Nobody ever looks at Florence.
All you see are people looking into maps or cameras, posing for pictures and checking screens to see how their hair looks and decide if it’s a keeper.
There is so much missed detail intricately woven and neatly stitched into every wrinkle of this city: each square centimeter sullied with sophistication. You will find finely flirting florals in geometric arrangement, in between circles and polygons and swirls, jumping, swimming, and nodding to each other. You will find colorful stone, carved and mounted flawlessly, ceilings of raised roses, falling at you, chanting “Empty space is the enemy. Empty space must be defeated.” It would take years to really see the façade of a single church, any church.
There are those who come here to revel in this splendor of swirls and strokes — imagining they are worldly and important; wining and chiming their intelligent thoughts into intelligent conversations. And there are those who look for its flaws, look at the tourists while they scorn and laugh and cheat them with a smile — readily rejecting its beauty to find a point of contempt.
But nobody is ever really looking at Florence.
The smell of gasoline on a busy intersection,
Car is challenging Taxi is challenging Vespa.
But Biker always wins.
Everyone here is late for a 14:00 board meeting, Or something much more important than me. It makes me feel safe.
I can leisurely scan an endless line of faces and shoes, With an unlimited supply of vivid expressions, And a beautiful lineup of maps.
This is where I want to be. Surrounded by laughter and commotion In a language I can only recognize as city life.