There are many things you can do to expose your position as a tourist when visiting Florence. You can take too many pictures or you could fall for one of those guys handing out bracelets or you could be too loud when scolding your wife or father-in-law or cousin for getting you sparkling water instead of flat. I was sure I had avoided all of these, careful to use my (extremely) limited Italian sparingly so I would be as inconspicuous and charming as one of the abundant passing clouds of cigarette smoke. And perhaps maybe, if I’m lucky, they’d mistake me for a shy local, traipsing throughout the city in a skillfully selected pair of linen pants and an understated button up, complete with a pair of fisherman sandals.
Ah! There’s the rub. You soft footed American ragazzo. A true Florentine would know you do not slap around the old cobbled streets with flimsy little sandals! I myself come from a cobblestoned city. I have often passed the naive tourist in a fury in my hometown, scoffing at how they reapply sweaty bandaids to their ankles in the shadows of historic houses. I would not be caught dead in sandals in such a walkable city! What is it that leads the usually conscious footwearer to make such a fatal mistake? Surely it’s not superfluous confidence?
The true Florentine would wear something practical, like a nice loafer or a monochrome leather tennis shoe; the ones I’ve seen worn by sharply dressed salesmen and casual strollers alike. They might even have insoles. If they were inclined to wear a pair of fashionable sandals, they would probably face the old streets with calloused soles, unafraid. Meanwhile, there’s a long bluish black line creeping along the arch of my foot and my heel is hardening as it presses against the hard leather, which is darkening in some places from oversaturation of foot sweat.
What begins after twenty-five thousand four hundred and fifty-four steps is a slow unraveling of the misplaced confidence I had in my ability to remain anonymous. The shoe’s not the only problem now: it’s the way the collar touches the back of my neck and it’s the way my face starts to hurt from squinting. After twenty nine thousand seven hundred and ten steps, people begin to wonder if there’s another American Werewolf in London movie being filmed when they see me limping through the streets wild haired, irritable, and sweaty; desperately checking my phone for directions to the hostel, hungry for a light at the end of the blistered tunnel.
As the sun slunk behind the skyline, my tired eyes land on a guy about my age and almost as miserable. His eyes are turned downward, ignoring everything. A cigarette hangs from his mouth as if he didn’t care if it fell from his lips. The Duomo looms over him as he bends down and adjusts a bandage on his ankle.
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