Florence. Remember when, a few months ago, I called her a cruel mistress?
I was reading a piece recently about the personality traits of Italian women, as typecast from certain Italian cities. The Florentine woman was said to be intellectual, direct, and insightful. Brooking no nonsense, and frankly too busy for the likes of you.
|We’re all amazing. And no we’re not making eye contact,|
I think it’s close.
Six months in, my thoughts go something like this: I get it. I get you, Florence. For now. A tiny bit. You’re like the seventh grade before the world had even invented junior high, but with better food, wine, and literature, obviously. You’re wealthy and comfortable. It’s a tight little club. The haves, the have nots. I’m a have-not here. I get it. Thanks. You’ve helped me see that!
|Oh, did you just move here?|
You let me walk through your streets; you share you nooks and corners with me. People who view me as a client, someone who regularly patronizes are kind; after all, I must be some kind of bread and butter. I revel in the easy-access beauty, my daily crossings of the Piazza del Duomo and Repubblica and Signoria and Azeglio. It’s frankly a bit ridiculous. How easy the aesthetics can be had.
|The Italian Navy disembarks on Piazza San Marco on a rainy Friday morning. Aren’t they dapper!|
Coffee quaffed. Aperitivi sipped. Pictures snapped. Clearly, that is why everyone is here. The secret is out.
|Flower market, Piazza della Repubblica arcades.|
I’m a flaneuse aesthete. I have a short list of things I have not yet done here:
- Palazzo Vecchio
- Top of Rinascente
- Top of Santissima Annunziata
- Been to mass in any of these churches
- Sneaked into various fine gardens
- That Pazzi thing on Borgo Pinti
- Toured my own building, although I know well its staff staircase
|Nuvoli in warm months. Check out Mr. Blue Suit Brown Shoes!|
|Not an actual picture but I hope this happens next Tuesday.|