The Florence Photobooth Broke And I Kind Of Broke With It
I went to Florence and I only wanted one picture that included my face. The architecture was alluring, the sculptures were exceptionally crafted, and to top it all off, I had arrived while one of Thomas J. Price’s “Reaching Out” pieces (a beautiful representation of a full-figured woman sculpted in gold) was still on display right in the middle of a crowded street. I was beyond satisfied collecting photographs of other photographs, making art out of other art, but I’d be damned if I didn’t get my picture in a Photo Booth. For purely selfish reasons my greatest Italian desire has become a classic strip of film that encompassed nothing but my face because every Photo Booth I’ve ever been in has managed to hit every one of my angles with a fantastic, Sepia-tinted light. I craved that strip more than I craved a cigarette, and at that time I had been craving a cigarette for approximately nineteen days, four hours, and thirty minutes. I have an app that reminds me I’m meant to stay quitting.
The reason for this need? I look fantastic on film. I say this having seen the sculpture of Narcissus on this day, on the same day I spent searching for an opportunity to be vain. The irony is not lost on me, but I don’t quite care for irony anyway.
At about noon on a very lovely albeit very hot Saturday morning, I subtly proposed my request to my two peers amidst a conversation about our next meal.
“Any chance we could stop at the Foto Automatica?”
I felt that they would be more inclined to say yes if I referred to it by its Italian translation. It took no time for them to agree. Mandy, my incredibly directionally-savvy friend, informed me that there would be a booth on the way to our brunch location. In that moment, I became so stupidly giddy that I didn’t even complain about the walk to said brunch location. I just walked. Pigeons scattered beneath my feet at every turn, tourists trappers shouted in my ear on every corner, but I cared not one bit. I was a woman on a mission… a very stupid, very selfish mission.
After about twenty minutes had gone by, I had finally found my Mecca. I hate myself for this, truly, but I remember letting a small gasp slip between my over-lined lips.
As I crossed the street, I watched two young Korean women headed inside the booth just before I could get there and, not wanting to halt our brunch plans, I told my friends to head into the cafe and that I’d meet them there. I grabbed the two euros that the Photo Booth demanded from my wallet and placed them in the palm of my hand, tossing them from left to right out of boredom and over-caffeination. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds before the women came out, which initially confused me, but I didn’t really mind. Quicker for me! At least, that was the mindset until the women began speaking to me.
Let me clarify: I do not understand Korean, but I’m familiar with the language enough to recognize it. I am also familiar enough with disappointment to recognize it. And these women, without a doubt, looked and sounded disappointed.
Still, I remained optimistic. Maybe their disappointment expanded far beyond Florence or photo booths or a desire for instant gratification. Maybe if I just smiled awkwardly at them and apologized in English for not speaking Korean (which I absolutely did) everything would work itself out.
So I walked myself into the Photo Booth. My Mecca. The grand Foto Automatica. I hauled my large bag from my shoulder to the floor, pried my euros from the sweaty palm of my right hand, and eagerly pushed them into the machine. Then I waited, and I waited, and I waited some more.
It took an alarmingly long time to discover I was waiting on a broken machine. As it turns out, there was a sign on the booth’s ‘start’ button that I deduced, upon a quick Google translate scan, read in big and bold letters “out of order.” I could’ve cried. I might’ve. I don’t even remember my process of thinking in the moment and can only narrow it to the simple word of ‘sad.’ But because of sheer annoyance and my consistent allegiance to the sunken cost fallacy, my mindset shifted to an even worse, even more idiotic one.
Put more euros in! Bang on the booth!
Well, let me tell you, I did both of those things. But the Photo Booth was broken, it was undeniably out of order, and it ate my euros.
I stepped out of the booth, then back in because in my haze of sadness I’d forgotten my entire bag. I felt like an idiot and that if I were to take any photo for the rest of the day I’d sure look like an eyesore because it just wasn’t going to be the picture. Then I left and went to brunch and had the best Chai latte I’d ever had, and suddenly I realized that I could not bank the rest of my day on a broken machine. It is hard to be so pissed off when surrounded by so much good.
No comments yet.