In Florence, the age-old Italian saying tutto il mondo fa paese, or the whole world is a village, has come to pass. The ancient city counts on welcoming larger and larger hordes of tourists to bolster its economy. Elsewhere, this kind of globalization has caused as many and as diverse conflicts as modernization used to cause in the transition from traditional societies. But Florence never really modernized: It proudly held on to its traditions and preserved its Renaissance monuments, paintings, and sculptures, as well as whatever ancient pavestones could be salvaged.

This causes inevitable problems. On the way from the airport, my taxi driver pointed to a castle-type structure standing in the way of the projected airport extension. “We need a longer runway to bring in more tourists, on larger airplanes,” he said, “but the politicians can’t agree on whether to move or destroy this useless building.”

Upon entering the city, he cursed the communal administration for having established an elaborate, irrational network of one-way streets. At my renovated hotel, my lavish room featured a luxurious bathroom of snow-white marble — with stark-black, inlaid Medici insignias on the floor and bathtub. But the lighting was poor. Upon looking out onto Piazza Santa Maria Novella, I beheld a huge, enclosed building site — just one of the historical locations that legislators had voted to restore, but for nearly two years have been unable to agree on how to do so.

To get “hard” information, I looked for a copy of Eugenio Scalfari’s La Repubblica. Lo and behold, copies of that formerly slim, informative newspaper now weigh a few pounds and resemble the New York Post or Boston Globe, with arresting headlines and massive advertising. Mr. Scalfari sold La Repubblica and has been reduced to writing a Sunday column — when I was there, it was about the latest Italian elections.

Having followed Italian politics for years, I was not surprised that Silvio Berlusconi (the founder of the right-wing party Forza Italia and, according to Forbes, the third-richest Italian) had once again been elected as prime minister. Italian politicians, such as Giulio Andreotti, have been in and out of high offices in a succession of governments ever since the early 1950s. Still, I asked those of my old friends who now reside in Florence why no one I know had voted for him.

“You only know intellectuals,” said one, “but his populist messages, which were aired on the many television networks and in the newspapers he owns, appealed to our uneducated fellow citizens.” Another refused to talk about “this awful subject.”

They all complained that life in Florence is not what it used to be; that the air is polluted; that too many groups of tourists are clogging the inner city, and that wealthy foreigners are buying up nearby farms.

“This is a danger,” one professor said, “because Tuscany’s economy depends on the growth of olives and grapes, that is, on the export of its olive oil and wine, and especially on tourism.” Thus Florence needs more and more tourists, who in turn interfere with its residents’ comfort as well as with the protection of its antiquities. Also, vineyards and olive trees must be saved, even though the presence of affluent foreigners is a boon for the region’s economy.

All of my professional friends now live in the hills above the city, in Fiesole, Settignano, and beyond. The views from their palatial villas and immense gardens bring to mind Caravaggio’s paintings, and stories by Henry James and E.M. Forster. As do the properties of the European University’s La Badia, and New York University’s La Pietra — the site of my international conference on “Psychoanalysis and Art.”

I first visited Florence when I was 12. My family then lived in Vienna, and my mother, my younger brother, and I were sightseeing before spending the rest of the summer in nearby Viareggio. I desperately tried to understand Italian while walking around the city’s nearly deserted streets. Like everyone else, I was overawed by the enormous, nude statue of Michelangelo’s David in front of the Palazzo Vecchio. I wanted to find out what was happening behind the high walls in narrow walkways, some of them spooky to me, as we headed for the most famous ice cream parlor on the Piazza della Signoria. (In 1937, refrigerators were a luxury, and ice cream a rare Italian delicacy.)

That June, my paternal grandmother had bought me a camera for my birthday, an “expensive” Box Tengor. Few of my friends possessed cameras. I proudly had mine slung around my neck and shoulder by its leather strap. After savoring our ice cream, we headed for the Ponte Vecchio. Suddenly, I realized that my camera was gone. I panicked, and my mother scolded me. Nevertheless, we retraced our steps, and I soon was overjoyed to find my prized possession on the chair where I had left it.

I didn’t get back to Florence until 1956. By then, the city barely had recovered from World War II. Its buildings were grimy. The Uffizi Gallery was not yet restored. But beneath its archways, or portici, and on the Ponte Vecchio, vendors of fine leather goods, embroidery, and other handmade productions were promoting their wares. Like every self-respecting American I succumbed, and combined sightseeing with shopping.

In 1958, after moving to Milan with my husband, Robert Kurzweil, and my children, we spent many weekends in Florence. We looked at its art and savored red meat — which as yet was unavailable elsewhere at the beginning of the so-called miracolo Italiano. Before long, thousands of enterprising Italians started small businesses. Many of these now are world-renowned industries — from machine tools and furniture to automobiles and architecture, and from woolens and silks to jewelry and stylish clothing. Florence’s artisans slowly mechanized their shops. Its fashion industry began to flourish. Its “pure” Italian language soon replaced local dialects, such as Bresciano, Bergamasco, and Piedmontese.

While studying Italian entrepreneurship at Turin’s Fondazione Agnelli, I again revisited Florence. Modernization had proceeded apace. In the late 1950s, for instance, only a few roaring motorcycles regularly had disturbed our sleep, but with prosperity their number had increased, so that eventually they were banned from the city’s center. But as soon as their owners were able to afford cars, the streets became more and more congested. By 1999, the area around the Palazzo Pitti appeared to have turned into a parking lot. Now, Florence’s residents are upset because their cars are banned from the center.

How much more crowded would this city be with the desired number of tourists, I kept asking myself — while trying to avoid bumping into visitors from all of Europe, from China, Australia, and Japan, as well as from Italy. Groups of between 10 and 30 were following guides holding umbrellas, crowding narrow, bumpy sidewalks — a phenomenon we are beginning to see in New York. Only time will tell whether Florence will be able to withstand the damage the hoped-for masses of tourists are bound to cause, while preserving the precious past that attracts them.

Ms. Kurzweil is the former editor of Partisan Review and University Professor Emeritus, Adelphi University. Her most recent book is “Full Circle: A Memoir.”