Spring in Florence is something unique: it has its own existence, its own force, and poetry. There is colour to it that it’s hard to describe, something alive and glowing. Spring comes suddenly as well, though doing so actually quite everywhere, in Florence it happens in a special, even particular way.
One day it is cold: that is a dry cold that shivers inside your neck and bites your feet. The streets seem as empty as ever, the sidewalks dead, only pigeons crawling around and rushy pedestrians: colours are faded, empty, gray and emotionless. Sounds are dim: you can only hear the traffic around you, the tired, rushy traffic.
Then, suddenly, without any cinematic premeditation, the sun, from its tired light, reflects in a vigorous ray. Before you know it, 4 o’clock is not late anymore: the sun goes down at 5, then five thirty, then, suddenly, you’re having dinner with the t-shirt on by the sunset. It’s a strange approach, that hits you without warning but only gets better from day to day: first you wipe the dust off you sunglasses, then while walking in the town centre you must take you heavy coat off because of the heat, keep it uncomfortably in you hands. The day after, you just leave it at home, without ever regretting it.
The leap is exponentia, and suddenly, hormones start to arise: from the wintery coldness of fat jackets and warm hats, legs starts the appear, long shiny hairs float by the sweet wind. Wardrobes repurpose shorts and miniskirts, love jumps in the air, smells and instincts of nature.
Because after all it is actually all about nature: and if the girls reveal their beauty, so do flowers, birds, and trees: the world suddenly wakes from its torpor.
There is no better way to experience all this than visiting the Boboli garden, one of the most remarkable canvases of green ever built inside a city. There you may see a mix of it all: young overseas students (they a re always the bravest) sunbathing on the grass, million of young petals vibrate in the air, the elegant green of the cypresses and why not, the idyllic beauty within its renaissance and modern statues.
But there is even more to the Florentine spring, there is the first brave wonders in mopeds without swearing for the cold, there is the first pure joy of sipping a beer after work on a bench without freezing your ass. There is that profound joy of being part of something beautiful, coming to live again, coming to existence with a patient, but powerful, ecstasy.

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Janos Mark Szakolczai

Irrequieto pellegrino facilmente preda della malinconia, Janos vive in un romanzo di fantascienza ambientato tra Londra, Firenze, Budapest e Cork, che in momenti di lucidità proietta sulla carta confermandogli l’appellativo fuorviante di scrittore. Laureato in filosofia, studia criminologia a Cork, Irlanda e sogna di rinascere tigre. Ha pubblicato romanzi e racconti sia in Italia che all’estero.