I got here before most of the tourists did, which in Rome is less about discipline and more about insomnia. The stalls were already full. Tomatoes the color of old clay. Basil in bunches so thick the smell hit me from three meters away. The vendors weren't performing for anyone. They were just doing the morning.
There's a particular quality to Roman produce. It looks like it was painted by someone who loved it. The artichokes here are different from the ones my father buys in Milan. Smaller, tighter, purple at the tips. A woman next to me picked one up and turned it over in her hand the way you'd inspect a gemstone. She put it back. Chose a different one. I understood completely.
Giordano Bruno stands in the center of the piazza in bronze, hooded, looking down. He was burned here in 1600 for thinking too freely. Now people eat supplì at his feet and check their phones. I don't know if that's tragic or the best possible revenge. I loaded a fresh roll and shot him from below, the hood dark against a sky that was almost too blue. The camera clicked and a pigeon startled. Nobody else noticed.
A flower seller was arranging sunflowers in a tin bucket. No sign, no price written anywhere. You ask or you don't. I like places where you still have to use your voice. I bought a single stem, tucked it into the side pocket of my bag where it will probably be crushed by noon. That felt fine. Rome is not a city that asks you to preserve things. It just asks you to be there while they happen.
