To whom it may concern,
Back to the grind.
Yesterday afternoon, as I so often do (at least once a day), I walked out of Gustapanino, sandwich in hand, and found a quasi-comfortable cement seat near the central fountain of S. Spirito square to enjoy my recently acquired piece of Americana. Anybody who has done the same has surely encountered the perpetual tribe of European homeless that have made this public place their sanctum in which to reside.
While personally experiencing the operatic opus of flavor that is the tacchino, mozzarella, pomadoro, pesto wrap from the aforementioned eatery, I was fortunate enough to play witness to an event often only spoken of in awed whispers: multiple homeless people fighting over some small, indiscernible treasure that culminated in the intervention of the Italian five-0.
On this beautiful Florence day, with the birds singing and the street vendors spewing incoherent drivel as they pedal their cheap wares and trinkets, I watched in fascination as one homeless man hit another, and the two engaged in an epic struggle that seemed bound to determine the fate of all mankind. Like two immortal beings personified as mere men, the two fought for fifteen amazing minutes.
Then some jackass cop came and ruined it.
From Florence, With Love
Erich
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