Florence Day Three — From Florence to Venice with Love
There are mornings that begin with an alarm, a hurried coffee, the gathering of clothes and luggage, the practical motions of departure. Ours began differently. It began in the quiet way that had become uniquely ours, with sleepy kisses exchanged as buongiorno , with the warmth of his body beside mine, with love returning before the world had properly awakened. In those early hours, the city beyond the windows seemed very far away. Florence could wait. The road could wait. Even Venice, which had existed in my imagination for most of my life, could wait a little longer. Before every journey, before every new place, before the kilometres and photographs and discoveries, there was always this first arrival into one another. It was never habit. It was never merely the continuation of the previous night. Each morning together carried the tenderness of a reunion, as though sleep itself had briefly separated us and waking was our way of choosing each other again. Eventually, the outside world...