Some are saddened by the state of a season’s change. I for one welcome it. Call it fairytale thinking, but I rather enjoy watching the leaves fall and feel the air cooled down to a slow listlessness, like a boat at dock. These moments, however anticlimactic to some, open the door to thought. I mean, do you ever just sit and remember the best of times? This very notion of reflection came to me as I reminisced on the romanticism that was Florence. Put aside the many friends, fashion and endless rock glasses filled the orange tang of Aperol on ice. So, what did I have? Perhaps the emotional currency I gained while experiencing these things. Imagine, all the beauty of the world, the warmth of a hundred years of artistic mastery in every stone, in every building and terrace. This was my summer. A time spent grappling with the intentions of staying put in a city I felt could be home, and returning to my life. I now spend my nights, as the summer slips away, trying to relive small pieces of that trip here. From the freshly served Affogato at my local cafe, to the sweet aroma of Toscanelo cigars I desperately need to stop smoking on my porch. My return to Pitti in January builds my anticipation for the winter cold. I know, I know, crazy. Alas, this was summer, and so to0 I dream in the evening of the winter to come; all to be back where I belong. Firenze, call me a stranger no more.