I am getting some work done in a hipster café in
Florence. There are shouts of “Ciao!” and fedoras and tattoos and studded biker
boots everywhere.
I people-watch, taking in all the little details, like an insurgent into the
Italian culture, although not a very good one. I feel so pale and unstylish and
quiet next to them, but as if by being in their presence, I’m soaking in their
passion and appreciation for life. No wonder people flock to this country. Why
can’t we live like this? Eat dinner on the floor as you await your
train, but still pour your beer into plastic glasses? Take your dog to dinner
and on the metro? Close most shops and restaurants on Sundays? All the touching
and the kissing?
I couldn’t find my platform
at the train station yesterday. (The station being called, by the way, Santa Maria Novella. I mean! Try saying that three times without falling in love.) Of course
there were no signs. I asked a dude wearing very colorful shoes and very
colourful glasses, and he pointed out where I needed to go, and then walked me
there, his hand on my arm in the most unsleazy way possible. I wished I could tell him how much it
made my day.
*
I slept till 10 again today. Actually,
10:30. Then I had cake for breakfast.
I’ve given up even trying to
be good. I’m only in Italy a few more days.
A guy in his thirties and a
boy are having a plastic swordfight behind me on the street
There is a waitress in here
with a t-shirt that says “make coffee not war”
And a girl with her cat on a
leash.
People make hand gestures
about the traffic, here, even when they’re riding the bus
And there is not a Starbucks
in sight.
You just want to inhale it
and bring it all with you.
*
I take myself out for dinner,
to a little restaurant on the other side of the river, away from the tourist
hubbub.
“I’m eating more bread!” I
text Morgan, after I order. “WHERE
ARE YOU?”
Morgan, having
spent the day at the Uffizi with her mom and aunt, is drinking wine. We talk about food, and
boys, and about wanting something-but-not-everything. Even though we only
spent two days together, it feels weird to be enjoying Tuscan food without her.
I send her a photo of my appetizer, which is an undefinable combination of bread,
olives and cheese, and makes me – you guessed it – want to get down on my knees and cry.
“What is that?” Morgan
demands. “What’s inside it?”
“I don’t know!" I reply. "Savory fluffy bread?”
Fortunately, she actually
knows what this means.
After my main course, I order
dessert – panna cotta, which is so
light yet succulent, it's practically levitating. I share my order with Morgan.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," I say.
“You’re in Italy,” she points
out. “There is only so much correct with you.”
Wiser words have never been
spoken. I order another glass of wine, just to make sure. And then I walk back to the train station, under the full moon of the Tuscan night.
Beautiful writing. I want to travel. Thank you.
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