Florence under the rain

5 p.m.. I’d just come out of the Academy of Bartolomeo Cristofori, an institution devoted to the safekeeping of a world renowned collection of historical musical keyboard instruments. I had visited it with my mother and a good friend of mine. As we exited the building a rather brisk, for the season anyway, wind greeted us. Shortly after we were hurrying over the nearby bridge of Amerigo Vespucci. Turns out the man doesn’t only have a continent named after him, but also one of the ghastlier bridges of Florence, or of any city for that matter. Maybe that’s why it’s become the designated parking spot for drivers who want to have their cars enjoy a nice view of the city. An honor to say the least.

It had started to rain. People were rushing to and fro to find some shelter. During all that commotion I stopped. The clouds were rolling in. Darker and darker by the second. The filthy river water was crashing down the little artificial waterfall and slipping under the bridge and onward. A quick look around, phone pulled out, artificial shutter sound and back into the pocket. I caught up with my accompaniers who were waiting for me on the other side and back to the car we went through the narrow alleyways.