Florence was under water. Algorithms had given continental weather events a low priority in my newsfeed, making me wonder what else I was missing. On the plane, the in-flight magazine had featured an article about the poet Dante and his Divine Comedy. In hell, there were circles where souls were tethered in realms according to their earthly failings: one for the lustful, one for the gluttonous, and so on. This made me think of the Internet and how, the more you clicked on something—porn, or shoes, conspiracy theories, or the gruesome reports of violent crimes—the more you saw of it, until it became nearly all you saw, and that real life might be in some way similar, that there were circles you could find yourself in and from which it might take a great effort to break free.

Rainwater ran in streams, pooling around the drains. In the streets, it roared beneath the pavements. The departure board showed a series of delayed flights and ranks of stranded travelers were standing gazing up at it, mouths open in horror like bystanders in a painting of the Crucifixion. I booked a hotel via an app, something mid-priced and central with good reviews, but some streets were closed and the taxi driver was forced to drive round in circles until he found a way through.

When I struggled in, the staff seemed surprised to see me. The lobby was empty and the young man on duty slid fearful glances over my shoulder, as though at any moment a monster would loom out of the darkness and menace us through the rain-smeared glass. In the room, the Wi-Fi wasn’t working and I quickly gave up trying to figure out the telly. I slipped into bed.

At some point during the night, air-raid sirens started howling, and the alarm entered my dreams. It was too late. I was too late. I had slept too long. I dreamed that on waking I would discover that something terrible had happened while I slept for which I was culpable, so that even asleep, I pretended to sleep, and awoke later than I intended, already drained. I reached the breakfast room as they were putting the cereal and cold cuts away. The chef hadn’t come in and the bakery hadn’t delivered.

Parts of the city were being evacuated on account of the flooding. But the hotel was on a rise. Would it remain open? A young woman was now behind the desk; she grimaced and opened her hands. “My father hasn’t seen this since 1966. Then the river came over the top. It was a catastrophe for Florence. If the Arno breaks its banks…”

Reluctantly she drew my route for me on a map, while I eavesdropped on a group of game old English ladies. Their leader was instructing a tour guide to find them a boat. “Ruth rowed for Cambridge! And we do so want to see the Spanish Chapel.”