Unintended Memories

I resented Florence when I was there, but now, months later, I can’t stop thinking about it. I tried to drink it too fast but it had to seep.
I arrived on a Rome-high, disappointed to find a sleepier town. Rome was like a refreshing limonata- it went down easy: the gorgeous, ancient buildings, the anarchist traffic, and the park-wherever-you-can mentality. Rome was vast and forever in motion, and it afforded the kind of noisy peace that a twenty-something requires. I could easily picture a life there.
I caught a train at the Termini station on a rainy morning, one of those high-speed trains that whisked through the picturesque countryside and swiftly deposited me in Florence, where I walked my luggage a mile through the city, sweat glistening on my forearms. Those circumstances did not endear me to the city or its narrow streets. They were dark, too; the buildings extend high and block the sun from pouring down, like the inside of a full forest in midday—you could easily navigate, but you wouldn’t get your daily requirement of vitamin D. It was a slowly smothering darkness; it snuck up and covered you, a cover discarded when at last you emerged into one of Florence’s many piazzas.
Aptly named, piazza. As you say the word, it almost sounds like a sigh—a sigh of relief at escape from those gloomy, winding tunnels. This is what I miss—the long, dim walks that ended in such beauty. The anticipation of an explosion of light and the wait as your eyes adjust to the piazza—lined with cafes and shops, a lively sanctuary ripened with fresh air and all the sun you can handle.
The Arno, of course, is another welcomed refuge. No wasted space along the river—buildings grow from buildings, standing shoulder to shoulder in solidarity, but the river is untouchable. You are guaranteed these open spaces, the river and the piazzas, but no other open vistas, not in the public sphere.
Perhaps my experience is representative of the most poignant memories—those moments we’re not aware we’re making memories. We don’t savor the details or capture each scene with a camera. In Rome I choreographed memories: Trevi Fountain, Coliseum, yet my Florence memories are more powerful because they aren’t so clear; they’re the hazy ones that surface when my mind drifts, they’re as murky as the tunnels of Florence.
There are gaps and pauses in the narrative of my time there and that is why I yearn to return. We have unfinished business, Florence. You and I are not through.