This post appears in the Guinness Storehouse Travel Contest.
It's been just over three years since I made the acquaintance of the infectiously stylish city that is Florence. Well, it doesn't infect everybody because that's a lot to ask of such a popular tourist destination—once you go fanny pack, you never go back—but the city is still an amazing place for style, design and culture. Like Paris, it's a city for which you don't really need an itinerary. (In fact, I'd recommend against one.) Put on your most comfortable least ugly shoes and hit the streets, turning random corners, stopping for pizza and gelato, snapping pictures all the while because everything will take your breath away.
Florence is the city in which my passion for vintage came into its own. It's also where my interest in photography really took off. The light in Florence is insane, for lack of a better phrase. It's so beautiful, wherever you look, it pulls you outside of yourself. The way it falls on buildings and plays off rooftops, throwing the city's famous architecture into relief—it's like living in an Instagram filter. Or like being in Italy IRL. IDK.
An experience like that changes how you see things, how you taste things, how you use all of your senses. You have to slow down to ingest all of the textures, the colors, the smells, the people. A father walks his daughter to school, her pink backpack slung over his shoulder; a woman bikes by with her purse stowed in the front basket; a gentleman werqs lime green pants while out for a Sunday stroll with his wife. It's not a remembered still frame from a Merchant Ivory film, it's living and it's breathing, it's quiet and yet it's full of passion. And they have really good spaghetti.
Photography Angelica Domingo & Sean Santiago // all clothing & accessories vintageGiven my severe lack of fundage I probably won't be making it back to Italy any time soon. But I was feeling inspired by the recent menswear shows to take a sartorial cue from the birthplace of Bertolucci and Fellini and strike some poses in NYC's own Washington Mews. You can take the boy out of Italy, but you can't...oh, you know.
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