My sandals tapped out a steady rhythm on the cobbled-stone street of Ghibellina as I made my way back to my apartment. Today would be my last in Florence, Italy. A mournful sigh escaped me at the thought and my heart squeezed. I placed my hand on my chest, but kept moving. I’m going to miss this. The aroma of coffee from the tiny shop on the corner filled the quiet street. The neon sign lit up before me signaling they were now open for business. A clunking noise disturbed the silence and I smiled to myself. A minute later, Mr. Cima came around the corner pulling his wooden vendor cart. Daily, he made the six-block trek to the San Lorenzo market to sell his goods. Short and spry, his trim gray hair could be seen below the brown flat-cap he always wore. “Buongiorno, bella.” He greeted as we approached ... click here to read the full article.