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  • Writer's pictureLea Rose

A Walk

Updated: Dec 29, 2019

Arms crossed to keep in the warmth, I stroll at a slow pace. The Arno is somewhere to the left. I should probably be wearing a jacket but I like my outfit too much to cover it up. Around me I see parkas and sweaters, and I probably look underdressed. My hair is slightly damp from the shower I just took, and my shoulders slump from the heavy backpack I inflicted upon myself. I think the North Face logo gives away my American identity.

A mosaic shop appears to the right and I decide to take a look. Beautiful arrangements of rock mold into an image of the duomo and I bring my face within inches of the piece. I’m not sure why, but I don’t enter the store. Up ahead the street sign reads “Giuseppe” and it reminds me of my trip to Sicily in 2013. My grandma’s cousin’s name is Giuseppe.

I am completely quiet and my gaze wanders. I know I’m small, but in this moment I feel small too. I feel safe yet insecure. Contrasting from my personality with close friends, I want to blend in and go unnoticed. Perhaps if I stay quiet I can suppress my English in an attempt to drown myself in Italian. I act on impulse, stumbling when I reach a street corner because of my indecision to go left, right, or straight. This city and I are doing a dance.

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