Cher in Florence

I know this may sound strange, but have you ever seen through the seasons?

You know, when it’s October and the sun seems so bright and it’s an unusually warm day, in the 70s, and you get a sense memory of April, when things are just starting to thaw. It had been a long, snowy winter, and there are now puddles on the street that wet the wheels of your bike as you ride a little faster. The wind is mild, the sky is azure, and the dreamy quiet of winter seems over. You even hear birds trilling in the trees!

If you were in Florence last month, you could easily trick yourself into believing, just for a few moments, that it was spring. Especially because of the light.

As I did, when riding my bike along my favorite route to the eastern part of the city last month. I sped through the traffic of via Belfiore, took the detour that edges Parco della Cascine, and then wound my way around to head straight to the riverway. It is this turn that always astonishes me: a vista of light opens up suddenly and you can see all the way down to the pastiche facade of Ponte Vecchio and the dark cypress hills beyond. The buildings to the left are luminous with gold and ivory, the Arno reflects a mirror of blue sky, and down to the right across the river the red dome of the church of San Frediano pops up. It is no wonder that artists flock here with a view like that. The light does a dance over the primary colors and never stops moving. All you have to do is stare. There is such a pleasing variation in sizes and shapes; the way the light works its way into all these corners and facades is endlessly exhilarating to the senses.

At once, that day riding along the Arno, I felt renewed. I happened to be just getting over a bad cold, my whole body in a fog for days. But riding my bike, the fresh air weaving its way into my lungs, I felt a bit more alive, broken up, and hopeful.

I love moments like these, when you can feel two strong sensations at the same time–it’s as if two layers have joined into one rich one. You can see the spring in the fall, the vitality in the sickness, the light within the dark.

And now, a month later, it *is* dark. The bright yellow leaves lie crumpled in puddles, the sky seems perpetually grey, and it has rained for days and days in a row. The Arno is high. It’s harder to find the light. You have to dig deeper to get at it. But it’s there, if only in the Christmas lights now dangling like delicate curtains over the city streets.