Bells tolling, scooters buzzing, sirens busy and shrill, pigeons shuffling cooing fluttering outside my window, Italian spoken, Italian yelled, 3 a.m. music spilling down the street, the whaling door, horse-hoofs on cobblestone, French, German, peddlers beckoning, the Arno running away, "ciao Julia, come va", even glass breaking, students typing, tourists talking ("wow, look at that"), street musicians repeating Mrs. Robinson, the violinist nearby who unknowingly breaks my heart with the setting of the sun, the child waking next door, and the odd intense beat of silence felt in a rare pause.
This list is never ending. Some will be repeated. I'll forget a few. But to have it all pulse around you in the air is part of the meaning. Stories are told with notes, decibel, pitch and tone. They are told in waves. And sometimes they have to be heard all at once to get to the moment that is this place.