I pull on my jeans and a hoodie over my night shirt. My running shoes and my wool peacoat. There is an automatic easiness about this "look" that I've achieved in 1.35 minutes. Ironically, it's the same look that I see in every shop window.
And it's in these comfort clothes that I scurry the punks out the 17th century doors. They zip down the street on their bikes, closing that two block gap between now and "puntuale." Past the black heels that stop their clicking to look.
Some days I can fold myself in. Capture the notes and blend with the harmony of this city.
Make no disruption and pretend not to notice the crucifix, the thinness, the perfect urban precision with which it hums. Pretending to be comfortable and drowning myself in the beauty of a new culture.
But on days like today my 15 year old jeans and a thick grey sweatshirt will do just fine.
On days like today I feel no need and make no excuse.
For being distinctly alien.