A proper farewell...

I couldn't leave Florence without a proper goodbye. It's surprising how quickly a place can become a home. The smells (good and bad) and sounds slowly become more familiar; the streets and people more 'one's own'. Yet a personal goal in this adventure was learning to let go (especially hard when one begins to conform to a place).

Our last days in Florence were memorable. We visited San Gimignano on a cold and rainy day. Our first bus there was the tall two level type with fancy seats and eager tourists. The second was a local bus (which we were only 50% sure was the correct one) filled with kids getting out of school (btw, all teens across the world seem to be a little stinky, oily, and loud). The town was surrounded by a fortress wall and contained several 'skyscrapers' of its time. It looked like the setting of a fairy tale with its stone walls, cobble streets, and tiny passageways.

The last night in florence was truly special. We wandered on our nightly walk and decided to buy a 'whirly light wheel' from an Indian street seller in exchange for some good conversation. I offered him 'due euro' for it and he reluctantly lowered his price from the original 'cinque'. We talked for a while. He told us he was from Bangladesh and had been in Florence for only 5 months. He had been told he could come to Italy and find work, but quickly realized that he couldn't find the jobs he had been promised due to his immigration status. He held a bachelors and masters degree from India where he worked for an American company 12 hours a day. He eagerly showed us his 'Lenny Fashions' ID with a slight smile. He told us he barely made any money there despite the long work hours and couldn't support his mother, father, and sister. In Italy, he lived with several other Indian men paying 150 euro for a place to sleep and 100 for food per month. There was a sense of honesty in his face; a melancholy that filled his eyes. We walked away and turned to pay him the full 5 euro for the toy we had just bought at discount. He refused the money...we insisted.

An exciting new friendship was around the corner (literally). We sat on a bench to watch the African street sellers with their knock off purses. One of them approched me offering a real Prada, which I could smell for proof of the authentic leather. I told him I had bought one the day before (not exactly true) and he walked away. He later returned for small talk so we exchanged names and nationalities. He was from Senegal and spoke a very small amount of English. We communicated in broken Italian, broken English, and hand gestures. He told us of his 'moglie' back in Senegal which he will see in 2008. We learned he came by plane and not by taking the treacherous water route many of them do. He had a bambino. He had lived in Valencia for a couple of weeks and in Florence for a year. Our conversation went on for a while interrupted by his need to attend to potential customers and the ocassional police look out. We met his 'fratello', Samba, who spoke better English. After some time, we decided to give him some cash as a parting gift. The gratitude was shining right through his eyes. He didn't know how to express it but we understood each other. He gave us his phone number so we could call him next time in Florence. Since, Cherk has texted us to see how we are doing.

We're out of time at this internet cafe, but will soon write about the wonders of Rome...so grand!