In Florence

by Justin Wong (August 2025)

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Friday

When he arrived in Florence, he knew he was unwell. Bad fortune seemed to have befallen him; he was about to embark on a lifelong dream, something he’d fantasised about for years. Having finally saved up enough funds for the trip, he found himself stuck with a cold, arriving in Tuscany red-eyed, sneezing, runny-nosed, and coughing.

The reason for his misfortune—catching an illness on what was supposed to be a grand occasion—could be attributed to the time of year he chose to travel: winter, specifically January, which he had thought was the best time to visit due to the relatively empty streets. However, there were other advantages to this cold season which, compared to England, felt almost spring-like. Unlike the peak tourist season of spring and summer, when the Mediterranean comes alive and the city is bustling, winter offered a more subdued experience. Kevin was aware that visiting during the off-season had its perks—cheaper hotels and flights, and lower food costs.

Now he had arrived there, in its best hour—if you judged it by how overcrowded it became—but without the full capacity to enjoy it. Indeed, he felt low, groggy. This was to be expected with his body fighting an infection. He decided to lay low for the next few days. To be in bed. Sleep. Where afterward he presumed, he could enjoy the city, and his body become refreshed.

Saturday

The night was strangely and unexpectedly long. Kevin didn’t know if this was due to unfamiliar surroundings, which were unsuitable for him to fall asleep in. For most of his life, he was a fussy sleeper, getting hot in the night, which meant that he needed the fan on, or at least the window open. If not he would never fall off.

But there he was, awake, quite late in the morning 11 ‘o clock, which would have been 10 o’ clock at home. Though he didn’t have to worry that he was counting precious hours in the day, as it was for him time to rest.

But Kevin, in this moment was sick and bereft of energy. And against his best wishes, he seemed not be improving, instead getting weaker. More in pain. He had not the inclination to eat—though it was best to do this, and was fundamental for improving his condition, so he nibbled away begrudgingly on some snacks he brought abroad.

He could eat so much of this and instead spent time in his bedroom streaming movies whenever the interest took him, which was from moment to moment.

The nighttime eventually came and had strength enough to waddle over to the window, seeing the pitchy, hazy sky, and looked down on the city from the hotel’s lofty fifth floor, and saw a streetlamp softly glowing, and the streets void of humanity, except for the odd smattering of those that wandered by. He thought it was time he went to bed where he would wake up, as he hoped, in better health.

Sunday

He woke up on Sunday, still groggy, weak, ill. He wondered what he would do if this wasn’t so, maybe walk down the streets on this fine morning, and see the people heading to church, if this was common practice as he surmised it was, a lifetime ago.

Secularism in his native country was so successful that people ceased to treat Sunday as sacrosanct, and as indeed another day for trade, for big business to make more money. Kevin was aware of Florence’s Catholic foundations. Would this mean that the rhythms of the week were governed by ideas of the past, or the conventions of modernity? This question for now had remained unanswered. He still lacked requisite strength to make it out on what was a mild, fair day. He in fact found it difficult—a strain—to get out of the hotel bed and to the toilet, something he was compelled to do, regularly so. He brought medicine with him—painkillers—and took these regularly in accordance with the suggested intervals. As much as the pain subsided, it was slight, and not enough to lift up his dreary spirits that had fallen in the mire. How he might prove to be a killjoy—though he didn’t come with family, friends, a lover, and entered the country as he lived his life, alone.

There were times when he grew up, that he went on holiday with his family. Those days were over, with his parents divorced and everyone scattered about making this impossible. Not to mention that he wasn’t on speaking terms with them. Then there were times when he was on the cusp of his manhood, and wanting to explore his newly given freedom, that he went along with his mates to Ibiza. Such trips promised excitement: nightclubs, drinking, women—albeit in a sweltering environment.

Although that was exciting for him then, it held little interest for him now, having matured. Truthfully, he wouldn’t be able to do it now, even if wanted to, as his friends  had moved on, many of them being married with families of their own.

This wasn’t so for Kevin. Opportunities for marriage, family, against his deepest desires, never presented themselves to him, which made him, much to his chagrin, on the shelf.

The more he managed to see others become hitched or with kids, the more it made him seethe. More than this, the success of others, levelled against the self with his mind plagued by ruminations on what they were supposedly doing that he wasn’t. Not content with the answer being mere luck, he started on a new course of action, one of imitation—in the hopes that he would get what they got.

Though such an attempt to be someone else proved a blunder—fruitless—exemplified by why he was in Florence, alone and ill with no one to nurse him.

But in spite of this, he still went on with his life—alone—in a way he perhaps never imagined, spending Christmases and holidays on his own, gifting himself presents on birthdays in lieu of loved ones.

But all of these were old realisations, things that he acknowledged and reconciled years, if not decades before. Nevertheless, he went to bed none the better for remembering the fact.

Monday

It was time as was planned for him to get up, get dressed, and explore the city. The hour was ideal, 10 am, and many of the museums and art galleries were open today. This was due to it being a slow day when establishments—places of interest to tourists shut up shop in a Florentine day of rest.

Though as some of the shops were unavailable, so too was Kevin. He made the best effort—a herculean one—to no avail. His plan that two days of rest would cure him was ill conceived. The rest—even with painkillers—was difficult for him to do. He didn’t know if it was the strange atmosphere, or the unfamiliar bed, but he dozed on and off without significant longevity for him to be refreshed. But he might as well try to get some then, even in this late morning hour, and who knows how he would feel around one.

He went to lay down with his bedsheets covering him. This was a boring, laying there still in bed, so he chose to put on a podcast, in the background as he dozed off.

This, too, was unproductive; not that he didn’t sleep, but he slept only for a few minutes at a time, and when he awoke, he wasn’t refreshed or rejuvenated, but rather a pale imitation of his morning self.

Not having had a significant meal since arriving, he rummaged through his suitcase for his snacks, nibbling on them in the absence of something more substantial. What he craved was a hearty soup like minestrone or pomodoro e pane, for which this region was famed— ideally, it would be brought to his bedside, rather than having to venture out to a possibly still-open trattoria at this late hour. But he didn’t sup upon soup in the springlike January, under the elements covered by an umbrella, or more appropriate considering his condition, indoors.

All he had energy for was to put on his clothes, and walk a short distance to the reception area, and buy a few snacks and drinks from the vending machine and go back to his hotel room. He laid in bed the rest of the afternoon and evening, until he eventually struggling in his state of unease, managed to sleep.

Tuesday

Things were getting desperate for him, he had yet to see what he came there for and was fearful he never would.

He hoped—and this was all it was—that he would be well enough to venture out. History, culture and art awaited him, paintings he had only seen in photos, or reproductions of, sat there waiting to be stared at, their hidden meanings uncovered; amongst others like him—foreigners—or else nationals who sought not the wonder overseas or else across borders, when their country had so much of it. Kevin never had the experience of seeing something he had seen a thousand times for the first time. Neither did he have the chance to eat food he had eaten a dozen times before, though cooked with a touch of authenticity, by those for whom this cuisine represented tradition rather than a curiosity. He had not walked the streets to view the natives in their domain, to witness so many unfamiliar countenances, to know the joy of discovery, to find out that they weren’t quite as you thought they were. But it wasn’t quite this, it was the recognition of commonalities and differences that have risen through the course of time, complicated as this was to decipher. He had never as yet had the chance to stumble upon a commonplace piece of beauty—a sculpture or building for that matter—not famous enough to be a main attraction, though transcendent enough to send a jolt down his neck, to make him shiver, perhaps more so as it had in it, the element of surprise.

Kevin was never given the opportunity to do something ordinary, an act he did on any other day—sitting in a café and drinking coffee, this time as the locals do, and, in asking for una tazza di café, he would be brought a small cup of something strong and black, an espresso, or americano depending on what took his fancy at that time. He had not the opportunity to flirt with the waitress—an Italian sort—who brought him his coffee in a quite coquettish way, and didn’t wonder if she acted in this way to seduce him or was she like this with all the customers. But these were just his thoughts of the city and not the city.

Wednesday

He tried once more to find the strength, but could not. He thought things would change throughout the day, that a kip or sip of customary tea would strangely change things, so that his body and mind were revived. But he found that they never did.

He went to bed, expecting a repetition of these events in the coming days.

Thursday

The night’s sleep was far from smooth. As someone who tends to get hot at night, Kevin had to keep the window open, just like he does at home. This was especially true in Florence, with its mild spring-like climate, despite being in the midst of winter. Normally, Kevin sleeps with a fan on, but without that luxury, he struggled to get some rest, dozing off only to wake up minutes later. When he did manage to fall into a deep sleep, he was jolted awake by thunderclaps that seemed to shake the city. The thunder was loud, overwhelming, and terrifying, as if the very heavens were unleashing their fury. This experience made him wonder if the ancient Mediterranean civilizations, who frequently faced such storms, had drawn inspiration from these intense natural events when crafting their myths of angry, vengeful gods who unleashed lightning and volcanic eruptions upon humanity.

Friday

This was it, the day he had to pack up his things—not hard for him to do for obvious reasons and go home. Waking up, he still was ill, though naturally better. The feelings of lethargy and pain that were barring him from going out only the day before, had all but vanished. He went to the reception desk and asked the person behind it with meagre English, to order him a taxicab. He took his baggage downstairs and stood on the pavement waiting for his fated car to arrive from a mass of trailing cars going by ever so slowly.

As he stood there, he gazed at the people sitting in the restaurants on either side, savoring bowls of pasta and plates of pizza. If only things were different, this could be him, indulging in the culinary delights of Florence. Instead, the taxi arrived, and the driver loaded his suitcase into the back. Kevin got in, and they drove off to the airport. As they sped away, he caught glimpses of the sights he’d longed to see: Palazzo Pitti, the River Arno and its bridges and, in the distance, the majestic dome of Brunelleschi and Giotto’s Bell Tower. From afar, he glimpsed the faces of people he’d been unable to connect with in person. If asked if he’d truly seen Florence, he would say no; he had lived a life.

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Justin Wong is originally from Wembley, though is presently based in the West Midlands. He has been passionate about the English language and literature since a young age. Previously, he lived in China working as an English teacher. His novel, Millie’s Dream, is available here.