Here, the city of Florence is all encompassing, cobblestone roads and terracotta buildings stretching along narrow streets. There are only people, dogs, and pigeons here. In spite of its beauty, there are only a few oases of green. One block away is a tiny park of trampled grass and cigarette butts. But go one more block and you’ll reach a beautiful plaza with a wisteria bush just beginning to bloom. The cars circle round and round the island of nature. Off to one side is a walled in area where I have often sat and drank a morning coffee. The sounds of the street are muffled here.
Go further and you’ll find the Arno river. It is not as grey as the river of my hometown, though it is still somewhat dirty. There is a strip of concrete along the bank forming a dam where I sit and sketch. The opposite shore is bright and green. In the distance, past a weathered bridge are the mountains.
The mountains are the beauty that I seek. On bus rides I watch them wiz by, grass green fields and vineyards, cypress trees planted in neat rows. Rolling hill of flowers, stretching on and on, a picturesque landscape. Further on is the sea, bright and blue, more so than any body of water I have seen in America. It crashes against rocky shores. I walk along the edge, picking up water smoothed stones before returning them to their home.