Florence, Italy: Places, Everyone
By Adrienne Johnson

No one is awake except the men pumping flour into the bakeries and cleaning the streets. Both jobs require big trucks that won't fit among the crowds of tourists that begin to pour in around 10, so the men start before sunrise. The flour truck hums as its heavy tubes reach into the bakeries, leaving clouds of white hovering in the air. Warm, sweet smells drift from the bakeries, never so strongly later in the day when the scent is divided among the noses of the tourists. The street cleaners are on the move, misting the cobblestone sidewalks by brushing up close to the curb, bristles spinning, motor in a muted roar. The men who prepare the city don't speak, and they disappear once the stores open.

At the river the city opens up into a sunlit haze. The light is new and heavy still, and nothing, not the bridges, the water, nor the orange and yellow of the buildings have quite adjusted to the brightness. The Ponte Vecchio stretches out over the smooth gray river to meet the other half of the city, but the store windows on it remain covered by wooden casings. The street artists still sleep, and the cobblestones along the river are free from their blanket of glossy prints and origami. Only the bundled-up fishermen are awake, forming a line of blue and red coats down along the grassy banks.

A man begs at the corner of the Duomo square, just across from the bakery whose window attracts the largest audiences, fingers pointing, eyes wide. Traffic here is the stiffest in the city, but he finds a free space on the cobblestone sidewalk to set up before the crowds form. His gray coat is stiff like sandpaper, and his jaw is a sharp and angular. He places a silver bowl in front of him and props a white sign against his knees. Written in Italian in blocked capital letters is the message, "I am poor. I am hungry and I have two little children to feed. I need money. Please help me."

The city is crisp. The hills surrounding the city peek in from each end of the river. Their deep green meets the sky in a sharp line, punctuated only by the proud tips of cypress trees. A rower cuts through the water. His rhythm leaves a succession of V's that don't disrupt the reflections. The buildings on the riverbank double, and their colors float on the water. I look away to face the breeze just as my eyes begin to hurt from the glare.

There is a constant click of heel to cobblestone as people walk along the bridges and past the artists sitting along the sidewalks. A little dog stops its prance to bark in judgment at one of the caricaturists, who turns to his friend and competitor to laugh. Passersby bargain for the watercolors and posters covering the sidewalks along the river. Window-shoppers with cameras fuss on the bridge to steal a picture from every angle. Scooters, motors coughing, zip and maneuver. Horses, eyes shuttered and backs bound, leave puce mounds on the cobblestone.

Down an alley, a woman with paper plates and a plastic sack full of Friskies cans bends to feed the cats brushing against her legs. "Did Maria eat all of yours?" she asks one cat in Italian. The buzz of mingled conversations crescendos as I move away from the river, into the web of crowds and market stands bragging corduroy blazers, crushed silk and journals, past wrought iron tables and boutiques with mopped floors, underneath the green shutters of the buildings that have made just enough room for us to go about the day.

The man begging does not rest back on his knees, and his back does not waver. His shoulders hunch and his hands are locked in prayer position. His head is the only part of him that leans, angled to one side. His brown eyes are glazed and gaze down in front of him, focused on nothing – not the bowl, not the averted eyes of passerby above him, or the glittering facade reaching up to the rusted-orange dome a few dozen tourists away. His eyes do not flicker when coins clank into the bowl. A penitent pose – humble, not desperate. He seems more like a devoted monk, frozen in time but burning in prayer in front of the cathedral, and though I pass him everyday, I have to glance twice to make sure he is begging, not worshipping. I can’t decide if he is out of place among the crowds, shops, and market-vendors, or if he belongs there more than anyone else.

The sky has bruised purple and the hills have disappeared. The lampposts diffuse a moody green, making the stone of the bridges glow against the dark river and sky. Broken pinks and yellows twinkle in pieces across the black in the river. The artists packed up hours ago, abandoning the cobblestone to shadow and lamplight, and the market men tie the canvases over their carts to pull them over wobbling, rumbling wheels back to where they came from. Lights from the restaurants and shops shine dark gold onto the streets, and neon lights from cafe signs keep the buildings from sleep. The light from below only reaches the tops of the buildings, highlighting the overhanging rusted shingles against the sky, keeping the city sheltered from the night to recover from the day.

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