A party of tourists stop at the edge of a magical city. It's time to say goodbye. Exchange between mobile phones, addresses, emails, remember, the heart is already on the way home. Basically we are just tourists.
doodles on the margin of a sheet of notebook travel remains a glimmer of vision. As if the trip could be resumed after a brief pause, the time for a coffee or a season. But the first drops of a thunderstorm, we bathe the face, bring us back that gleam of vision, they give us in exchange for the smell of wet earth.
Clouds on the horizon (unknown islands) slide up and down hills. A white cloud looks dark in the mirror of the street smiles, forget it.
in Florence until the end of the nineteenth century high walls, sometimes formed by the same houses that overlooks the Arno, stood along the shore, and hid from view the river and the opposite side of town, and from here, Perhaps the psychological origin of the term Oltrarno, as if to signify another place, another city. Only when Florence was capital of Italy, in 1865, formed the current lungarni (seventies), that changed forever the vision of Florence and the relationship with the river of Florence.
Only a few years before Mark Twain admired the view from the bridges of the Arno: "We did stop on the bridges and admire the Arno. It is a great river, steeped in history, four feet deep, and crisscrossed by some barges going up and down . It could plausibly be called the river if we pump into the water. These blacks and bloody Florentines call it river, and think that it really is. They maintain the illusion by building bridges over monuments. I do not understand how not be able to look with objectivity. "And then you lose the alleys of the old town, and runs through the town all night. A stranger in a strange land. Alien as the Lakota Indian in front of the fresco of the Triumph of Death in the Cemetery of Pisa, a few years later.
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