A cup of coffee in hand, I look out of my third floor apartment window. I hear the people of Florence below debating where to eat in between light drags on cigarettes.
There is an artistry native to this city. Women wear blazers as ornaments to be draped over their slim shoulders.
We gather at the cathedral steps to sit and worship the holy panino everyday at noon.
My Sunday walks lead me in to streets lined with dinner tables. Wine glasses wide enough to hold an entire bottle catch my eye. I take note of the restaurant’s name and continue my leisure.
A bespoke shoemaker’s studio sits between a gelato shop and an art gallery. A pair of gator boots stand proud in the window display. The sign says “closed” but the two orange tabby cats at the door looking out from inside spark my curiosity.
I turn a corner and I’m greeted by a little boy on a big bike wobbling toward me.
On the cobblestone roads we glide gracefully or fall spectacularly.