We walked on stones and those ground into sand,
Perfect forms sprung from rock; once unruly, carved by hand.
Past temples, tombs and storerooms, still sturdy,
Pearly colours shone in the sun: mauves and pinks, quite unearthly.
Florence
An earthy rainbow of suede belts hung from rows of open air market stalls, iron railings groaned under the weight of plush leather jackets. Wallets were fanned out on display: classic black, brown ostrich leather, warm beige, all tagged with the outline of a splayed cow’s hide, “Genuine Leather” stamped in gold on each.
Tourists stroked potential purchases, humming and haring to impartial companions. Faces solemnly examined the goods, a few pairs of eyes glinted like kids’ in a sweet shop. The scent of leather wafted pleasantly between the shoppers and I recalled the words of a tour guide from my first visit to the city. “Don’t be fooled by the soft, supple feel of imitation leather, or the leather mark they copy onto fakes,” he warned. “And, whatever you do, when the salesperson assures you that genuine leather has leather’s genuine smell, don’t be fooled by the can of spray on leather that the thing’s been hosed down with either.”
Our journey to the city had been tiresome. Europe’s efficient train system faded into memory as a series of announcements left us running between platforms while the elusive departure point of our onward train was established. We arrived at the next junction to discover that our connection had been delayed by an hour. Iain passed the time napping on a waiting room’s bench. A further hour’s delay was announced. Continue reading Florence>>
