This is not a travelogue or an account of a holiday, it is a love letter and I haven’t written many of those.
I didn’t realise it would happen
like this. I thought only romantics fell in love with you. Carb-sluts,
middle-aged divorced women, those who fall in amore all the time like I would
like to, perfectly turned out men - gay and straight, people who pick Romeo and
Juliet as their favourite Shakespeare play.
I’d been to Florence before
twelve years ago and two years ago, and she had already flirted with my mind
and my spirit. But I was there both times with my greatest friends in the world
and I could be anywhere with them and soar with laughter and a satisfied soul.
So I think I ignored it a little. I ignored the feeling walking the streets
gave me, the calmness and yet awe I felt in the presence of the great religious
architecture. My affinity in the worship of coffee.
And then I went back there and
slowly it crept up on me.
