edge of the bell. The resulting sound was worth the entire trip. Each bell had its own exquisite tone, and together they made up the tone of Italy. Everyone was hushed, mesmerized by the magical sound echoing across the vale of Florence far below.

     Half an hour before the ceremony was to begin, everyone except two of my friends had departed for the church. Yet these friends disappeared as the makeup artist was finishing and I found myself alone. The more the minutes passed with no return of my friends, whose support I desperately needed, the more anxious I became.

     I tried to put my dress on but it was impossible to get either the dress or the corset over my head by myself. By the time I arrived at the church, with crooked corset and frazzled nerves, the only feeling I had was of wanting to burst into tears.

     During the ceremony the priest charmed everyone with his enthusiasm, which shone through without need for a common language. And I knew, once I was able to breathe again, that the ancient church filled with afternoon sunlight on the Florentine hill was the most perfect church in the world.

     Sunset found us at Piazzale Michelangelo's terrace bar. We had drinks and hors d'oeuvres overlooking the dreamy panorama of Florence, which Mark Twain so eloquently described:

     "To see the sun sink down, drowned in its pink and purple and golden floods, and overwhelm Florence with tides of color that make all the sharp lines dim and faint and turn the solid city to a city of dreams, is a sight to stir the coldest nature and make a sympathetic one drunk with ecstasy."

     At Daniele's intimate trattoria we sat around one long table and in genuine Tuscan fashion ate, drank and made merry for more than three hours. Even my quiet new husband seemed to take on Italian mannerisms that night, waving his hands, having a few conversations at once, and giving a speech about passion and food.

     We closed down the trattoria with everyone on their feet, swaying together with linked arms, singing "Aulde Lang Syne."

     Back home in Silicon Valley I wrote a letter to the mayor of Florence, singing the praises of the Florentines who made our wedding so special, and thanking the city for allowing me to have my dream. The mayor, in keeping with the genuine nature of our experience, sent back a hand-written card, thanking me for my "beautiful words for Florence and her people."

Also, to read an interview with a recent Florence bride, please see Bridal Bliss in Florence.

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