ABSTRACT
A mild, rainy Sunday in Florence gave me the joy of recognizing a truth. I was lonely and filled with that certain kind of sadness and physical discomfort that comes from spending the night on a train. This sadness and discomfort were oddly softened by the spiritual atmosphere in which Florence envelops the spirit of those who have stayed far away for some time. I followed some crowds of people who were dressed in their Sunday best and who were moved by the slow desire to prolong their weekly stroll. It was in this way that I followed some groups into the hall of a movie theatre. There, I was struck by the rhythms of Parisian songs. I noted right away that in places like this in Paris, they prefer playing the sensual music of New York, but here, I heard smooth French harmonies. The orchestra was a poor one, to be sure, but not terrible. And I liked to observe these exchanges of popular rhythms—that is, the essence of a people—in identical places in such different cities.
