Sandra and I returned from Italy about two weeks ago, she
has recovered from jet lag and is in full control of her faculties and I’ve
returned to my normal state of pleasant grogginess that has kept her perpetually
frustrated with me for years.
For a long time I mistakenly believed that she found my
absent-minded state of semi-awareness charming, in a smooth “too cool to sweat
the small stuff” kind of way; in fact, it’s left her infuriated in a “collecting
GPS coordinates for abandoned mine shafts” kind of way. But I digress…
The final weeks in Florence were busy ones for Sandra
between studying for finals, cleaning and preparing her apartment for turn-in
and helping me find my favorite Hawaiian shirt.
She was taking 15 credits, mostly in course I could not
pronounce, so there wasn’t much I could do to help. I couldn’t do much to pack
or clean because I didn’t know what she still needed or where the broom was or
what an Italian mop looks like. She was on her own and she knew I needed that
Hawaiian shirt for the tour I had planned to get out of her way, which helped
her a lot!
Besides, my schedule was full as well. I had to download
movies and TV shows to watch after dinner since the Italians selfishly insist
on broadcasting only in Italian. There were still several sites I had not seen,
gelato that had gone un-tasted and potentially thousands of pictures to be
taken of statues of dead Italian guys.
It was my intention to return home with enough pictures to
scare even the cheapest friend or family member eyeing our guestroom into
checking into a motel just by saying. “Let’s watch my slides from Italy!”
So I spent the last week or so in Italy selflessly staying
out of her way by touring the city, sampling the cuisine, beverages and gelato
from as my neighborhoods as I walk to. Oh yeah, I walked everywhere.
Not just for my health (I lost 15 pounds) but mostly because
riding through Italian traffic in anything other than a full sized bus or an
Abrams tank scared the living poop out of me! I’ve been in a couple of wars,
worked the flight deck of a carrier at night, camped on a live volcano in
Antarctica, been married twice and helped rise four kids, and survived cancer.
I even watched an entire season of Project Runway with my
wife; I know, this is a family newspaper and that’s hideous, but I’m trying to
illustrate that, generally, I’m a fearless man but only a complete idiot or any
Italian over the age of 16 should ever attempt to drive in Italy.
It was during that last week that I discovered some of the
coolest stuff Florence had to offer. I found the ruins of the original wall
used to defend the city centuries ago when it was a city state against attacks
from other cities like Rome, for example…I guess they forgot to close the gates
because the Romans took over but it’s still a very cool wall.
I found a bridge called the Ponte Vecchio, which I believe
is Italian for “fleecing pink Germans.” I say that because this bridge is
covered with shops built into the structure of the bridge.
These shops carried goods ranging from very expensive
Italian shoes, purses and jackets beautifully crafted from Italian leather, all
twice as expensive as anywhere else n town, and all being sold to German
tourists with sunburns and bad attitudes.
With just a few days left we stumbled upon a restaurant very
near the apartment (that Sandra was doing a darned fine job cleaning) that not
only served pizza and Margaritas; they served a Margarita pizza! That’s almost
like finding a chilidog milkshake, one of those moments when life just makes
sense!
We ordered the Margarita pizza, which I believe came with a
red wine and fried something appetizer, the main course of the most incredible
pizza ever, served with fresh herbs in the sauce and cold beer in a frozen mug,
topped off with a desert menu featuring a tart little desert wine severed with
something I cannot spell and just a touch of attitude from the waiter because
we declined the desert. It was a perfect Italian dining experience.
The sacrifices I made for Sandra’s grades!
Next week; “Removing your shoes in three languages,” the
tale of our trip home.
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