Rome from Florence

I really wasn’t happy there, not at any point. It was a tourist factory, packaged for the simplest of needs, with no sign of real life beyond.

Yes, there is no doubt that what is there is some of the most incredible in Western Europe and yes, I would have been a poorer a person for not seeing them, however behind this all there is a toxic pernicious intent. Every where there is someone tying to sell you something. You are welcome only for your credit card. There is nothing else for you. There is nothing else here.

I really tried to find it, but aside from a few moments in the empty park I could not see what it meant to be in Rome or be a Roman. It didn't seem to exist. It felt like being in Magulluf or Lanzarote – a package resort for those who want holidays to be trips into the unreal, rather than experiences of difference. Sure, it was a privilege to be among its treasures, don’t get me wrong, but soon I ached for the real and the now. Imagine visiting your girlfriend and being shown the garden and the art and the antique bookcases, but never her room or her family.

Who are you Rome?

What does it mean to be you?

As I jog back through Florence, I see people smoking cigarettes under David, couples kissing by the Santa Maria Novella, a group laughing in the Duomo Square, and I drink it in.

Rome was asphyxiating and empty.

Here there is life extending from the incredible backdrop.

Beautiful life.

Beautiful Firenze.

I am glad that I did not leave a coin in the Trevi Fountain. I never wish to leave Florence again.