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Rome? A furnace. Sure it is hot in Florida. But we have a green, breathing buffer and the Gulf and Atlantic breezes.
Rome has--ancient stones, white, radiant gravel, marble monuments, roasting rubble, ruins shimmering in heat haze, all that stored pulsating heat--no relief a'tall from the vibrating swelter, riverlets of sweat plastered shirts to men's backs, women who shouldn't bared saggin' skin to to the world as a prayer fer a touch of moving air.
Oh the poor feet!
No wonder the gospels is full of foot washin'. I gits it now. The storied fountains of Rome weren't nuthin' but footbaths fer the groanin',blistered, swollen extremities of the heaving mass of tourists. The heat undid us. We lost all reason--sat on steps, window sills, wherever--an' snapped pictures of feet. I ain't never seen so many feet oozin' outa shoes--puffed an' red, blistered, bulging bunions. Toes resembled piglets, pink sausages hangin' over the edge of their shoe soles.
It ain't easy to shoot folk's feet--feet is personal. People scowl at ya', pull their feet back, their faces twist into shocked disgust, Did you just take a picture of my feet?
No. Don't deny it. You took my feet.
Well, it wasn't yore face.
My face? You can't do that--can't take photos of my feet.
WHY? You're asking "why'?
Yeah, jes' wonder'n whar's the harm?
Uh-huh, no harm, right?
This is freaky.
It's the heat.