If Seattle were Florence

As I walked into my apartment today, an Italian man on the street said to me, “I like your tattoo. I like your green sandals. I like your sexy feet. I like it all.” I rolled my eyes, said “Grazie” and gave a nonchalant wave. –blog, July 9, 2011

The streets smelt of Italy today. I could sense it in the breeze and the crooked alleys with cobblestones and the drinking fountains. I could breathe it in the humidity and the sun. Florence.

But it’s just Seattle. We had a fun ladies’ afternoon: out for lunch after church, then adventures at the Goodwill Outlet. Are you ready for this? Pay per pound of items. They just have giant bins and you dig through and take what you want, weigh it, and you’re good to go with an armful of gems and only a slightly lighter pocketbook. I managed to get 3 tops, a pair of shorts, a dress for work, a sweatshirt with a cow on it (which I will turn into a pillow), a faux-leather hipster backpack, and a wine rack for $9. No joke.

Regardless, my gems were much harder to find. The ladies I went with are all small and beautiful and thin. They fit into everything and made even the crazy sweaters look like a piece of art, whereas on me, it would look like a lump. I sat and watched after I tried on my few, watching them sort through the dresses and pants. (I go crazy when people get upset because something is too big, but I tried to smile through it.) Regardless, I supported them in their cute fashions, and we were on our way.

When we got home, I took Pickle out for a walk. Fresh air. We walked along the bridge. Right at the peak, a man was walking towards us on the “wrong side” of the bridge. I started crossing to the left (wasn’t up for a game of chicken; maybe it had something to do with the fact that this guy was carrying a bicycle on his shoulders).

The man was shirtless. His pants hung along his low, manly hipbones, exposing those diagonal abdomen lines that men (whose haven’t been gobbled up by beer bellies) apparently love to taunt. I tried not to look and focused on Pickle.

Just as we began to pass him, he said in a very thick accent, “Dat iz a coot dog!” I smiled thank you and kept walking, but just as our backs were towards each other, he quickly added over his shoulder, “Andyourebeautifulaswell,” his accent much less apparent.

Sometimes, when you’re feeling bad about yourself but reminiscing about a place you miss and feeling like if you closed your eyes and took a deep breath you’d be there, just sometimes, the right moment happens, and you get transported back for half a second, just long enough to remember green sandals and sexy feet and just how much some stranger in the world (make that two) “likes it all.”