90 Days In & Finding My Pace

I’ve been back in Florence for barely a breath - three months, technically - and already the city has settled around me like a favourite sweater that still carries a hint of whoever wore it last. When I first stepped into my apartment, I felt like I’d broken into someone else’s life. Everything was “fine,” in that vague, furnished-rental way: neutral décor carefully chosen to offend no one, a rug that looked like it had witnessed a small emotional crisis, and couch covers that smelled unmistakably like the armpit of the previous tenant, who was clearly a warm and enthusiastic person.

But the transformation began with tiny, almost accidental gestures. A Nespresso machine I’d purchased because if you’re rebuilding your life in a foreign country, caffeine is as essential as oxygen. Then photos of my favourite people appeared on surfaces, familiar faces grounding me in the strange newness. I bought prints from Desenio that felt like little whispers of my taste. A rose-scented candle started making the apartment smell less like a stranger’s choices and more like mine. I washed the couch covers so aggressively they probably qualify as “reborn.”

And slowly, without ceremony, the place shifted. The apartment stopped feeling like a container I was passing time inside and began feeling like somewhere I returned to, somewhere I exhaled, somewhere my socks lived. Home isn’t something that announces itself with fireworks. It’s something that sneaks up on you the moment you realise you’ve stopped thinking about where else you should be. That moment arrived while I was rearranging my nightstand for the fifteenth time, pretending to “organise” while really just moving the same three objects around in a loop. I caught myself smiling - quietly, without meaning to - and thought, “Ah. There you are.”

Routine followed close behind, the way cats sneak into rooms they’re not invited to. Suddenly I had “my” barista: the one who makes a coffee that is not lukewarm, not tepid, but actually hot, an accomplishment deserving of international recognition. I knew which train brought the teenagers, which neighbour slammed their shutters open like they were trying to summon daylight with force, and which dog had taken it upon himself to defend the block from absolutely everything, including leaves, dust, and possibly the concept of movement itself.

But even as my days began to take shape, I caught myself rushing with the kind of intensity you’d expect from someone training for a competitive walking tournament. It didn’t matter if I had nowhere to be. My feet still carried me forward at breakneck speed as if Florence were a city where punctuality could save lives. Spoiler: it absolutely is not. Italians walk at the speed of introspection. They stroll. They glide. They meander. Some of them move so slowly I swear I’ve aged behind them. They pause mid-stride to talk, to admire the same window display they’ve passed for twenty years, to say hello to someone they kind of know from a cousin’s friend’s aunt.

And yes, it drives me mad. There are days I want to physically lift people out of my way like human traffic cones. But beneath the irritation, there’s this ache of envy I can’t quite ignore. They’re not trying to get somewhere faster than their own thoughts. They’re not racing an invisible clock. They’re fully, maddeningly, beautifully present.

Meanwhile, I’m still sprinting through life like I’m afraid something might catch me if I slow down. I weave through crowds like I’m avoiding lasers. I dodge tourists with unnecessary athleticism. My natural pace is “urgent,” even when the only thing waiting for me is my couch and the same Netflix show I’ve been watching for weeks.

I keep telling myself I want to slow down. I want inner calm. I want to be the kind of person who strolls through Florence as if she has nowhere better to be, because honestly? Most days, I don’t. But unlearning the reflex to rush feels like trying to retrain a wild animal. Habits built over years don’t dissolve just because you’ve moved cities. Sometimes I think Florence is trying to teach me something, and I’m that stubborn student refusing to take notes.

Winter arrived with its smug little chill, the kind you feel in your bones before you feel it on your skin. Everyone here insists it’s “not that cold,” which feels dramatic considering I’ve taken to layering myself like a human lasagna. But there’s a joy to it too, the crisp blue days, the cold air sharpening my senses, the scarves wrapped around necks like protective spells. Every time I strip off my layers in a café, I feel like I’m revealing a surprise to the world and should burst into song for dramatic effect.

Then came the yearly tradition of illness. My sinuses, lungs, and immune system joined forces to create a full symphony of inconvenience. One minute I was walking along the Arno like a romantic protagonist; the next I was inhaling Ventolin like it contained the secrets of the universe. I became inseparable from my nebulizer, cradling it like an emotional support appliance. Florence remained postcard-perfect, while I shuffled around like a decorative eucalyptus drop being propelled forward by every cough. Last time I lived here, winter took me hostage for four months. I’m praying this season is kinder, maybe the city will take pity on me now that I’m a repeat guest.

Christmas arrived in mid-November with absolutely no subtlety. Florence doesn’t tiptoe into the festive season, it cartwheels in wearing sequins. Streets lit up with sparkling blankets of lights, giant trees sprouted in every piazza like joyful surprises, and shop windows transformed into showy altars of pure holiday drama. Even the statues seem to soften, as if someone whispered, “Come on, it’s Christmas,” and they reluctantly agreed.

And then there are the Christmas markets, which I adore with the kind of passion usually reserved for soulmates. Piazza Santa Croce transforms into a fairytale: wooden stalls, twinkling lights, families bundled in scarves, and crowds navigating each other with that polite festive chaos that makes me shake my head and smile at the same time. I always tell myself I’m going “just to look,” and then immediately betray myself by buying enough stroopwafels to question my identity. Apple strudel, fruit bread wrapped in marzipan, pretzels, donuts oozing vanilla cream - the kind of baked goods that hug you from the inside out. And the mulled cider - hot, spiced, generous with the rum - my winter soulmate, warming me better than any coat ever could.

Some afternoons, walking home with the smell of cinnamon clinging to my scarf, I catch myself smiling without reason. Maybe it’s the lights. Maybe it’s the cold air brushing colour into my cheeks. Maybe it’s the gentle realisation that this life - messy, imperfect, slower than I want and faster than I can process - is becoming something real. Something mine.

I’m learning, slowly and painfully, to live at walking pace. To unclench. To breathe. To let myself arrive somewhere without earning it through speed. Florence keeps teaching me. Through its slow walkers, its stillness, its insistence on presence, that life doesn’t have to be a race. It can be an amble. A stroll. A meander from point A to point B with no rush, no urgency, no invisible finish line.

Three months in, Florence feels like that slightly chaotic friend with impeccable taste who takes my elbow, guides me through the crowded streets, and whispers, “Slow down. You’re already here.” And every day, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes enthusiastically, I try to listen.