Bargaining

The light in Florence, it is divine.

In the morning, it slips across the aged red tiles of buildings in our neighborhood, beckoning, welcoming, enticing.

By afternoon, it bakes July tourists as they tred wearily down the tunnel-like streets near the Uffizi, sweat dripping, feet burning in Reeboks.

For all this light, you clearly need the right… sunglasses.

Or so Rebecca decided.

So near the stalls of the Basilica di Santa Croche, she commenced the dance with a street hawker who had a fold-up table covered in sunglasses.

Treating her like a beloved client at Roberto Cavalli, he gently unfolded various pairs of sunglasses, crooning “bella,” “buona,” placing them on her nose, directing her to push some up higher.

A black pair with gold trim. A red pair with gold trim.

He handed her a small mirror.

An aviator frame. An oversized pair with white movie-star frames.

As he moved slightly back and forth, a powerful, unwashed odor wafted across the walk.

A two-toned purple pair in plastic.

Rebecca smiled.

She looked at herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that.

“Quanto costa?” she inquired.

“25 euro,” the hawker said, continuing his croon.

She frowned. Put the sunglasses down, but kept her fingers wrapped around them.

“No. Too much,” she said in English.

His shoulders sagged a big.

“20 euros, fini,” he said.

Rebecca’s mother shook her head. “Rip off,” she said, “Come on – let’s look some more.”

“20 euros, fini,” he repeated.

The mother walked off to browse at the next kiosks.

Rebecca told the hawker, “No,” once more.

The bargaining continued.

The mother casually watched from three kiosks away.

Rebecca reached for her wallet, handed over a bill.

The hawker spoke quickly. She added some coins, then spun and headed off down the street.

“Graci,” she called back to him.

When she reached her mother, she crowed, “I got them for 12! Ha HA!”

Her mother, ever the spoiler, examined the sunglasses and pronounced, “They are worth, maybe, 5.”

Rebecca tossed her shoulders, adjusted her sunglasses, and continued her strut.

In evening in Florence, the light shimmers across the tight line of apartments, churches and restaurants lining the Arno River.

It flickers, promising, warming the blond walls.

The two-toned purple sunglasses remain on Rebecca’s face.

Her expression is inscrutable.

She turns her head toward the light.