In our garden a small bronze fountain spurts a gentle reminder of our wanderings throughout the ancient streets of Florence. I have never been much of a collector unless you count experience an object. But now in my middle years I find pleasure in reflections and my possessions have become the vessels in which they live. Coming to Florence from the lazy tranquility of Santa Marguarita Ligouri was the perfect way to begin this quest as the coastal retreat had bathed us in the Mediterranean sun and had healed our worn psyches preparing us perfectly for the fantastic feelings of a city steeped in the sensuality of timeless beauty. The winding streets of Florence are paved with the stones of centuries past, and their essence seemed to seep through the leather of our souls. Strolling through this maze of masterfully rendered architecture every door sang of its secrets while protecting the privacy of its dwellers. Upon our not so triumphant arrival the city at first kept us at bay, as though needing to know us better before giving up its splendid treasures. It confounded and confused us playing hide and seek until satisfied that we were worthy. Then embracing us long lost family bade us enter. Jack had been waiting for me at our appointed residence while I tried to find a resting place for the car. I had, disregarding all warnings, driven unabashedly into the teaming heart of a renaissance city suited mainly for motor bicycles and horses. 
That evening the city opened its arms and offered up a sampling of its culinary delights. Entering a nearby bistro we immersed ourselves in the smells and flavors of a Florentine evening out. At the next table two bawdy women sat clouded in the smoke of too many cigarettes and spouting forth oaths of unrequited loves they played out their scene. A play that seemed adapted from a dusty paper back novel whose pages though yellowed by time would not give up its place on the shelf.
