Remember my kitchen window? It is now the home of a trillion little red spiders. They look like chiggers, but I've been promised they do not bite and latch on. Everyone just thinks of them as little red spiders. In spite of the promise, I don't open my kitchen window very often anymore.
And it isn't just the red spiders. The notorious tiger mosquito is here. Unlike the lazy buzzing of the Southern mosquito I'm accustomed to, the tiger mosquito is very quick and darts at you. They are not bad yet, but in my near future I'll be investing in some Vape (plug-in repellent). Having lived in Florida for 5 years before coming here, how bad could they be? (I ask with trepidation in my heart).
You'd think I'd be over it all, with the bug and tourist invasion. But no, my friend Angie leaves in the morning and we've been walking the streets in a blue funk. She has been saying bye to the people and places that have become familiar. All of the haunts and habits that make up a temporary home: birra in front of Santa Croce, Osteria dei Benci, the stoop outside of Angie's Pub, endless cobbled streets roughly navigating us back to the places we know, Pete, Chicco, Frank, Gaia, rotund cafe owners, Piazza della Signoria, Uffizzi gallery, street vendors, street artists, bad opera-singing neighbors, Ponte Vecchio, church bells, cappuccino, wine sipped on sidewalks, and the immovable stone that makes up this city. Florence will stay, weighed down, and eventually we flow away from it — transplants that we are. Remove from the fantasy life will be difficult; watching someone go is hard enough.