beyond the sea

Ciao, bella

This time tomorrow I will be back in beautiful Firenze.

If Prague smells like a delicious teenage boy then Florence smells like the neck of a bourgeois lady, one with locks of black hair and a lavender blouse. Oh, and she is prone to carrying about a white umbrella on particularily sunny days.

Third time, and it can’t get old. I cannot wait to be back. I learnt how to wear make up there. I came back with a bit less of a slouch and deciding I could never study or work in the political field because the world is filled with far too many beautiful things to be focused on the ugly. I want to drink wine on Ponte Vecchio with strangers and stumble back home past the Duomo like an annoying adolescent girl. But I’m not her anymore, and I’m not stumbling back to a home this time either. The fabulous roomates won’t be there, the lover with the vespa who hummed Hey Jude neither. Please don’t be a stranger to me, Firenze. I certainly won’t be to you.