Wet Towels.

It’s raining. Again. But then again it always rains here in the spring—or at least that’s what they say, or I think they are saying; I haven’t gotten that far in my Italian classes yet. The rain, which feels more like ice pellets, bounce off the hood of my fleece-lined coat and I can’t help but almost skip through the narrow street. This is nothing like I’m used to. My view out my bedroom window of the white sandy beaches of Florida have been replaced with tall, foreign buildings. I stop at a small parchment store that sits on the corner next to the Pitti Palace; I have always wanted to go in. Right in the window, next to a tie-dyed piece of parchment paper and a paper cut out of an elephant sits a post card of the deep blue ocean contrasted by the light beaches. You can see the heat in the picture.

“It is vintage,” the lady behind the counter said to me in a thick Italian accent. She handed me the delicate paper. I could feel the heat in the picture. I closed my eyes. The sticky heat I once thought was unbearable suddenly seemed like a novelty I would never feel again. The feeling of being hit with warm wet towels every time you step out the front door was so different from the dry, bone-chilling weather here. A heard of bikers came flying around the corner pulling me out of my daydream. I hate bikes. I handed the lady two euros and stepped out the door back into the cold, clinging to the warmth of my post card that now sat in my purse.