Lost entry from my Italian trip diary

Back against the wall, eyes staring across the street, staring at the #54 , as if I were trying to memorize the address or the pattern of the iron work above the green door.

No need. My old apartment was at Via dei Serragli, 54.

Really I’m waiting for someone to pass. A short young American girl, in pensiero, looking slightly troubled, walking quickly, all business, coming out of the door.

Or a man with long hair tied into a ponytail at the nape of his neck and with a long stride, making his way down the street.

But those people are gone. They’re now approaching middle age and living in Atlanta. Besides, one of them is the person with her back against the wall, trying to retrace her steps, to figure out how she got there or here (and which is which? Am I here or there?).

I look up the bedroom window, which now has a lovely lace curtain. The door is adorned with a fancier campanile, filled with the names of tenants I don't know. But it’s all more the same than different – thank God.