Beautiful People

     The thing about cities is that there are a lot of people. A lot of beautiful people. A lot of beautiful, immaculately dressed people. And it's hard not to feel just a little bit inferior compared to these model-esque specimen. I mean, I try not to look like a total tourist but I do, especially when walking next to my aunt who has her massive sun hat and camera slung around her neck, and my cousin with his little tote bag and superman shirt with detachable cape, and my uncle wearing shorts and a tshirt from the 80s. We are like The Tourist Family. I find it a wee bit amusing. But yeah, so there's all these beautiful people and beautiful couples and beautiful families and I'm just like "Here I am!" 

     The thing is, though, that all of these beautiful people don't look beautifully happy. A lot of them look miserable. I might not look like a model...I don't look like a model. But I'm happy. And you know what's even harder than being beautiful? Being happy. So I'd rather be walking through Florence, my face red as my red pants (yes, red pants, SR. They're wonderful), sweating profusely, with acne and hair sticking out in weird places, and be happy, than be tan and fit and perfectly put together on the outside and miserable on the inside. I have to say though, I was walking behind this dude with a positively enviable bun. It wasn't even a man bun. It was a girl bun. On a dude. And it was the most perfectly effortless-looking yet flawless bun I'd ever seen. I wanted to go up behind him and chop it off. Or take a picture. Sigh. It was glorious. 

     I think I could spend a week here, eating margarita pizza every afternoon (margarita pizza here is just cheese pizza. But so much better) and gelato every evening and just walk the streets people-watching, hot and sweaty and having a great time.

     Things aren't perfect; don't get me wrong. This morning started off with a half-hour temper tantrum that included screaming, crying, and "I HATE YOU"s. But...well, you make the most of it. Because at the end of the day, this isn't my life. This isn't my family. It's just three weeks out of what I hope to be a long and happy life. And at the end of this, I get to go home. To my family and to my friends and to my life. For now though...I'm enjoying just being a tourist. 

Quote of the Day:

"I thought Michael Jackson was a football player."- JP

Day 959 Song Recommendation:  "Talking to the Sun" by Crystallin. 

-SE Wagner