As I trek home down narrow cobblestone roads I’ve trespassed a hundred times before, I fall into company with the realization (perhaps a bit prematurely) that this may be the last time these streets will see my shadow. Appropriately, this stroll on this street glorifies each step before it. I
t is the ultimate farewell, I couldn’t have directed a more beautiful scene. My boots crunch as I leave footprints on the snow-blanketed cobblestones, a conspicuous but fleeting documentation of my existence. That delicious and satisfactory crunch is among my favorite sounds in the world and better than any song I would have sound tracked. Flakes fall softly, gently speckling my steel gray pea coat in silence and collecting in the tangled mess of dark strands poking out from beneath my black knit beanie. My street is still. No cars go by and creaky old wooden shutters are closed against the frigid day. My eyes water, stinging from the cold and I shuffle a tad faster toward home accidentally squeezing the plastic cup in my hand too tight as I exhale a cloud of condensation. Hot wine sloshes over and dyes crimson a patch of snowflakes congregating on the front of my jacket. Wine flavored snow cone. Only in Italy.
t is the ultimate farewell, I couldn’t have directed a more beautiful scene. My boots crunch as I leave footprints on the snow-blanketed cobblestones, a conspicuous but fleeting documentation of my existence. That delicious and satisfactory crunch is among my favorite sounds in the world and better than any song I would have sound tracked. Flakes fall softly, gently speckling my steel gray pea coat in silence and collecting in the tangled mess of dark strands poking out from beneath my black knit beanie. My street is still. No cars go by and creaky old wooden shutters are closed against the frigid day. My eyes water, stinging from the cold and I shuffle a tad faster toward home accidentally squeezing the plastic cup in my hand too tight as I exhale a cloud of condensation. Hot wine sloshes over and dyes crimson a patch of snowflakes congregating on the front of my jacket. Wine flavored snow cone. Only in Italy.
My hushed walk home is a welcome escape from the asphyxiating sounds of the day. All day I’ve been imagining I heard my name. Hisses and whispers barely audible but vaguely familiar in sound. Shouted Italian words with homogenous syllabus. I turn around and no one’s there. It’s like Firenze it’s self is calling out to me, whether in tender farewell or a desperate plea not to leave I do not know. On either front snow was definitely the way to go to convey this. To see the city I love, the place I’ve grown to call home transformed into a winter wonderland makes the eminent goodbyes more bitter than sweet. An afternoon spent with some unlikely but not unwelcome company exposed the city in a magical new way: clean and sparkly under fresh white powder. The Duomo turned white, People laughed and threw snowballs, and every Christmas song cliché played out beautifully across the Italian landscape, no translation needed. The city turned out in it’s best and a beautiful new coat to say it’s farewells. The perfect goodbye made me oh so sad to go and as I left puddles and soggy layers around the radiator I curled up on my old woe begotten green couch and watched the snow fall in my backyard. I found my eyes watering again but this time from something very different then the cold.
