In Florence, even the laundromat sells espresso. My metabolism is racing to catch up with the Renaissance. The Renaissance is tightening its focus into the center of the washing machine’s pupil. A good pupil, trustworthy, reasonably efficient. If the square tiles at my feet were extended indefinitely, where would they meet? In infinity with my underwear. It costs a lot to become clean, $10. I will be clean when I leave here, and all I did was sit on the blue plastic chair on white tiles. Belief will take you anywhere. For example, next to me stands a 15th century pilgrim wearing an expensive red Gortex parka. He looks at me, the part in his hair perfect. We’ve arrived. The cycle stops, then the tub slips slightly backward.
