One morning at Caffè Gilli – at a table with Fioravante

Introduction

A few days ago, at Caffè Gilli in Florence, Fioravante arrived on a bicycle, wearing a crooked hat, sandals with socks, and carrying the faint scent of bread and peach. He ordered a caffè d’orzo – ma senza fretta, and sat next to me.

We spoke about the value of life, the hustle of the modern world, and a quiet way of living.

This is an imaginary interview with a poetic character as a way of discovering what truly matters.

In the end, when Fioravante got up to go home to his cat, I found a piece of paper folded in four under his espresso cup. On it was a list written in a shaky handwriting. You’ll find it at the end of this dialogue – a small reminder that shows how even everyday things can turn into something poetic.

*    *    *

 
CLAUDIA:
Fioravante… may I ask you a rather big question?
Can a life made up of small, ordinary things – like cooking, washing the dishes and hanging up the laundry – have a purpose?
You, for example… how do you live?

FIORAVANTE:
(looks up, scratches his head)
ah… I don’t exactly wake up wondering: “Do I have a purpose?”
I usually just think: “I’m out of bread.”
And I go out, and then maybe I see a lizard sunbathing on a wall…
and I stop to watch him.

CLAUDIA:
Do you ever wonder, “Am I doing enough?”

FIORAVANTE:
(He shrugs a little)
Sometimes, sì.
But if no one looks at the flower growing by the sidewalk… who sees it?
If no one answers the neighbour’s cat who meows… who does?
I’m there.
Boh, maybe that’s enough.

CLAUDIA:
And your quiet days… do you think they have value?

FIORAVANTE:
Mah… I don’t really know how value is measured.
But yesterday I helped a woman with her bag of vegetables,
and she smiled at me like I’d given her a star.
And later I made tomato sauce slowly, with patience… 

CLAUDIA:
So the little things you do – helping people, cooking slowly – can be considered a gift for somebody or maybe even the world?

FIORAVANTE:
Eh… a gift, for me, is something that isn’t needed,
but still does good.
Like someone who whistles while sweeping the sidewalk,
making the air lighter for those who walk by.
Or someone who doesn’t slam the door so the neighbours can sleep.
No one claps for them.
But the world breathes better.

CLAUDIA:
I see…
A gift is not functional or necessary…
it doesn’t "serve" a purpose like a password or a key –
but it’s somehow right.
No one will ever ask you, “Did you smile today?”
And if no one says “thank you” for these gifts of yours?

FIORAVANTE:
(he adjusts his hat, without looking at me)
Mah… sometimes, sì, it stings a little.
But then I think:
Fresh bread doesn’t get upset if no one eats it right away.
It just waits.
Good bread is still good the next day.

CLAUDIA:
Have you ever wanted to change the world?

FIORAVANTE:
No. I just try not to break it more.
If I manage to fix one small piece…
that’s already something.

CLAUDIA:
Many people want to change the world. They measure greatness by their impact.
You seem to measure it with care.

FIORAVANTE:
Mah… impact I never quite understood.
Doing things with care, invece… care remains.
It's like sewing on a loose button without anyone asking you to.
Like watering a plant that isn’t yours.
Greatness, if it exists, maybe hides in these things –
in gestures that don’t try to be great, but gently hold things together…
like the invisible thread that keeps a sleeve attached.

CLAUDIA:
Many of these small gestures are invisible to the modern world, but for you, Fioravante, they’re signs of human resistance.

FIORAVANTE:
Eh… maybe.
But I don’t see them as “protest”
Not in the usual sense.
I don’t carry signs. I don’t give speeches.

CLAUDIA:
(laughing)
You don’t wake up thinking: “Today I shall resist urban capitalism!”
You resist… in your own way, unconsciously.

FIORAVANTE:
Certain things just feel right.
Or… natural, I guess.
Out of respect. Out of grace.
It’s not really a strategy.
It’s more like… a kind of loyalty.
A quiet instinct.
Not fighting against something –
but standing for something.

CLAUDIA:
And what are you loyal to? To certain personal standards, traditions, morals?

FIORAVANTE:
(He pauses for a moment)
Hmm… I’m not sure it’s fidelity to something specific, you know.
I’m loyal to kindness that asks for nothing.
To doing things well, even when no one’s watching.
To a way of being.
It’s more like a memory inside,
a kind of music I’ve always heard,
even if I don’t know how to play it.
I’m faithful to what I saw people do in silence –
like my aunt, who would shine the wine glasses until they sparkled, even when she lived alone.

CLAUDIA:
Yours is a poetic kind of resistance – not political.
A quiet revolution.
You live with grace, almost without realizing it, and just by doing so, you remind others that another way of living is possible.
Don’t you ever feel lonely in a world that runs so fast?

FIORAVANTE:
Oh, but I’m not alone.
I have my cat,
and the bell tower which rings at noon.
They don’t ask anything from me.
But they’re there.
And I feel them.

CLAUDIA:
If you could make a wish…?

FIORAVANTE:
Maybe… none.
It’s just… I don’t expect anything.
Everyone has their own pace.
I walk slowly.
And for me, that’s already peace.
I wasn’t always like this, eh –
when I was younger, I rushed too.
But peace isn’t a finish line.
You choose it every day.
Like tea or coffee.

CLAUDIA:
Sometimes it feels like you’ve stayed loyal to a world most people have forgotten…
Do you still feel close to it?

FIORAVANTE:
(he takes the last sip of his coffee, sets the cup down gently)
There are still voices I understand:
a dove, the ticking of rain,
my cat stretching as if he had worked all night. (But he didn't do anything.)
They haven’t forgotten me.
And I haven’t forgotten them.

____________

Postscript

When Fioravante left,
he pushed his chair in very gently.
Tipped his hat – without saying a word.
He walked to the door slowly,
careful not to bump into the purse of a signora,
or block the sunlight coming through the windows.

____________

Epilogue

On the table,
he had left a list.
Milk, butter, bread…
And at the bottom, one word stood out:
Buttons.

And I thought:
Fioravante doesn’t want to change the world.
But now and then,
he likes to mend it –
one button at a time.

Fioravante's story didn't begin in a café... it began in a poem.
Discover it here → Fioravante 🌸🚲