tale as old as time.

a song to set the scene // beauty and the beast by roxane genot, jan pouska

It was a moment I’ll remember forever.

Even as I sit here: weeks later, jet-lagged, recovering from both pink eye and the flu, bags unpacked, trip to Italy completed.

The song plays, even now, the harmonious and familiar tune of Beauty and the Beast and I am instantly transported to the historic city of Florence.

I remember what I was wearing, where I was, and of course who I was with.

My gem and I had just gotten off the train. After the stressful journey of hand pulling our suitcases through the crowds on the cobblestone streets, we arrived at our home for the next week.

After piling into the too small elevator, we got out on the second floor and walked into the most incredible apartment.

Immaculately decorated in the typical Florentine Renaissance style, the building was dated from the 14th century, having existed even before the famous Brunelleschi domes were completed.

I was awestruck. It was… spectacular.

The art, the furniture, the brass, the cast iron heaters a la Tiffany, the views.

It also had an espresso machine, which we promptly took advantage of.

After bidding our host arrivederci, my gem and I took our two freshly made macchiatos, opened up the shutters, and sat down at the window.

Still awestruck, dumbfounded, and a little bewildered that this young couple from Alaska was currently seated in perfect viewing of THE DUOMO, a street artist began playing his violin.

And that’s when the sweet melodies of Beauty and the Beast came floating up through our open window.

The song plays, and even now, I can close my eyes and be seated in that savonarola styled chair, feel the Florentine wind on my face, the magic of that moment frozen in time.

“Are you having a moment?” my gem sweetly asked.

I nodded, a smile spreading upon my face as tender tears tumbled their way down my cheeks.

They say Florence is the birthplace of the Italian Renaissance, a period in time in which the arts and culture flourished.

That happened, without a doubt, as history can attest.

But I think a city so rooted in the birth of such a movement remains so, even all these years later.

The city is still flourishing, still inspiring, still awing those that pass through its streets and listen to the music that plays.

History doesn’t need to repeat itself here because in Florence, it never left.

It’s a tale as old as time.

And there I am, back in that chair, in the magnificent magical city of Florence.