Florence

We came to Florence looking for something we just didn’t know what. Art, maybe. Beauty. A feeling. The kind of place you’ve seen in a thousand pictures but still aren’t ready for when you step into it. The city greeted us with warm stone and a sky the color of old postcards. The streets were tight and uneven, the buildings pressed close like they were sharing secrets. People walked with purpose but never rushed. Everything here seemed to be happening on purpose. We didn’t go straight to the museums. We meant to, but Florence pulls you sideways. A street performer was playing violin under an archway, and we stopped to listen. It echoed. Everything echoed. Footsteps, laughter, music it all lingered a little longer than it should’ve, like the city didn’t want to let anything go. Somehow we ended up at a bridge, the bridge lined with gold shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in centuries. We didn’t buy anything. Just watched the Arno slide past, slow and brown and soft-edged. The water reflected everything: sky, stone, the occasional pigeon taking itself way too seriously. We climbed a hill that felt like it might never end. At the top, Florence stretched out below us in reds and browns, the Duomo rising like it had something to prove. We sat there without speaking. Sometimes the view does the talking for you. Back in the city, we wandered. Ate gelato that melted faster than we could keep up with. Got caught in a tiny rainstorm that came and went like a secret. Passed sculptures in courtyards, on corners, in niches above doorwaysart just there, not asking for attention, but demanding it anyway.