A Travelers Cliché The Unexpected Romance
We often dream of an idealized reality, where our wild and bizarre imagination runs free, like an architect with a pen, or a painter with a brush. Sight slips away, and a dream cloaks the visible world. It is part of our beauty, it is what makes us individual. Florence is one of those dreams a rose-tinted romance actualised from paintings and books from Quattrocento Italy. Concepts or emotions are no longer tied to words, but are mere images, like how love might be a Titian, or springtime a Botticelli. Though, as I find myself seated on the park bench of a Tuscan Villa, where the sun looms over the olive rolling hills and not a single cloud sits in the cerulean coloured sky, the romance was never a romance at all. In fact, it never is.