Crying from Chromatic Waves
FRANZ WAS IN A FRENZY. It wasn’t at all the vacation he had expected. Here he was, finally arrived in Florence-the heart of the Renaissance, the very center point of Western culture-and he was at loose ends. He had planned his trip very carefully. He was a Bavarian bureaucrat like his father, and his father had always told him Bavarians are especially adept at organization. Franz had made himself a detailed itinerary, calculating each leg of the journey. He estimated the time it would take to get from his house to the train station, and then from the train station to his hotel in Florence. He mapped out each day, factoring in the time required to get to each day’s attraction, even estimating how long he would stand in line for tickets. But it hadn’t worked, and already he had fallen behind. All because of that painting.