I walked up to Piazzale Michelangelo just as the sun was going down — and it felt like the city blushed. The Arno looked like gold, rooftops glowed warm and orange, and the Duomo—tall and grand—stood lit by the last bit of sunlight, like it was meant to be seen that way.
You can’t take a photo that does it justice. You have to feel it. The smell of smoke in the air. The soft rustle of olive trees. The feeling that history is built into every stone around you.
This is Florence.
It’s taking a bite of a sandwich from All’Antico Vinaio so good, you forget where you are. Creamy truffle spread, salty prosciutto, and crunchy bread — all in a little alley where artists once drew hundreds of years ago.
It’s standing in front of David at the Accademia. Not just looking — really seeing. That lifelike stone. That strong stare. Michelangelo didn’t just make him — he set him free. And suddenly, you don’t feel like a visitor. You feel like part of something bigger.
Florence doesn’t just show art in museums.
It rises from the streets. It’s in the air, the stones, and every quiet moment in between.
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