Italian Dispatch #3

Greetings from the heart of Tuscany and the home of fine leather goods! I’m typing this in the lobby of our hotel, Hotel de la Pace, about six blocks north of the Duomo. I’m enjoying a Grappa (a liquor made from what’s left over after they press the wine grapes). This particular Grappa is from the north and has a ‘strong’ flavor, or so the 90 year old Italian bartender just told me. So far, I’m the only non-Italian I’ve met that actually likes Grappa, which either makes me incredibly cultured or a lush. I’ll leave it to you to decide. Anyway, it pretty much picks up where yesterday left off so enjoy…

Monday: I’m Getting Fat

When last you heard from the solo duo, we had arrived in Florence without a peep from the conductor. The thing I forgot to mention was that when our train arrived, we stayed on it as everyone else departed. You see, our tickets said Florence Campo Marte or some such and we were at Florence SMD or some such (like the Secretary of Defense, I’m ‘not a detail-y guy’). I figured the next station was it. Of course, had I consulted a map (or looked out the window) I would have realized that the tracks, they were no more. We would have had to have gotten off at the previous station to catch a train to the Campo Marte. Whatever. It’s not like the conductors gave a hoot and it turned out we were closer to our hotel at this station anyway.

A word on our hotel: I believe that it was built before the Constitution was writing, possibly before the Magna Carta. That’s not to say it’s falling apart; far from it. It is very swank and chic with stark lighting and strange gilded lighting everywhere. The walls seem to be ancient brick covered with inch-thick masonry mud (the brick has been tastefully left exposed over the archways to each room. In a word, this place is perfect. Except, that is, for the construction that seems to go on next door from 8 to 5 or so. It makes sleeping in impossible and getting an afternoon nap difficult. Mostly it’s just random pounding and the occasional masonry saw of some sort. If they could just keep a steady rhythm, it might not be so bad.

Regardless, we spent most of the day wandering around and eating (two of the most popular Italian pastime). We were supposed to meet up with Pat and Mel but we missed each other, unfortunately. We also have no idea where the heck Brooke’s brother and mother are. They, along with a few others, rented an apartment here for a few days but we don’t have the complete address or a phone number so we’re essentially on our own. So, we wander and eat to look like locals. Of course, I look about as Italian as a Kenyan so it’s hard for me to blend in. Brooke, on the other hand, would like me to point out that she was approached by an Italian woman at the train station who thought she was Italian as well until Brooke waved her arms and said ‘Eee-yo Americano!’ The woman just walked off but Brooke’s proud nonetheless. I say it’s the jean jacket but she’s not buying it. Regardless, nothing much happened yesterday except that I continued my weight-gaining regime of deli meats, fresh cheese and crusty bread. Oh, and wine of course.

Tuesday: My Dogs is Tired

Holy crap, did we do some walking today! After a European continental breakfast (consisting of granola, yogurt, deli meats and bread), we hiked down the street and up to the top of the bell tower that’s part of the Duomo. It has a name and if you want to know it, you’ll need to ask Brooke. I can’t remember the name but I can remember that it had 663 steps to the top. My mind works in functions, not names so you’ll just have to deal with it…or email Brooke. They charge 6 Euros to climb to the top which, I’m sure you’ll agree, is a steal at less than a penny per step per person. When you get to the top, there is a little booth in which a uniformed man sits and reads the paper. When we arrived, breathing heavily from the trek, the first thing I said is ‘How can this man have a pot-belly?’ He spends the equivalent of 20 minutes on a Stairmaster every day, for godssake! I decided it was the deli meats. Anyway, a fun fact for you: you’re not supposed to photograph him. Or use a flash. I’m not sure which. When I took his photo he yelled at me but I couldn’t understand. When I stood there looking confused and alternating between ‘Sorry’ and ‘What’, he stopped yelling and made the Italian sign for disgusted dismissal (for the uninitiated, this involves simultaneously rolling one’s eyes and swatting with both hands in your direction). Regardless of what I was sure was my impending arrest, the view from the top of this tower was amazing. All of Florence lies out before you and, on a clear day, I’m sure most of the rest of Tuscany does too. Sadly, it was not a clear day so we had to console ourselves with views of the city and of the suckers across the way that had climbed the 50 extra steps to the top of the Duomo. Sure, it was that much higher but even a monkey could see from the ground that the view was somewhat obscured by the scaffolding. Apparently, they’re doing some restoration on it. After many photos, we descended feeling superior and in need of espresso.

Our next stop after coffee was the Science Museum. I have three things to say about that: 1) the damn thing has been a working research lab for 300 years, 2) I’ve never seen so much brass instrumentation in my life and 3) museums are sooooooo much more interesting when the exhibits are in a language you can understand. Oh, and there were two Italian and one German tour groups that we moseyed between on our trek through the museum. It was during this visit that I came to terms with the fact that Italian high school students view me as an anomaly and female German high school students think I’m hot. Where were the latter when I was an unmarried high school student, I’d like to know…

After the Science museum, we headed back to the hotel for round two of ‘nap attempting’. I was successful and Brooke was not so she headed down to the internet café for a bit. Later, I would wish that I hadn’t been successful because both of my hands wound up falling asleep and I walked around for the next few hours feeling like a twin-hooked pirate minus an eye patch. Anyway, our plan was to go to the Duomo to check out the inside but it was closed, open for Mass or just too confusing for us to figure out so we wandered looking for stuff to spend money on. Man, did Florence see us coming…

In addition to buying Grappa, Lemoncello (a lemon liquor), an adaptor and a super-cool espresso maker we discovered Italian leather. I blame this discovery on Brooke. After all, it was she who wanted to go into the leather shop. So what if it was I who said she should keep trying on jackets? And what did it matter that I had decided that if she got a jacket, I would get this sweet leather attaché case? Sure, I tended the crop but Brooke was the one that sowed the seed. I can hardly be faulted for what happened next.

We gained our senses at the first leather store and said that we’d think about the jacket she had tried on. We wandered out and two blocks away, meandered into another leather shop. Brooke (aka- the Guilty One) jested with the proprietor that they ‘surely didn’t have anything that would fit my gigantic frame’. This is where things get a little fuzzy. The dude took the challenge, producing not one but three beautiful jackets that all fit me. In truth, these jackets were truly fantastic. The reputation that Italian leather has around the world is well deserved and the style is haute, to say the least. Anyway, while Brooke and I stood staring in shock at the three wonderful jackets, they apparently also fitted and sold Brooke a jacket as well. It’s all sort of hazy because the jacket I was wearing was just that mesmerizing. So was the price, which I’ll spare you out of a combination of shame and humility. Suffice it to say that the final price was 1/3rd the price on the tag and it was still the most money I’ve ever spent on a jacket in my life. The big seller for me: if I get a tear in it or need any maintenance done on it, I can send it back to the seller and he’ll repair it for free (I only pay for shipping to him). Oh, that and he said that I should do absolutely NOTHING to the jacket (in fact, I think he said that if I ever took it to the cleaners or Scotchgarded it, he’d kill me). Bonus.

Two more things about this jacket store (called David’s. I have cards and have been programmed to recommend him): 1) There was this rather annoying Californian girl that hung out in the store the whole time asking stupid questions and considering the purchase of two jackets. Among the questions, I kid you not: ‘Where does leather come from?’ 2) Just before we made the purchase, wine magically appeared and was drunk. When was the last time you were in Target about to make a big purchase and the clerk busted out a bottle of wine? God, I love Italy.

In shock after our big purchase, we decided to eat on the cheap. We wandered to a local trattoria to get a cheap plowman’s dinner (rustic bread, meats and cheese). This trattoria was the first place we’d been to with freshly curing meats on display (read: boars’ legs, skin and hair intact, hanging behind the bar). Despite the view, the food was awesome. However, our light dinner was marred by the ‘Techno Music’. This is our new code, thanks to Mrs. Burrito, for something annoying and distracting during our meal (Lozianna, during our dinner on Sunday night, had the waiter turn the tv and techno music down no fewer than three times). You see, sitting at the table next to us were two American girls in their early twenties who apparently hadn’t gleaned the concept of ‘inside voices’. Over the course of our rustic dinner, we heard about their first sexual encounters (it was prom night for one of them, I kid you not), their thoughts on living ‘in the City, but not in Manhattan’ and their impressions of Chicago’s suburbs. It was at this meal that I finally understood what my older brother, Seth, meant when he commented on the impression I made at his 40th birthday party a few years back: ‘Everyone liked you; you just talked about yourself a lot’. I suddenly realized that no matter how much you think you’ve matured when you’re in your early twenties, you still think that the world revolves around you. It’s that leftover youthful ignorance that causes you to believe that everything you’ve gone through since leaving home is unique and worth sharing. All I could think was ‘God, I KNOW I wasn’t like THAT’ and ‘Shit, I probably was’. Anyway, the best part of the experience was coining new relationship ‘slang’ that we can use in the future. From this point forward, ‘no techno at dinner’ will have a place in the Brooke and Shaun Dictionary.

Ok, that’s about enough for one evening. The Grappa, a nectar I hope you’ll all eventually kick the tires on and enjoy, is working its magic and I’m getting sleepy. Tomorrow, we figure out the Duomo, the Academia (where David is) and visit the Uffizi so I’m going to need some sleep.

Buona Noche,
Shaun.