I thought Florence would evoke the sound of the Arno river trickling through the city; artists scraping their brushes against colourful canvases; Italian, and its complementary hand gestures being thrown from one side of the city to the other, and the clinking of wine glasses from couples sitting at the tables in the piazzas.
Instead, I will remember the city by the grumble of suitcases rolling along sidewalks, young American girls bitching loudly about other American girls from back home, and street vendors whispering sweet nothings into my ear like “Prada bag? Louis Vuitton? Gucci?”
After Naples, the city seemed fake but still beautiful. There are certainly a few treasures of places to eat and vistas to view. But really, I missed the grime of Naples.