Ode to a Narrow Street

So long, Florence.

Your pizza, pasta, and pastries were exquisite. 

Crunchy cherry gelato times two. 

Mouth-watering delights worth the walk.

Duomo and David stand proud, calling to the people of the world, come look at us, incarnations of Italian bravado and beauty.

The words and names mispronounced over and over: Fiesole, frizzante, San Frediano.

Bookstores (always!). English-language trades to lighten our load, quiet coffee shop for morning work sessions, and the grand theatre where Joaquin and Gaga relieved our movie drought.  

Lovecraft bourbon after eventually growing tired of Chianti Classico. 

Narrow streets. Narrower walkways of uneven cobblestones. Cars, garbage trucks, scooters, bicycles zipping by. Stay alert. Look back before stepping out and letting the mother with her stroller past. 

Better yet, cut through the ally, past the church to get to the Arno with the wider path. Last night's rain has it running high and the sound of the water flowing over the dam drowns out the traffic noise.