A different sense of place
January and I packed our things and said goodbye to our cozy little third floor apartment in Pistoia. The heat of the last few weeks had finally broken and the sky was dark and threatening rain as we dragged our suitcases down the four flights of stairs to the sidewalk. We found a taxi to take us to the train station and the taxi driver, an older man with thinning hair and the broad, barrel shaped body that you find on so many Tuscan men of a certain age, refused to let us help load our heavy bags into the back of the car. As we drove through town he asked us how long we had been visiting Pistoia. “We’ve been here for a month,” January told him. “That is a long time to be in Pistoia,” he said. “Do you live here?” January asked. The driver nodded. “I have lived here my all my life.” “It’s such a beautiful place.” “Yes, is it...