Icrossed the iconic Ponte Vecchio (Old Bridge) was nearly six years ago, while struggling to find the address for my temporary living quarters. I walked up and down deserted, amber-colored alleyways – taking notice of the decorative doorways and knobs despite my growing anxiety. Those cobble-stoned streets, so charming in the glossy travel books, now appeared endless and indifferent to my plight.
Finally surrendering to fatigue, I asked for directions and learned the first of many local particularities; many doors are marked with two numbers – a red number for businesses and a blue one for residences. Blocks away from where I needed to be, it started to rain pour actually. And with few businesses open on Sunday mornings, there was nowhere to take cover.
This was not the perfect break I had envisioned.
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