#23: Photographs

At the Florence Market

“Hello, watchesss.” The sinister hiss sends chills down my spine. A seemingly disembodied arm, dark and wiry, reaches for my face, as if about to grab my nose and run off with it, disappearing into the crowd. Deprive me of a nose! No difference, I left my nose in Rome. The arm takes sight from me instead, blinding me with dazzle and sparks an inch from my face. My eyes become accustomed to the stars of light and after a long second I begin to see other things: a crown, a “G” and its inverted partner, a stylized “D” on an iridescent faux leather wristband – trash quality, the watch will break in a week, I tell myself.

A good meal on a fleeting temptation? Beauty over brains, form over function, fashion over common sense. I hesitate to dò un’occhiata – I am only here to look, and bask in the lucid dichotomy.

Seven stars beckon
Fool’s gold, glass gemstones – you know
When the watch is cheap

The View

Rustic Roman stones and high walls hide more subtle gems, ones that do not dazzle right away, but with appeal growing slowly over time, like a fine wine. My path of chalky gravel and dust clouds meets a stairwell, at which point I concede that all profound thoughts and observations must be temporarily placed on hold. I have always been paranoid about going up stairs and must focus all my mental faculties on conquering each step. Otherwise, I know I will stumble embarrassingly and raise another unsightly cloud of dust, much to the amusement and subsequent dismay of those farther down the stairs. Shawn would give me a quizzical eyebrow and ask if I am wearing the forbidden flip-flops.

I shudder at the thought and look down at my feet, taking care to observe only the steps and nothing else. Behind me is a strange quiet. Where is everyone? Oh, they have run ahead, past the emerald lawns bedecked with trees bearing oranges still green and unripe. End of summer, but the fruit has yet to fall. The trees offer another sort of fallen fruit - a pigeon with a broken wing, speckled with the light trickling down through the leaves. It blinks and cocks its head ever so slightly as I pass. These little things that tear at the heart are glimpsed only if one is willing to move at a slower pace.

The view! Everywhere there is a yellow haze blanketing the churches, the monuments, the ruins. Smog – the best of the old meets the worst of the new. I am disgusted and turn away.

Walk to Civita

How dare they laugh! I was simply trying to get a better look at the footbridge to Civita, which was no more than a thin grey noodle peppered with humanoid dots of seasoning from where I was. Also, a tour group - identified by the prevalence of fanny packs, cameras slung around necks, and matching lanyards - was about to box me in by the overlook’s railing, jockeying for the best spots to take a photo. After extracting myself from what was probably the first Civitaean mosh pit ever, I ran to catch up with the rest of the group.

Bad choice of locomotion! An open-air restaurant filled with Italian locals was just around the corner, and the men at the tables began to clap rhythmically, inexplicably, while the women chuckled and tittered. A comedian? A show, perhaps? My first thoughts. I stopped jogging and looked around for the source of the hilarity. None found; I then realized that all eyes were on me, my red blouse and blue jeans, hair sweaty and disheveled, sandals that sharply slapped the dirt with each hurried step. “Hello, running Chinese.” I was the source of the evening’s entertainment – the silly girl with yellow skin and quick feet.

My blush trumps sunsets
Light laughter soundtracks running
But the hilltown calls