Rushing River

It has been raining in Florence for what seems like weeks. The sky is gray. The city has a tinge of brown. The air smells muddy. My bike, attached to the same pole I locked it to days ago, remains untouched. My polka-dot umbrella accompanies me to the center instead. When possible I ride in a packed bus, with fogged windows.

This day I was sick of waiting for the overcrowded, unusually delayed pullman, so I braved it. I walked along the Arno into the city.

The river, normally unassuming, usually a prod for romantic rendezvous and social gatherings, was attracting local residents, such as myself, to stop and stare at its increasing rapids and speeding current.

A stroll past Ponte San Niccolò, I joined other observers on a landing that is used as a spot for an outdoor bar during the summer. What attracted me was not the scene of the river flowing, but the constant loud crash made when the river collided into itself. I peered into the river just at the point where the level drops; the river flows over, landing in the riverbed below with fervor.

It was strange to see the river so alive and vocal, practically swallowing the trees on its banks. It called to mind the flood of 1966. In town, in places that I cannot remember specifically, I have passed black and white photos showing Florentines navigating the streets by boat and lines on buildings marking the highest point the water reached.

A couple of weeks ago, I came upon several lines on a wall with years scribbled next to them. I don’t remember where this was exactly. Someone stood beside me as I tried to figure out what the lines represented. They explained to me that these lines recorded all the times the Arno overflowed. They assured me that the floods have a rhythm and the river would one-day flood again.