Writing In Florence

I find that I feel most inspired when walking around Florence alone, with only my inner monologue for company. This does wonders for my notebook, and very little for my blog. The days are so long here, before my head even hits the pillow, I’m asleep. On some days, my notebook even suffers because my eyes are stretched far too wide to turn them down toward my pen and paper. How can I teach a pen to feel what I feel in this country?
A pen cannot feel sweat on its forehead from the hot sun, nor sigh from relief when a soft wind cools it. A pen cannot delight the taste of a delicious meal, nor grieve another course of pizza. A pen cannot perk up at the sound of a quiet melody piercing through the crowds of tourists. A pen cannot catch its breath when it flees at the sight of the Sistine Chapel, a Tuscan sunset, or a really great pair of shoes. But a pen can dance. Perhaps not in a Piazza, to the rhythm of a street performer, but a pen can dance along paper, back and forth, describing a memory, creating a path on which we get lost in words.