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About Florence

In the end, I’d walk away, no sermon, no cash—just a nod. “Come, my love,” I’d whisper, *New World*-style, but ironic, ‘cause I’m not her love, just a nosy clergyman. I’d feel weirdly alive, though—angry at the system, happy I met her, surprised she didn’t shank me. “I can see Russia from my house!” I’d yell, laughin’, ‘cause I see *somethin’* now—grit, guts, the real damn world. Prostitutes ain’t just punchlines—they’re people, and I’m shook.

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So, I’m walking, trying to shake off the soccer incident, and I bump into this old guy. He’s sitting on a bench, feeding pigeons. I sit next to him, and we start chatting. His name’s Giovanni, and he’s got stories for days. He tells me about the history of Camerano, how it used to be a fortress. I’m like, “Whoa, that’s cool!” But then he starts talking about his cat, and I’m like, “Okay, weirdo.” But I can’t help but smile. He’s so passionate!

Useful Photography Tip #199: How to Dehaze a Photo In Camera, No Post!