Somewhere in a previously unexplored part of Florence, at the top of a million steps, there are a few more. The steps at the top of the million are large and perfect for sitting with friends and looking out at Florence.
The lights of the city twinkle up at the patchy crowd smiling back. The clumps speak in different languages, each enjoying their own pocket of home.
In the far corner, a young man strums a mandolin that tells the story of the feelings up here. It is happy and adventurous, nostalgic and beautiful, and somehow familiar, though I’d never heard it before.
The tinkling of strings intertwines with the chatter of Italians talking about love, and Americans mourning a lack of it.
As the song comes to an end, he feeling of the moment wraps up somewhere deep inside, and the private spell breaks to make way for community joy.
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