Che Bello

It was supposed to be like any other Saturday night.

Disco-hopping from a crappy venue that smelled like video head cleaner(I) to another, filled with guys whose age I would rather not guess. My amici(II) were gyrating away on the dance floor with a Sicilian whose shirt buttons were loose, his chest exposed and sweat dripping on my friends; all the while I sat at the bar and nursed my beer.

So I am caught off guard when, six hours later, a boy kisses me as we are watching the sun rising above the city of Florence, peeking out of the water of Arno in the distance. The sky above us still a midnight blue, the bells in the Duomo yet to go off.

But back to the disco. When I stood by my buddy as he introduced himself to an Italian boy, by accident I struck up a conversation with a young ragazzo(III) from Milano standing next to him. The Milanese boy’s English was only a bit better than my beginner Italian, but we talked. Started with an awkward exchange of “Parli Inglese?”(IV) Next thing I know I was trying his strawberry mix drink that tasted like rubbing alcohol. I failed to guess his Russian origin, befuddled by the clue of “a place not quite Europe.” After some small chitchat, we left the discotheque, opting for the nearby Piazza Santa Croce.

We talked about everything, from the resemblance between Santa Croce and the Santa Maria cathedral, to his love for late night street photography, and our mutual desire to get lost in beautiful cities; I asked him on a walk back to my residence, and with little hesitation he accepted. As we walked along the Arno, we dismissed the locks one would find attached to poles, left by foreign couples who wanted to seal their love forever. While he taught me different ways to say “I need to pee” in Italian, I corrected his use of avere(V) in English.

Instead of ending the night as we arrived at my residence, we just used the bathroom before setting off again. The night turning into a mix of “Before Sunrise” and “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist.” We sat on the ledge of Ponte Carraia(VI), talking about our families and childhood; it was surely odd, for he felt like a long lost friend from a time that I don’t recall. We shared music and Brooklyn spearmint gum(from Italy) on the steps of Duomo, I looked for Plushgun on my iPod while he looked for Anna Lennox. The seconds ticked away, drawing his morning departure back to Milano ever closer; but it didn’t matter, for each second we shared felt like an eternity.

As I tried to fix my glasses on Piazza della Repubblica, he commented on the possible prostitutes and odd characters, an old man in a suit with high socks, lost American students who said “grazie” to us, a boy on a bike that greeted us with a “ciao.” A sleeping city this is not, for there never was a moment when we had a piazza to ourselves. We patted the chin of the bronze boar, the one that will promise your return to Florence, next to a deserted lot where leather goods are sold during the day. We held hands as we discussed the symbolism of the David and Hercules on Piazza della Signoria, where he recalled seeing an ugly baby (do they exist?) when he visited Florence on a field trip years ago.

Yet all this time I could not remove E. M. Forster, author of A Room with a View, out of my mind; for I have came to Florence with ideas and thoughts New York: Like Lucy Honeychurch from View, they’ve been touched by Florence, the city of the Renaissance. Forster knew then, that paintings and sculptures are merely symbols and products of Renaissance, for the true spirit of Renaissance permeates throughout the city; if only one would only appreciate Renaissance works with their souls, instead of being told what to value in these works. The relic of a Saint may bring miracles, but at the end it is the spirit of the Saint that performs them.

We crossed Ponte Vecchio for the last time that night, lying on the slope of Palazzo Pitti(VII) while gazing at the stars, trying to pinpoint constellations we couldn’t see. Later, as we approached Ponte St. Trinita, early risers were already bustling about on that chilly Sunday morning. They represent the face of a little known Florence, one that is populated with mostly Florentines, and it is through these Florentines, whether they’re delivering, cleaning the streets or starting their bakery, that Florence is kept running.

As we reached the bridge, a wild idea came over us. We climbed over the edge of the bridge, and onto a triangular platform, where we cuddled in the frosty morning temperature, our hands icy.

As we sit here, our gaze met.

“What?” he says plainly.

I just smiled, peck him on his cheek, and then look away.

I can feel his gaze on me from my peripheral view, and it makes me happy. When I look over, he looks away. I have a feeling it makes him happy as well.

The next time I look away, he leans over and, before I can comprehend, my id takes over.

As our lips meet, I can feel his stubble brushing against my cheek. His kiss tastes like light cigarettes, with a faint hint of sweetness resembling morning dew. We kiss with our eyes tightly shut, not even the most beautiful moment of the day can pry them open.

“Che bello.” he whispers when we paused. Indeed, how beautiful.

With only an hour before his train’s departure, taking him back to Milano, we parted on the middle of the bridge with two cheek kisses. His words “maybe we can get lost again in another city at night another time.” and the smile on his face when he said it lingers on my mind. I’m not sad, but actually very happy, exhilarated, even. On the way home, I suddenly start to run. “I must look ridiculous running in a blazer and skinny jeans at seven on a Sunday morning,” I thought to myself, but the thought only makes me smile.

1. Amyl nitrite and similar nitrites compound
2. Italian for male friends
3. Guy
4. “Do you speak English?”
5. to have
6. Carraia Bridge
7. Pitti Palace