Fashionable in Florence?

Strange how people wear colours to echo their surroundings. Born near the sea in New Zealand, I’m most comfortable in blues and greens. Mermaid colours, someone once remarked. But it’s more than that. I grew up with water and acres of bush. Those are the colours I belong in.
When we first moved to Australia, I was taken back by the oranges, ochres and yellows women wore without second thought. I gradually understood they were obeying the instinct to reflect the shades of the desert.
In London, New York (and often in Melbourne for that matter) people wear blacks, greys and charcoals to blend with their concrete forests. I can play along, but those non-colours drain my complexion and make me look older and more tired than I really am.
Here in Florence people swan about in elegant tans, creams and golds that reflect the extraordinary buildings they live with, and no doubt the land they’ve sprung from. My bright blue shirt stands out, harsh and ridiculous. The black jacket that looked fine in London seems austere. And wrong.
I’m tempted to go out and get a taupe knitted top to drape over a cream blouse and maybe trousers the colour of Michelangelo’s David’s bottom. I’d need a new handbag, of course, in olive tones from a local craftsman, and sandals to match. Then, to top it off, a splendid panama.
I’d merge so well in Florence, people might walk up to me and speak Italian. Not that I’d be able to talk back.
Then when I returned to Melbourne in October, I know what would happen. Sauntering about in my beautiful Florentine clothes, I’d look like a stranger. People might swerve to avoid me on the street. Or talk loudly and slowly in case I don’t understand English.
It would become hard work After a day or two I’d be back in my blue shirt.