I woke up early to conduct an interview today, but it had to be postponed. So now it is 10:30 a.m. and I am sitting in Piazza Santa Croce. Santa Croce is different during the day.
Freshly cleaned, puddles sit in the cracks and bows of the pavement that leads up to the church. No beer bottles or remnants of the night before exist — when local’s and students temporarily studying in Fi filled the church steps to drink openly and socialize. I can hear my bike clattering as I imagine myself smiling, flying through the square anticipating my friends to greet me. But that was nights ago.
Today I see traffic and droves of tourists stomping in, listening to their guide, snapping a photo and stomping out.
They never take time to sit and feel Santa Croce. They will never know the stories of those that lived on these steps; those who frequent the square; those who call it home. They come in, they come out never questioning what they don’t know.
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