Osservazioni.

The top of the Santa Maria Novella is glowing pink in the setting sun, the lower half of the church is already in shadow. It's a warm early Italian evening.

A young man walks home from the supermarket, groceries in hand. In Italian he would be called 'uno ragazzo' no longer a boy (uno bambino) yet not quite a man (un uomo).
A toddler wanders away from his grandmother, his small pants full in the back where they stretch over his diaper. He has no destination, only the desire to use his little legs which he has obviously only recently discovered.
A girl talks on her phone, clearly having an argument, shouting at her telefonino with such passion that it is easy to forget that the person who has upset her is not standing right there in front of her. Is it her mother? Or her lover? Her sister, or friend? And how will the argument be resolved?
A couple enjoy each other's company. Lying as much on each other as on the grass, something that is perfectly normal here in a country so open and encouraging of love and passion.
A woman wanders past trying to read a map. She looks frustrated, but maybe if she put down her map she would find where she was going. Or, possibly, something even more worth while.
An elderly couple stroll hand in hand, their matching silver hair more a testament of commitment than their golden wedding bands.
A group of men sit on a bench talking about everything and nothing.
A monk stands amongst all this, his white robes brushing softly against the public streets, his brown leather satchel hanging loosely on his waist... and he's talking on his cell phone.
My friend is lying on her back reading a good book on a good day. She'll go home soon to cook some dinner, or maybe she won't.
A discarded bottle of coca-cola sits alone in a browning patch of grass.
And I sit, now alone on this section of grass, with an apple in one hand and my pen in the other, my Italian homework spread out in front of me but instead I choose just to sit and observe.

It is easy sometimes to get so caught up in ourselves that we forget to notice the infinite, intricate, innocent and complicated life that is all around us and apart of us and apart from us. Maybe they are noticing me too, or maybe they are too busy noticing themselves (as we all are sometimes).

An ambulance rushes past and disrupts the still air with it's siren. And then it is gone, and we are all back in our own little worlds and in each other's world.