Roma. We only decided to go the day before. A massive cold front came through the north, temperatures plummeted and mist started falling from the sky. I had a completely unfounded notion that Rome would be a shell of its ancient glory, sucked of its soul by tourism. And that I would have my camera pickpocketed, which I had failed to insure before leaving Australia.
Florence: the not name of my imaginary third child
Ah Florence.
I arrived with magical illusions for this city; the long lost name for my daughter, pipped at the post with Matisse for my first, and then Elspeth second time around. My third daughter will definitely be called Florence, I vowed… until I had a 2 and 3 year old and renewed that vow in the form of a totally different one to never have more children.
A train to Firenze
A train from Venezia to Firenze; Venice to Florence.
The whole of the world calls half of Italy by names that the Italians don’t; and then wonder why the Italians wave their arms around all the time.