That time we went to Italy

The city center is remarkably small and we come upon the San Lorenzo square after only a few missteps. The B and B where we stayed abutted the Basilica San Lorenzo, a great old monolithic church with a dark interior and oil paintings on the walls from centuries ago. We are tired Americans though and in a hurry because I can feel my sciatic nerve trying to flare to life underneath the weight of my pack. The knocker on the door is the head of a great and fearsome looking lion. We are in Florence.

          The first thing we did in Florence was sleep. We were exhausted from the flight, from the train, from trying to make sense of the language that floated past us like a barge on a swiftly moving river. “What did she say?” “Probably something about how beautiful we are.” “That seems likely.”

          I cannot recommend highly enough that the first thing you should do in any major beautiful European city is sleep. We made the mistake in Paris of trying to take in Notre Dame after an overnight flight, and I wound up comparing it to something I built with legos when I was seven. We were not quite in the right frame of mind.

                Time, that old bastard, is linear. He’s immutable, a father who won’t pull off at a rest stop for his child to pee. Like life we are born into time, whether we’d like it or not. I like it not. And yet, fly to Italy, jump ahead in time six hours on a clock and those hours will still hang on you, calling to you, reminding you of their existence in heavy lidded eyes, cold sweats, slightly upset stomachs. Time, that old crank, is inescapable.

                By the time we reach Florence the exhilaration of travel has started to shed—a spray of water breaking against the prow. And still, we awake at seven. The sunlight creeps through our window, alighting in bed, gently pulling at our eyelids, making us warm beneath the covers. In San Marcos square, the sunlight makes ¾ of a square, the left-side is obscured by the presence of the Medici Chapel: a monolithic structure, with Gothic inspired spires and flying buttresses. On the opposite side of the square a line of street vendors has formed, hawking leather belts, shoes of all varieties, flowers—sun flowers and blue belles, and then more shoes and more belts, shirts, hats, and coats. The market, unlike the seedy seeming underbelly of most non-food related markets is one of business. In America, these types of markets are generally staffed by men with long hair and braided beards. In Italy, the proprietor looks less like a member of the Grateful Dead and more like someone who can get you a nice belt.