I woke up this morning at 6:50AM feeling like I could finally call this place home. A spacious apartment with three bedrooms and a kitchen furnished by everything IKEA on Via Conti had slowly made itself a greater part of my life. The blue tea set, the orange earth tone walls, the two-level coffee maker, the Chianti wine bottle and dried pasta on the kitchen counter are now home. The analog television set from the 1980′s, the yellow canvas flowers, the Florentine windows and the fragile dinning chairs are also now home.
Moving to Florence from the snowy winters of New York, I had underestimated the draft of Italy. With a hot cup of tea in my hand, I slowly opened the window on this brutally cold January morning. The wind seeped through my hair and ran its fingers down the side of my neck, into the small openings of my sweater and undershirt. I shivered and chuckled at the thought that the winter should be the official cuddling season of Florence. One should embrace and kiss another for the sake of warmth.
The church bells from the Duomo started to sing its lullaby as the clock struck 7:00AM. Seven times, I had expected it to go off. Seven times for 7 hours into a new day. Seven times for the thousands of songs that were written about Florence, its beauty and its art. Seven times for all of the keys and love stories thrown into the Ponte Vecchio. Seven times for the repetitions of “I miss you” at the airport and over Skype. Seven times for the remainder of a brand new life. Seven times — long enough for me to whisper your name, and for you to whisper mine.