Maybe it was the tomatoes or might have been the vino that made me think I was Italian.
Living in Florence, for two Summers, Italy made me hum opera, talk with my hands, tell everyone prego and scusi and come stai? Mornings were spent savoring a Macchiato along
with lemon cream filled pastries, later to be followed in the afternoons
with a Aperol Spritz and finger foods at Gillis Happy Hour while talking to the
people there, me in broken Italian, them in good English.

I strolled the cobblestone streets walking into small cafes and stumbling
out feeling welcomed… just another amico.
Everything became bella or bello, and I was Marcello … a standing joke at Gillis.
I took it all in enjoying the maddening rush in the train station, jumping on buses, visiting other towns making new discoveries.

With every buongiorno and ciao I felt Italy,
its pulse, its tempo, its heart and I was breathing
in its soul, I saw pictures everywhere… I was in
love with a feeling and sense of being, and
belonging.

For all it’s worth,

I was matteo pace fotografo

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