Lounging on the rooftop terrace of our apartment, wrapped in a blanket, I watched as the earth wrapped up its day, swathed in a million velvet colors. Today has been quite the lazy day for us, reading and enjoying the sunlight glistening through our windows. Invited by our upstairs neighbors to a spontaneous aperitivo on the rooftop, the night was spent laughing and debating over stale breadsticks, salty potato chips, pretzels, olives, and, more impressively, goat cheese, pita, salami, fresh pears, and free–flowing wine. To spend the night discussing American foreign policy as the stars rise high above yellow stucco buildings, with their forest green shutters and terracotta tiled roofs, sipping the fruit of Italian soil, seems to me the perfect night in Italy.
As the vibrant discussion between myself (an American), Meaghan (an Australian), Attara (a Canadian), Simone (a Caribbean), and Nadeen (an Egyptian), died down, the sound of chanting reached our ears from the street below. A group of priests, shrouded in white and carrying red candles, led the path of a winding funeral procession. Behind the valiant pall bearers was a line of men, women, and children, mourning the loss of their loved one as they passed by our street. The litany of prayers faded away, but in our hearts, we were reminded of the true cultural experience that we are living, while drinking wine on a rooftop in Florence.
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