The city before 8 a.m.
Street sweepers, bakeries, the first trams. Notes from morning walks through a city that hasn't got noisy yet.
Most of us see our city in a hurry: at nine on the way to work, at seven in the evening on the way home. But there is another city, one that lives before 8 a.m.
Sounds
A broom brushing the cobbles. The metal rattle of a bakery’s shutters. The first tram, empty and bright like an aquarium. There are few sounds, and you hear each one on its own.
People
At this hour everyone is a little familiar. A man with a dachshund that always stops at the same tree. A barista opening the café and making the first cup for herself. An old woman selling flowers on the corner — she has been there longer than I’ve lived in the neighbourhood.
The city doesn’t pose in the morning. It simply wakes up, just as slowly as you do.
The route
I don’t have a route. There is one rule: always turn where I haven’t been before. In two months I’ve found three courtyards with grapevines, a staircase overlooking the rooftops and a bakery where the croissants run out by half past seven.
Try it once — on a Saturday, when you don’t need to be anywhere. You might fall in love with your city all over again.
