I wake to the sounds of groaning from my Australian neighbor. "Oh God, it's too early to get up! You can't make me!" This seemed to be directed at no one in particular, since the only thing trying to drag him out of bed was the incessant electronic screech of his own alarm.
I turn over and try to go back to bed, but it is for naught against the alarm's unreasoning monotone wail, set as ambient noise for the cackling sounds of the Australian arguing with his British fiancée about whether they should get up or not. After another two hours of half-hearted sleep, 8:30 rolls around and I decide to awake in earnest for my last taste of Rome, to drink the city to its dregs before dragging along to Florence.
I check out of my hotel, leaving some things I would pick up after my final excursion. I go to the train station Termini to buy my ticket. After some finagling with the menu, I at last uncover a sweet ride on the Intercity Line for 27 Euros. Not bad, although my flight from Milan to Paris cost nearly as much. My train will leave at one in the afternoon, giving me some three hours to explore the only remaining corner of the city that had eluded my brilliant plan for assaulting the city - the South West. In order to make my final moments in Rome as much like a movie montage as possible, I decide to walk to the south west rather than taking the metro. In so doing, all the favorite sites of Rome are reprised: Vittorio Emannuel, Colesseo, Circus Maximus . . . the whole shebang.
Finally I arrive at the South West and walk in and around this charming corner, nestled on top of a high-hill away from the rest of the old city. With exactly three minutes left in my time budget, I stumble on a park at the very height of the hill. The view from the bluff is breathtaking; Rome kisses me a farewell.
And then I'm off, running back to get my things on the complete opposite town. Despite having nearly an hour until departure, I have no time to walk; only the metro can possibly save me from the consequences of my craven lust for the urban landscape, my ravenous desire for tourism.
At the metro station, the guard informs me in sign language, occasionally supplemented by Italian, that the ticket vending machine is broken, and I will have to go out of the metro, cross the street, go into the metro station on the other side, buy my ticket there, then come back to this side – since there is no way to get from the one side of the train station to the other without a detour across the street. This would be frustrating enough, but before I can leave I am caught by a couple of hopelessly helpless elderly Americans – whose sign language is so miserable that I wonder how they could have even made it this far in a country based on gesticulation. I explain to their somewhat deaf ears that, first,
"I am an American."
"Well you sure look Italian."
"I suppose so."
"Are you Italian-American?"
"No, actually, I'm not."
"You're not – I could have sworn you were. Marlene, don't you think he looks like an Italian-American?"
"Well sure he does . . . but looks can be deceiving George."
"Yeah, I guess they can be." The elderly American looks at me blankly, thoughtfully. "Now what were you saying about crossing to the other side – why in the heck would I have to do that?"
And so on. After my discussion with them it was already looking as if I was late. I hurry, taking the necessary back and forth to buy the ticket, and then waiting two minutes for the train. The train moves quickly though, and I find that I am two blocks from my hotel with twenty-five minutes to go.
I walk into the Hostel, go to the back where I left my stuff, grab it, then leave, without anyone seeming to notice my presence or that I'd taken bags from the back unattended. It would make me wonder how safe it was in the first place, but I am too for late wonderment. With fifteen minutes I arrive at Termini Station.
I look out upon the great old-style black rotary board, which lists all the trains departing soon from Rome.
There aren't any trains leaving for Florence.
No time to figure anything out, I rush over to the nearest attendant. She has three customers to talk to ahead of me. I wait impatiently, flapping my arms, rearranging my hands on my baggage. With five minutes until departure, I reach her.
"Bongiorno, do you speak English?"
"Yes."
"Hi. So I have a ticket for Firenze, but it doesn't seem that there's any train leaving for Firenze any time soon." I show her the ticket.
"Ah, you see, because you don't have a ticket for Firenze, you have a ticket for San-Rifredi. But for you, it's no problem. Just go get on the train leaving for Milan in five minutes. Hurry, and don't forget to stamp your ticket."
I run over to one of the yellow boxes, compost my billet, and run to the train as a man in a goofy blew hat whistles and shouts, "Lasta Callo, Tutto Abordo."
I shuffle listlessly through the first cars. Disheveled people, all their seats are taken. Even the ones that aren't filled . . . I go up to them and a chorus says to me "Occupato." Shuffling ahead, my great orange bag banging my knees, I realize after five minutes that I was in the first class section – and my seat is second class.
Ironically, second class is less crowded, and I find a cabin to share with a tired, fatherly-looking man. I put my stuff away and sit down.
As I look out at the great green rolling hills of the Italian countryside, I think back on what the attendant had just told me.
"You don't have a ticket for Firenze, you have a ticket for San-Rifredi. But for you, it's no problem."
What? Had I really just gotten on a train that was heading to Milan, not the city I wanted to go to, with a ticket to a city called San-Rifredi, which, by the sound of it, is not the same place as Milan, and in any event, isn't the city I wanted to go to in the first place?
I look at my ticket. Maybe San-Rifredi is on the way to Milan, I think. Maybe it somehow says so on my ticket? Nope.
I try parsing what the woman had told me. "You don't have a ticket for Firenze." I know I don't, that's the problem. "You have a ticket for San-Rifredi." I know I do, that's the problem. "But for you, it's no problem." I think this is exactly where I have the problem. Why does she say, for you, it's no problem. For me, it's no problem? Who does she think I am?
"Well Superman, we've decided to drop you at San-Rifredi, which is small town on the Island of Corsica. I mean, we know that you wanted to go to Firenze, and Corsica is kind of across the Italian equivalent of the bridge to Nowhere, but we thought you'd appreciate the chance to fly around a little bit first."
Or
"You are a cute-oh, probablemente you can-a turn-a tricks-eh and end-e up-ah there eventualemente. Remember, in Italia, tricks are for-ah kids-eh."
Ah well, either I get there or I don't. I watch out the countryside, hoping for the best, completely unprepared for the worst.
At last we arrive at a stop called San-Rifredi. It is an open-air station surrounded by country on three sides, with a small town on the remaining. Still no Florence in view. Without any real ideas, I find myself aimlessly following the mass of people down the concourse of the train station. About a third of the crowd parts to the left and out to the town – I go with the greater part of the flow and end up outside on a different train platform. Looking about, I notice a good number of Americans, so probably I'm headed in the right direction. I look up and around and see that Firenze – Santa Maria Novella is indeed the destination on this platform, and breathe a sigh of relief.
I only have to wait a couple minutes for a train to show up, and it takes me to the Santa Maria Novella - not to be confused with either Santa Marie Libretto, or Santa Maria Clausa, which are both in southern of Italy. Departing the station, I feel terribly hot and thirsty. The sun is very powerful, it beats down on me, making my legs feel week. Around the station, Florence is a total dump. Garbage everywhere, the air is replete with exhaust from the concourse of a thousand bus, trains and automobiles.
All I have to go on to get to my hostel is the written directions given by the hostel – which I am somewhat wary of, given my disastrous experience with written directions on Via Appia. Fortunately, streets are better marked here, and I walk down the first street I'm supposed to follow. Half way down the block is a convenience store. I stop in. Two six foot six American jock-types are standing around looking at candy bars.
"Yo man, I got sooo messed up last night."
"Shit, me too. I woke up drunk and high."
"Better get a PowerBar, shit'll straightin'you out bro."
I was to find that American's of this caliber were swarming Florence – in a concentration that I'd never seen in either Europe or the States. In fact, there may be more Americans in Florence than Florentines.
I buy a Lemon Ice Tea, and discover it to be the most delicious, non-Pabst based, bottled drink I've ever had. It gives you the same aura of happiness as ice-cream, but it doesn't leave a heavy or too-sugary taste. It's just right.
I trod along, the neighborhood isn't getting any better. It has a very unique small town slum feel to it, sort of like what you'd find in Connecticut, but more charming.
I walk up to a sprawling complex five or six stories high. On the outside a big banner says PLUS: People Like Us. This is my hostel. Like night and day from the one in Rome, sliding automatic doors, uniformed attendants, couches and sitting areas in the main room. And signs for free internet.
I go up to the front desk but the attendants are occupied with several hyper-American patrons. One of the patrons says something in Italian with a crushing, crushing American accent. I laugh. The female attendant looks up at me, smiles, and asks, "Italiano?" "No." "Capisce?" "From time to time." Both attendants laugh.
I check into my room, and take the working elevator up the required five flights of stairs. In the room I find what I take to be a platonic American couple, less than thirty, the woman is Indian and the man is East Asian. The only available bed is a bunk bed, with the top already taken. I prefer the bottom anyways.
Shrugging off my things, I consider taking a shower, but decide not to. I'm only going to get disgusting again in several minutes. I head out for the city.
Part II: I Shot the Law, and Got This Photo
For some reason my route for the first day was terribly, terribly mediocre – especially in light of what I saw the second day. Mediocre plazas, gardens that no one is permitted to enter. They wash by, leaving little to no impression. The only really decent one is a church upon an enormous plaza that reminds me of the Alamo – or rather, reminds me of what I think the Alamo probably looks like, since I've never been.
By the time I reach the river things have begun to look more promising. Up ahead is a massive bluff, which is what I wanted to head towards in the first place, counting on the fact that a panoramic sunset view of the city was a bullet-proof plan for the early evening. In any event, the river boardwalk is beautiful, giving pleasant views on both sides of this sleepy, old medieval Italian town. Climbing up the bluff I see many statues, and an ever more impressive view of the city.
At the top I find the bluff is pretty much mobbed. Everyone and their brother got the same idea as me, that it might be nice to watch sunset from a hill. Except, many of them had brought food, whereas the only thing I had for refreshment was an empty bottle of iced tea.
I wander around the groups, appreciating the view, and looking for a suitable place to sit. I hear mainly English, interspersed with a bit of Chinese and the occasional German. Not many Italians apparently. Looking around, I notice on one side a nice looking, Renaissance-type statue of a man looking out at the city, and on the other side, a bit away and down the road, something that looks like a church. I approach it.
Upon arrival I find that the church is actually an abandoned monastery. Much less crowded than the bluff, and with an equal if not better view, I sit down on the front steps.
Several moments later A POLICE CAR BURSTS OUT OF A BACK ALLEY OF THE MONASTERY. IT SWERVES, TURNING TOWARDS THE COMICALLY BIG-HAIRED, INNOCENT BYSTANDERED SITTING ON THE STEPS ENJOYING THE VIEW. SPEEDING ALONG AT FULL SPEED, THE BYSTANDER LETS OUT A WHELP. HIS THOUGHTS ARE EXACTLY TWO:
1) SO THIS IS HOW I'M GOING TO DIE: CRUSHED BY A SPEEDING CAR FLYING DOWN THE STEPS OF AN ABANDONED MONASTARY, LIKE THE FACELESS, MEANINGLESS EXTRAS WHOSE DEATHS I'VE MOCKINGLY LAUGHED AT IN COUNTLESS ACTION MOVIES – APPROPRIATE ENOUGH.
2) KIND OF SPORTY FOR A COP CAR, HUH?
Impossibly, the car does not go flying off the ledge onto the oncoming Frankish noble, but rather parks right at stairs' precipice. Two cops get out, one is somewhat fat and old, while the other is a young, muscular beef-ball. They begin chatting about the view.
I move off; I don't like to sit near police. The cops take no notice.
I look out at the sunset, my anxiety about departing from Rome and using the foreign rail system completely forgotten. While sitting, thinking about nothing in particular besides my own happiness, I notice that the younger police officer has started taking model shots of the older one. Holding his cap, flexing his muscles. Looking grim. I start taking pictures of these proceedings, but stop, fearing I'll get caught and yelled at. Eventually, the photo shoot appears to finish, and the two lean against their car appreciating the sunset. I go behind them and take several pictures – which I think are nice enough that I'll include it here:
The cops drive off just before sunset finishes, and a German man asks me to take some pictures of him in the sunset. I oblige him, and we talk for several minutes afterwards about how much the city has changed since he was here last. But before long I bid him ado, and descend the hill.
At the foot of the hill, I find the famous Uffizi structure. It's an ancient market built on top of a bridge over the river. It was the only bridge in Florence spared destruction in World War II because of its historical significance. I pass a coffee place that looks really amazing, and then a place for gelato. I promise myself to make a return the next day for both. On the bridge there is a singer performing. I listen, looking out at the river's gentle flow.
It's now well past dinner time, so I make out for the traditional Tuscan eatery recommended by my hostel. Conveniently, this gives me a chance to stroll through a completely empty downtown, and I realize how idiotic my route for approaching the city was. Cutting through only one central street in downtown, I find churches, museums, historic houses, and a most impressive enormous arch over a downtown plaza. Ah well, save the good stuff for tomorrow.
The traditional Tuscan eatery is nestled in a neighborhood disgustingly reminiscent of that surrounding my hostel in Rome. Nevertheless, the food is decent enough. When I ask for Parmesan for my pasta, he brings out a bowl of really delicious premium stuff, that was the nicest part. Half way through the dinner a Russian tour guide came in and a singing, drunken bunch files in. For most of the dinner I can hear them singing boisterously in the back of the restraint.
And so, bloated, full, and terribly smelly, I wander back home to my hostel.
Part III: Eurotrip 2 Close to Home
The bed next to my bunk is occupied by an overwhelmingly dapper Italian man, well pressed khakis, Armani t-shirt, but not of the heavily studed variety so beloved in former-soviet bloc countries. I nod at the man, acknowledging that we will be sleeping within arms reach of each other. He smiles back. I busy myself with gathering the belongings I'll change into after showering.
The shower is spectacular: warm water, high pressure, clean floor. What I had so taken for granted as little as three days prior, now won its due and more with its proper restoration.
I leave the shower relieved. Surveying the room, I find the Indian woman reading trashy Jody Picoult, while the Asian types sporadically on his blog. Going into the adjoining room, where my bed is, I find the Italian laying on his bed, back propped up at ¾ against the wall, staring straight ahead at the ceiling without a thought. I go over to my bed, plop down, then pull out my copy of Dirty Hands for a little reading before I go to bed.
After ten minutes of reading, I look up for a moment to find the Italian unabashedly staring at my face. I look at him in the eyes – warm brown eyes, deer-like and innocent, the coloration reminds me of nutella. All Italians have eyes like this - one wonders that this was at one time a fascist country.
Not wanting to stare, I look down at my book again for thirty seconds, then look up. He's still staring.
I recalled suddenly my dear colloc Guillaume Pouliot, telling me about an interlude in the movie which resonated deeply with the most puerile side of his sense of humor. It was called Eurotrip 2. As I remember the scene, or as I remember Guillaume's telling of it, three men are in the back seat of a car. Two college-age Americans on the outside, and an excessively dapper Italian in the middle. When the car goes through a tunnel, there is momentary darkness, and when we see the car again, the Italian has his hands on the inside of the Americans' legs. The Americans protest, the Italian cries, "Mi Scuzzi, mi scuzzi!" and relents. Another moment, and the car passes another tunnel. This time the Italians' shirt is open, and he is holding the men in their crotches. He cries, "Mi scuzzi, mi scuzzi!" and relents, buttoning up his shirt. Finally, the distraught Americans see that ahead is a mile long tunnel, and look at each other warily. When darkness comes, suddenly the Americans begin shouting over noises of animal sex.
Suddenly, I am worried. What if the stereotype were true? My god, what is this man looking at me for? Am I going to be raped?
Well, if I am, then I'd better speak up about it.
"Buena Sera."
"Ciao." He is caught surprised.
"Comme va?"
"Bene. Parle Italiano?"
"No, un pocitto."
"Franchese?"
"Que?"
A look of consternation crosses his face, mixed with determination. His expressions are extremely exaggerated – Italians don't live, they act or, more commonly, over-act. He squeezes his lips together firmly, puffs is cheeks and squints up at the air just above my head. Then he snaps his fingers.
"Tu es Français?"
"Ah!" I laugh, "No, Americain."
"Oh!" He says, smiling. "I," he pauses a moment, the look of consternation appears again, but only for a second, "speak-eh the-h Ingliesh."
I'll bet you do.
But in fact, he does kind of speak English. At least, he seems to understand what I'm saying about reading plays and studying in France for a semester. When it comes to his turn to talk, he's extremely slow, but gets his point across eventually. At points in the conversation when someone says something that is almost like a joke, he gets very excited, and hits my shoulder, or my knee. I think to myself, touching the other person like that is often a precursor to other physical contact – he could be being friendly, or he could be being too friendly. I make the transition, telling him that I'm going to read a little more.
I begin reading again, but I'm not actually reading, I'm thinking about my plan. Well, there's nothing to do really. There's at least two other people in the room, probably it's impossible for this guy to try anything and the others not to do anything. Of course, with the way this society is going, who knows. Sure I'll keep my brother, but I'm not gonna keep just any joe-shmo I happen across in the street. I decide that I'll sleep so that my back is on the other side of him, even though it's much harder to fall asleep because that forces my head to be exposed to the light, which is still on.
The bed I'm trying to sleep on is as hard as the floor. In fact, I'm fairly sure it's a piece of fabric on top of a wood board. I'm beginning to suspect that this Hostel has striven very hard to create the surface of a "luxury hostel" – an obvious contradiction in terms – while at the same time cutting as many corners as possible beneath the surface. More power to them.
After half an hour of trying to fall asleep, without much progress being made, I look up. The Italian is staring ahead at the ceiling, but after another second looks at me. I close my eyes. I wonder, has he just been doing that the last half-hour? Looking at the ceiling, then looking at me? At this point, I'm just getting annoyed. The suspense isn't killing me, it's just annoying me. Turn the lights off, go to bed, let me fall asleep, and if you're going to try to catch me unawares, then please, let's stop beating around the bush.
Finally, he gets up, pulls out his bag from under the bed, takes out a pair of elegant light blue pajama bottoms. Then, he takes off his pants, and is standing there in front of me with his underwear. Ahh – I say to myself quietly. But quickly he puts his pajamas on, and takes out a plain white shirt, which he also changes into. Then, he lies down on his bed. He makes as if to sleep with no pillow, using his arms for head-cushion, while his body rests on its side, facing me.
As expected, sleeping open face to a male stranger I don't know and don't trust proves an awkward experience. At some point, I see him put his hand down his pants in order to rearrange his junk; an otherwise unremarkable gesture becomes disconcerting in the Florentine Twilight. I watch him warily, but it seems as if he's not even awake. I go back to sleep.
At 7 sharp, he gets up to go take a shower, and comes back wearing only his underwear. Then he dresses. Then he leaves. He takes everything with him. I get an hour and a half of unperturbed sleep.
Part IV: Of Fortresses, Churches, and Lobster-Americans
My first stop in the morning is a park next to the old fortress. Once dedicated to the might of the Florentine Empire, the fortress now serves as a convention center for textiles and waste-paper related products. Along the way, the miracle of Italian coffee proves itself yet again - a memorable cappuccino and pastry for two euros. I love this country.
The park next to the fortress is not particularly nice. It's bordered on one side by a highway, on another by an off-ramp to the highway, and on the final side by an ominous looking fortress. Such a park attracts typical bad-park fair: homeless dudes, teenage vagrants, and nannies carting around infant children. One particularly odd character in the park was a man doing his morning exercise routine by running around the pond. His face was not unlike-Saddam Hussein's, particularly in the bearded hole-dweller phase. What is more striking about the man was that he's running around with no shirt on, but is nevertheless wearing green cargo-pants and a large brown belt. For footwear, he has workman's boots.
Moving on from the mediocre park, I begin to circle the fortress – which as it turns out is closed, and in any event utterly devoid of historical chatchkis. Circumambulating the structure, I find that on the other side there is a large, viaduct-like structure, which I proceed to mount. Now on top of the viaduct, I immediately realize that what I am looking at is nothing less than the train station. We've literally returned to square one.
The first adventures of the day thoroughly botched, I move on to the church Santa Maria Novella, which is immediately next to the train station. By now my tolerance for churches has gotten so high that I am not terribly impressed with the exterior. As I make to go inside, I am told by the workers that there is a fee to enter the church, unless I am a member of the clergy. Momentarily I consider telling the person working there that I am a member of the clergy, but then think better of it. What kind of a person would lie about their identity to get into some stupid tourist attraction? I pay the fee.
The interior is similar to other second tier churches – religious paintings all done in a very similar, Renaissance or pre-Renaissance style. While wandering around the church, I catch an American couple, in the later stretches of middle age, trying to ask one of the attendants the meaning of an inscription on the floor. He asks the attendant, "Do you speak Latin?"
"No sir, I'm sorry." The Americans look crestfallen. I approach them,
"Excuse me, did somebody call for a Latin-speaker?" I say.
"Yes, yes we did."
"Well, I studied it in high school for three years – maybe I can help?"
"Oh yes!" The woman clapped her hands excitedly. Both members of the couple wore sun-glasses, the man wore an off-white polo with stripes, which was tucked into hiked up shorts. The woman had a sundress on, and a large straw hat. The man had "alright, let's not get ahead of ourselves here" look on his face, as he ambled over to a spot on the floor.
"What is this?" He points to a large seal on the floor, which has latin written on it.
"I don't know . . . it's a lot of text. I can try to figure it out if you like."
"Oh no, just this part." He points at a word Jacobi. "That's my name: Jacob. How'd you pronounce it in Latin?"
"Oh, well, that depends" I begin, "You see, people spoke Latin for over a thousand years, there were many, many accents – and in fact Late Latin and Roman Latin were almost completely different languages."
The man looks at me with a slight frown on his face. "Yeah, but how do you pronounce it?"
"Well, in Roman latin, there is no J, they only had an I. So the name would be Iacobi, pronounced like a Ya. I didn't study Church Latin, so I don't know if they pronounced the J the same way we do. I guess it would be something like Jacobi."
"So it's Iacobi." He said, thoroughly impressed. He turns to his wife, "You hear that: YA-cobi."
"Yes dear." Standing around, it becomes clear that the two want to make conversation – which I'm happy to oblige since I'm still in a people-deprived state. I ask them, "So where you from?" "You ever hear a Kane County?"
Never in my life would I have thought I would be answer the question "Did you ever hear of X county" correctly. I know the names of exactly six counties. Orange County, because of the O.C., Miami-Dade County, because of the 2000 Presidential election, Westchester County, because it's near New York City, and finally, three counties around the city of Chicago: Cook, DuPage, and Kane Counties.
We talk a little bit about being Illinoisains, but after a little while that becomes Illinoising, and we both decide to leave.
My immediate goal is to examine a bunch of old houses that were owned by the Medici and other families. En route, an overweight, sunglass-wearing, lobster- American shouts at me from the passenger side of a car, which is going up the wrong way on a one way street, "Hey, you speak English?" I say back, "Yeah." And approach.
"Hey listen guy, you know where there's any parking around here?" The man is beat-red, with hands so pudgy that he can no longer move only one finger, he has to move all four fingers together –a veritable wall of fingers moving pincer-like against his thumb. He wears a Hawaian style t-shirt adorned with tropical flowers and angler fish.
I tell the man "Sorry, I don't know about parking. I haven't been paying attention to parking since I'm a pedestrian."
The man lowers his sunglasses down his nose, beeding sweat easing their glide. Blue eyes stare out from jowly, recessed sockets. "Wow, you speak good English." He says. I momentarily note that the man obviously has mistaken me for an Italian, and also that "you speak good English" is itself not terribly good English. I squirm, suppressing my palpable desire to say to the man, "Don't you mean, I speak English well?" But he continues.
"Yeah, but haven't you seen any parking?" In fact, this was a redundant question, I had already answered the exact same question before in the negative. But, as it turns out, it was right of him to ask, because I did suddenly recall some parking I'd seen. "Now that you mention it, there was some parking I saw, on the side of the Santa Maria Novella station."
"Any idea how to get there, there's a lot of one-ways around here and it gets confusing."
I glance up and note that the man is in fact going to have to drive forwards down a one-way - a one-way that now itself has a car coming down it, approaching us.
"Like I said, haven't been paying attention since I'm a pedestrian. All I know is that I saw some adjacent to the terminal's east-side."
Apparently the use of the word adjacent had blown the coup, since the man now said, "Are you an American?"
"Yes sir, in fact I am."
"WOO-EE!" He says in disbelief, turning to his compatriots in the car, and then turning back to me, the newly-discovered compatriot in the window, "You're so dark I took you for an "I"-talian! No wonder you speak English so good."
This was my cue to exit, I bid the man good luck and farewell at precisely the moment that the man realized how much traffic doo-doo he'd gotten himself into.
Part V: Broken Vows, Broken Hearts.
As it turns out the Medici home is a very nice, somewhat small. It has a courtyard on the inside, around which the building goes up three or four stories. Again, however, there is a fee to actually go inside the house – this one exorbitantly priced at 8 euros a ticket. Forget it.
Next on the target is Florence's Renaissance Art Museum. Supposedly the best in the world for this type of art, the entrance fee is a still more shocking twelve Euros, with no discount for student of any kind. On the one hand, I spent a lot of money to come to Florence. On the other hand, the price of the ticket is not an insignificant fraction of the trip itself. And I really don't like that kind of art much – so I decide not to go.
With my plan for two hours nixed, I decide to wander the downtown Florence. Up and down, criss-crossing still undiscovered side-streets – I suddenly realize that what is special about Florence is its urban texture. Like Jerusalem, the city of Florence is itself a museum, a time-capsule into a way of life since lost. Florence is not like Rome, one does not take her with an assault, but rather with hours of aimless dance, through forgotten and lonely backstreets, in a more artful and delicate courtship.
For lunch I have a truly terrible slice of pizza, which came as a bit of a shock. Refusing to accept this turn of events, I vow to continue wandering around the city, and keep on the look-out for good places to eat. No sooner had I made this resolution, then I suddenly find myself stumbling upon a tiny store front on an untraversed back-alley on the east side of downtown. Three enormous grey-haired, white-smocked Italian women stand behind the counter. They wear great white bonnets that barely covered the boils on their foreheads, and in any event did nothing for the warts on their noses. Each holds a wooden ladle the size of a small child, which they stir inside an enormous cauldron while muttering to each other "Boilo, boilo, toilo, e trubolo."
I look into the cauldron, and find a beautiful, beautiful stew. In fact, there are two other stews in the back. One is a light red, one is a dark red, and the final is verdant green. I ask the women what they are. The first is a kind of tomato bisque, garnished with pork and lamb. The second is a traditional Tuscan tomato stew, very hearty, full of many vegetables, not to mention large chunks of many animals. The final one is a lentil stew made with wine. It has in it large cubes of beef.
It seemed that if I was going to eat what appeared to be the most delicious soup I'd ever seen, then I would have to break my abstention from meat. What's this? Chateaubrian, a vegetarian? Perhaps. Periodically I decide to foreswear what I love most, in order to keep my Stoic will in top shape. Hence, one year I gave up sex. Another year, ovaltine. This year what I had given up was meat –especially difficult for me given the immense joy I get out of performing ritual torture on animals Luckily, I still have my membership at the Rotary Club of Paris, where I can get my fill of animal-cruelty every third Monday of the month.
In any event, faced with a once in a life-time soup, I decide to break my vow of abstention for the first time since I began it, on New Years of last year, and take the lentil stew in a bread bowl. I do not regret my decision; it was indeed as good as it looked.
For the rest of the day, I have not much to say. I had two encounters with the French of note. The first occurred when I went to the Duomo, which is the enormous church in Florence. Completely overrun by tourists, there is not even a pretense that it is usable for prayer, which does not bother me, since I detest going to Church.
I try to take a nice picture which captures some of the floor and entry way. I dip one knee, bending down. Just as I'm about to take the picture, a thirteen year old girl kneels down beside me, also trying to take a picture. Suddenly I hear from behind me shrieks of laughter, I turn and hear a bunch of teenage girls shouting at my newfound neighbor, "AH! As-tu un nouveau petit ami? HAHA!" The girl stood up and turned red, she goes to stand with the girls. The girls start giggling, but it's somewhat clear that the girl who sat next to me was the alpha girl, momentarily suffering a small uprising. She acts mature, and says to me, *I think*, "Mi scuzzi." I say, "Quoi?" since I didn't hear her right. She says back, somewhat surprised, and aware now that I'd understood everything that this was about. "Vous etes français?" "No, Americain. Mais je peux comprendre un peu."
The other girls, seeing now we were talking in earnest, start shouting, "Mais C'est VRAI, il est ton petit ami! HAHAHA!"
With some shame, I admit that their jeering laughs upset me. It made me feel slighted, upset, and mocked. Momentarily, I was thrust back into a world where I was thirteen, and defenseless in the face of the scorn of pubescent girls. But there was nothing to do, there was no reasoning with them. And there was no reason to talk to the girl, lest the Duomo become even more Lolita than it already was.
The second encounter was a bit more positive – while taking a photo in front of a different church, a woman interferes with my shot. She says, "Oh, Pardon." I reply, "Pas de problème." The woman smiles and nods.
I stopped in a little later at the coffee shop I'd seen my first day. It has a balcony hanging over the river, within twenty feet of the Uffizi. I got a café latte, which is a cup of steamed milk with a shot of espresso. I sit on the balcony over the river, writing some of my reflections.
After the coffee, I was sweating quite profusely, and realized that it was already time to go back to the hostel and change into my dinner clothes. Tonight I would be treated to dinner by a college-friend of my mother, Mike Armstrong, nephew of the more famous Neil Armstrong. I was to meet them at their hotel at 6:30 PM, sharp.
I'm running a bit early, but decide there's no harm in that. At 6:15, I find myself walking up a street near the hotel, when I see Mike and his wife Karen walking towards me. I say, "Hey!" Mike says, "Well, you look more familiar than the average Italian!" I bet I do. I was happy to find that my parent's friends had not turned into Lobster-Americans, which is a tendency that all Americans, souf moi, must struggle mightily against.
We head out to the restaurant, chatting lightly as always, for you see, Mike and Karen have a sense of the adventure of things, and as we are all on vacation; we are in the midst of adventure. Part of me wonders what the two were doing leaving their hotel half-an-hour before we were supposed to meet. They must have thought we were supposed to meet at 6:00, and that I was fifteen minutes late. In fact, I was fifteen minutes early, and good thing too, because if not, I might have been sitting in an American Luxury Hotel – and then who knows what might have happened.
At dinner, the waiter takes our drink order. Mike asks if I'd like a beer. I say that I think I will, beer is much cheaper and better outside of Paris –all they drink is Kronenbourg. The waiter asks me, "In Paris the beer isn't good?" I find my words being twisted, I say, "Well I study there, and me and my friends, well, we think that five euro for a glass is a lot." Then the guy says, "Well yes, Paris is expensive, I know since I am French." Suddenly my heart leaps – for the first time on my trip in Italy, I have the opportunity to conduct a daily-life encounter without reverting to dumb American tourist status. I ask him where he's from, he says the Basque Country. He tells me he misses the surfing there in particular, and that I should visit some time since it is very beautiful. Mike and Karen are deeply impressed by my savoir-faire.
The meal is excellent, although I mistakenly ordered two pasta dishes – one of which I am fairly sure had meat on it. Afterwards, stuffed, we go out for a little night walk and profitto rolls. And then I bid the two adieu and thanks for graciously treating me to dinner. And I return to the hostel.
Part VI: Man Misjudged.
In the room I find that there is a new-comer, a Brazillian girl, who is chatting amiably with the Indian woman. The Asian is still on his blog, and the Italian is back at the ready station, lying on his bed, staring into space. I say hi to the Italian, asking "comme va." And we begin our rudimentary form of chatting.
After five minutes of this, the Indian girl comes over and asks if we want to play cards. I say sure, and the whole ensemble cast of our Hostel room goes out to the deck. Sitting outside, there is a dilemma, what are we going to play? Someone suggests rummy, another hearts. The Italian is baffled by the names, he doesn't know any of these games.
I seize on the chance to profit by cultural interchange, I ask, "Well, do you know any games you could teach us?"
He says, "Io? I-ah no play widda these-ah cards. I-ah neapalatino, we playa widda da cards neapalotino."
"Are those different?"
"Si, si. You see, instead of this-ah one" He points at a club, "we have a . . . " the look of confusion comes onto his face. His eyes grow wide, he puffs his cheeks and blow through his firmly pressed lips. Shaking his head, "I-ah cannot-ah remember." He says, "You know." And then curls his fist in a ball, and then makes kind of a Tommahawk motion with his clenched fist. I give him a pen and let him draw it. Sure enough, it's a dagger. "Dagger" I say, and the Italian snaps, smiling, and pointing his finger towards my eyes, "Thats ah right –a dagger." He goes through all the cards, there are four suits in neapolitain cards – and no face cards.
I say, "So why don't why play Neapolitain cards with these?" "But its ah no possiblo!" He says, "These are-ah not cards Neapalitino." "But why don't we just switch." For some reason the man is completely baffled by this. For the next five minutes the whole table tries to explain to him what we mean by switch, as in pretend that each card stands for a Neapolitain equivalent – easily done since there are the same number of cards in both.
Finally, the Italian says, "So you wanna change the cards for Neapolitno?" "Yes." "Oh, okay, sure." And then he begins saying which one will be which. This is very characteristic of talking with the Italian. You want something very obvious, he gets confused. After lengthy explanation, he finally understands it, and summarizes what you wanted in language almost identical to what you asked for in the first place.
The game he teaches us is basically Euchre, but requires a bit more strategy. On the whole it's an excellent card game. During the point tabulation, however, something doesn't make sense. The way the Italian, whose name it turns out is Enzo, is adding up the score – it could be possible to have a tie. I start explaining this to him, he doesn't get it. Finally, I start doing the calculation that motivated me to this realization. Then suddenly he gets what I'm saying, and smiles broadly. "AH!" He claps his hand, and then sticks one out and rubs my head. He leans over to the Indian woman, "You see – the mathematica! A mathematishian – he knows-ah da cards." He then starts explaining to the woman my calculation, and then, "You see, he a tells a me he a study the mathimatica. That means I tella to you – don't play-ah da cards with-ah him for ah the money" He pinches his hands together making the dollar motion. "Only like this, comme amici, you-ah play with a this guy."
As it turns out, I had been deeply unfair to Enzo. His boisterous, friendly approach to life, and his excellent sense of dress, had made me wary, cruel, and xenophobic. In truth, I was no better than any other lobster-American, except perhaps worse, for I had imagined myself to be something more. But in the end there was no harm, Enzo knew nothing of my angst passing the night near his arms, and I could tell he liked me a lot. As we went to bed, I told him – "you know, my-ah family, we-ah come from-ah Italia." "I-ah know," he said. "You have-ah look-ah like an Italiano." "It's ah good to be ah back-ah home." I said. "Bienvenuto." He replies. I went to bed, back to him, face turned against the wall.