Florence AM

I love seeing a city wake up – the blare of horns as folk head off to work; cyclists and pedestrians negotiating the traffic, while an old man serenely pushes his wife under rugs in a wheelchair down the main street.

Shutters rattle up and the wise buy bottles of water to see them through the day, which is deceptively cool at present.

Gloves are displayed in windows; the sharp smell of leather beckons on the crisp air.

The gold glistens behind heavy wooden shutters; the papal bankers are keeping their secrets hidden in a private, hedonistic confessional.

The duomo and the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio cut cleanly into the pale blue sky; their precise incisions not yet blurred by the midday haze.

A man stands at the counter of a tripai eating lampredotto; hot chilli sauce drips from his fingers and he snorts from his nostrils and shakes his head violently in a semblance of penance.

The crowds have not yet formed between the solemn alcoves of the Uffizi where the sightless marble statues stare past tempestuous humanity.

The faded Italian flag shades of the cathedral are pastel and sharp like the tangible flavours of the mounds of ice-cream; tantalising pyramids of pineapple, strawberry, lemon, raspberry, chocolate, pistachio studded with fruit and labelled with exotica. Their geometric lines will melt to puddles of kaleidoscopic colours by afternoon.

As I rub the shiny snout of the Fontana del Porcellino I see its clouds of white breath evaporate in the morning air. Grazie! I will return to Firenze!