Florence, summer of 2023. Thirty-five degrees. Gelato melting faster than dignity. A drone takes off, and chaos takes over.
The Summer of “Professional Development”
That year, I was traveling through Europe under the noble banner of professional growth.
In truth, I was twenty-two, broke, just left university, quite curious, and pretending to know what “freelance facilitator” really meant.
I’d joined a youth exchange somewhere in the rolling green hills near Perugia – that postcard region where every hill seems to have its own church, and where Italian movies show you families having dinner in the courtyard. When our schedule announced a “free day,” someone said Florence, and that was that.
Florence. Firenze. City of art, city of chaos, and most importantly, the setting of Assassin’s Creed II, which had taught my 20-year old self that climbing cathedrals was a legitimate career path.
T stands for Troublemaker
It was one of those days where it seems like our very Bulgarian car looked like it was allergic to air-conditioning. Ten minutes into the city, we accidentally drove into a Zona Traffico Limitato, a mystical place where cars are forbidden and fines appear out of thin air. Fine. (not literally, luckily).
Google Maps chirped something cheerful like “You have arrived!” – and nearly cost us 300 euros.
We parked somewhere vaguely legal, and stumbled into the square of the Basilica di San Lorenzo. We were instantly swallowed by the smells of roasted chestnuts, espresso, and the collective sighs of sunburnt tourists.
Lift-Off
That’s when inspiration struck.
My friend had a drone. I had artistic ambition. The light was cinematic – golden, syrupy, bouncing off the terracotta rooftops. What could possibly go wrong?
I launched it. The propellers hummed. The crowd looked up. I felt like the Michelangelo of aerial cinematography.
Then the screen blinked:
“⚠️ You are not permitted to fly in a restricted area.”
Seconds later, the controls froze.
The drone wobbled mid-air like a drunk mosquito. I frantically tapped the joystick. Nothing.
A light summer breeze nudged it gently… toward the Basilica.
There was the briefest moment of hope, followed by a delicate fwup! as it tangled itself into the scaffolding net. Because, of course, the Basilica had turned into a construction site. Lucky for me.
The drone was stuck twenty meters above the ground. Perfectly visible. Utterly unreachable.
The Panic Phase
I handed the phone to my friend. “Secure the perimeter,” I said, as if we were in a Mission Impossible movie. He nodded solemnly, which meant: “I’ll tell tourists not to walk under the flying death machine.”
Meanwhile, I approached a nearby security guard.
He gave me the kind of smirk that only middle-aged Italian men who’ve seen everything can give.
“Well, well, well. You’re going to have to figure that out yourself.”
“Call the police on yourself!”
Excellent. A DIY arrest kit.
The Bureaucratic Odyssey
As any sensible foreigner who doesn’t want to go to prison would do, I wanted to look for support.
Step one: call the Bulgarian embassy. Closed. It was Friday, obviously Italians close earlier.
I called the regional police. They transferred me to the local police.
Then, I called the local police. The local police transferred me back to the regional police. I was now a bureaucratic ping-pong ball.
After twenty minutes of beeps and broken Italian, the operator triumphantly concluded:
“Ah, so you are in front of your hotel and locked in your car?”
I facepalmed so hard pigeons flew away.
“No, no, my drone! My drooo-NE!”
“Ahhh, droooone!”
Progress!
Finally, someone understands! They told me to call the firefighters.
I did. They listened patiently, then replied:
“No problem! We can come… in three days.”
Three. Days.
I imagined the drone slowly disintegrating under the Tuscan sun, dripping lithium battery bits onto tourists. I politely suggested that if it fell and killed someone, perhaps they’d like to sign a statement absolving me of responsibility.
There was a pause. Then:
“Send us a picture. On WhatsApp.”
The Evidence
So there I was, under the basilica, dramatically pointing upward while my friend filmed, like a B-movie actor reenacting an alien sighting.
I sent the video. Two minutes later, a message arrived:
“We come in two hours. But first, we will need to call the police.”
The Spectacle
Two hours later, me and my friend were sitting on the stairs in front of the Basilica. Three women in floral blouses strutted toward us, handbags swinging. I assumed they were tourists. Then they flashed police badges. Italian aunties. Undercover law.
They took our IDs and I tried, through Google Translate, to explain that I wasn’t a criminal, it was just a very foolish artistic attempt on my side.
We waited on the basilica steps. A street musician appeared – because of course he did – and started strumming “Hey There Delilah.”
A crowd gathered. One hundred people. Maybe two hundred. Children pointed. Pigeons judged. I began composing my obituary.
And then… the sirens.
Not one, but two firetrucks roared into the square, scattering tourists like pigeons before the storm. The scene looked straight out of a Fellini movie: gelato dripping, people holding their breath, firefighters extending a shiny ladder toward the heavens.
One heroic firefighter climbed up, slowly, and reached out, as he plucked the drone from the net.
The crowd went wild. Applause echoed against the ancient stones. I was the accidental protagonist of Florence’s weirdest street performance.
The Aftermath
I slowly started walking towards the firetruck in a walk of shame, as all eyes were on me. The firefighter handed me the drone like a sacred relic. The police asked for the serial number. I braced for bankruptcy.
Instead, one of the auntie-officers smiled and said:
“No problem. Go.”
Just like that.
So I did what any rational person would do after public humiliation: I left quickly, bought the biggest gelato I could find and walked aimlessly through the streets of Florence, laughing with my friend, trying to look like a normal tourist again.
Somewhere, deep in an Italian newsroom archive, I like to think there’s a headline that reads:
“Foreign Tourist Rescued by Firefighters After Basilica Drone Incident.”
But for me, it’s just yet another weird memory – proof that travel is unpredictable, bureaucracy is eternal, and when in doubt, always get the gelato first.
Travel Notes
- Location: Basilica di San Lorenzo, Florence, Italy
- Temperature: Hot enough to melt your common sense
- Mood: 70% panic, 30% slapstick
- Lesson learned: Read the drone rules before take-off
- Gelato flavor: Chocolate, for emotional balance
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