Restless

April of 2014 found me in the middle of Florence, searching for Ponte Vecchio. Ponte Vecchio, according to the three guidebooks I'd consulted before I left, is Florence's best-known bridge, famous as a gazetted hub for gold traders and tourist types. Once an area dominated by various artisans, now only gold glows behind the glass cases guarded by stocky men with automatic rifles. The bridge was one of the attractions we had on our list, and on the third day of our stay we headed in towards it.

Typically, we got lost on the way there.

Turned about by Italy's notorious labyrinthine streets, we somehow ended up west of the bridge. I had heard the best way to see a city is to just let yourself get lost, but the thing I'd come to realise about Florence is just how much there is to see. The entire city is a museum. It's alive, a patient old creature, steeped in legend and history, blood, silk, pain and gold. Ask any native and you'll get the sense that the city, once the flower of the Mediterranean, now dances in and out of the shadows, sometime dark, sometimes bright.

Yet the moment we broke away from the shadows of the buildings and laid eyes on the River Arno, I couldn't think of anything but light. We had ended up on Ponte Santa Trinita, a bridge just downriver from Ponte Vecchio, and from there caught our first glimpse of the famous river. Light glinted off the calm blue-green waters that swirled out towards the Adriatic, sparking in the warm Italian sunshine. In the distance, Ponte Vecchio glowed fiery. Rows of orange, red and pink stucco houses lined the riverside, bordered by cypress trees and the hills of Tuscany in the background - postcard perfect. We stayed there for nearly an hour, sitting on the bridge's balustrade, swinging our feet over that magic and breathing in the fresh air. One has to wonder how the people of Florence live every day with this perfection on the backs of their eyeballs and not waste away their days sighing contentedly.

Even now I am not entirely sure what happened there on that bridge, but the moment I saw the Arno, everything inside me stilled, and then broke. I teared up that day. It's that feeling you get when you're in a place where everything fits and you know you were meant to be in this very place, and now that you are, everything is going to be perfect, if only for a little while.

And just to make everything even more perfect, we crossed over in search of Florence's best gelato at Gelateria della Passera.