Caveat: I walked down along the river Arno…

I walked down along the river Arno, the sun was shining.  The water was the color of desert fatigues, opaque like a green olive.  There were some ducks swimming, and there was no wind, for a change.  I saw what appeared to be two otters swimming in the current.  One headed toward the near shore, where someone had thrown some bread for the ducks.  Three meters straight down in the water, an otter sat up in the bright morning light and held in its paws a piece of bread and ate.  Somehow this is more inspiring than the museums and the tourist-clogged streets to me, at the moment.  I'm going to move on to spain, leaving tomorrow for, probably, somewhere in southern france for overnight, and thence to barcelona or somewhere like that. 

After the river, I walked up the hill on the south side, hoping for view, but the sky got cloudy and beautiful, but chilly.  I climbed a hill on a street called san giorgio, I think, and ended up on a back road along what appears to be a remnant of the city wall, with olive trees behind another, shorter wall on the south side.  Very painterly and tuscan, I thought.  After recrossing the river I bought my weekly dose of world news, the economist, at a news stand, and stopped for capuccino and a schiacciate (toasted sandwichy thing, probably spelled wrong there) and read in the coming-and-going sunshine.

Everytime I go into a museum, I grow bored.  Something different from what I expected….  Not bored exactly… just restless.  Not wanting to just look, wanting to create, maybe.  But create what?  My writing (aside from these entries) isn't going well, although I've made some decent progress with Persiles, of late, it's just notes – nothing monumental.  I'm carrying around another book, an anthology of poetry by Vicente Aleixandre, in hopes of drawing some inspiration.  But mostly I find myself disappointed at my jottings.  I throw them away.