After the horrors of Rome (both Actual Rome and the one by the sea), we were quite eager to move onto somewhere safer. In all honesty, I think the Gaza Strip would have felt safe after our time in the City of Seven Hells, but that our next destination was Florence – my favourite Italian city – was even better.
When we had been selecting our hostel, we really only had one prerequisite – that it was in the actual city of Florence … as opposed to, say, “Florence by the Sahara”. Several weeks of dorm-sharing coupled with the shocks of the previous few days also had us craving a bit of privacy so, after selecting a hostel and quadruple-checking that it was definitely in the heart of Florence, Italy, we made the decision to splurge an extra €2.00 each a night for our own private room. According to their website, Ciao Hostel is “just steps from the Santa Maria Novella Station”. Sure, and Ostia is “just steps” from Rome. Other mendacities on their site included the “private bathrooms”, which were private only in the sense that there was no CCTV inside; the “flat screen TV”, which was as flat as Christina Hendricks’ chest; and the “soundproof rooms”, which had a noise-level comparative to Tokyo’s Shibuya Crossing. But these weren’t the reasons we chose the hostel – we had our own room which was walking distance from all the major city sights, so we were more than content. For the first time since Berlin, we also had our own kitchen facilities. I hadn’t been that excited about cooking since I realised Home Ec was the only non-examinable year ten subject other than PE.
After checking in and being shown how the front door worked (it was a single key in a lock) in the kind of patronising manner usually reserved for explaining to a Collingwood supporter how to use a toothbrush, we headed off to explore the city. Florence is, unquestionably, my favourite major city in Italy. It might not have the same magical and unique layout of Venice, and it doesn’t have quite the history of Rome and the Roman Empire, but it was the birthplace of the Renaissance, and I think it’s more beautiful than both of those places put together. Not to mention the general atmosphere of the city, the elegance and sophistication of which leaves the overly-touristy feeling of Venice, and the treacherous vibe of Rome for dead.
For the first time in days we didn’t feel anxious and fearful, so we luxuriated in this and spent the afternoon wandering around somewhat aimlessly. Despite not going out of our way to sight-see, our wanderings found us taking in some of the city’s major sights including the Piazza della Signoria, Palazzo Vecchio and what is probably Florence’s most famous landmark, Il Duomo. Although we were a lot more relaxed and had mostly shaken the paranoid feeling that every person we encountered was going to stab us, we decided we would have an early evening meal, and try and be back at the hostel before it was dark - just to be on the safe side.
I imagine there are hundreds of eating establishments in Florence. Of course, we chose the worst. Well, maybe not the worst, but it certainly had more flaws than redeeming features. Kaitlyn felt like pasta and I felt like pizza, and we found a little place whose menu had an impressive (and inexpensive) choice of both. It also already had a few people sitting down which, given the early hour, we took as a good sign. Turned out to be about as good a sign as turning up at an exam and realising you are the only person who doesn’t have a calculator. Almost immediately after we sat down on the terrace, a waiter appeared with menus for us, in what turned out to be the only piece of good, punctual service we received that evening. And this wasn’t because the place was busy, or because the staff was particularly stupid. No, this was because they had more important things to tend to that night than running their restaurant – things such as epic family arguments.
After checking in and being shown how the front door worked (it was a single key in a lock) in the kind of patronising manner usually reserved for explaining to a Collingwood supporter how to use a toothbrush, we headed off to explore the city. Florence is, unquestionably, my favourite major city in Italy. It might not have the same magical and unique layout of Venice, and it doesn’t have quite the history of Rome and the Roman Empire, but it was the birthplace of the Renaissance, and I think it’s more beautiful than both of those places put together. Not to mention the general atmosphere of the city, the elegance and sophistication of which leaves the overly-touristy feeling of Venice, and the treacherous vibe of Rome for dead.
For the first time in days we didn’t feel anxious and fearful, so we luxuriated in this and spent the afternoon wandering around somewhat aimlessly. Despite not going out of our way to sight-see, our wanderings found us taking in some of the city’s major sights including the Piazza della Signoria, Palazzo Vecchio and what is probably Florence’s most famous landmark, Il Duomo. Although we were a lot more relaxed and had mostly shaken the paranoid feeling that every person we encountered was going to stab us, we decided we would have an early evening meal, and try and be back at the hostel before it was dark - just to be on the safe side.
I imagine there are hundreds of eating establishments in Florence. Of course, we chose the worst. Well, maybe not the worst, but it certainly had more flaws than redeeming features. Kaitlyn felt like pasta and I felt like pizza, and we found a little place whose menu had an impressive (and inexpensive) choice of both. It also already had a few people sitting down which, given the early hour, we took as a good sign. Turned out to be about as good a sign as turning up at an exam and realising you are the only person who doesn’t have a calculator. Almost immediately after we sat down on the terrace, a waiter appeared with menus for us, in what turned out to be the only piece of good, punctual service we received that evening. And this wasn’t because the place was busy, or because the staff was particularly stupid. No, this was because they had more important things to tend to that night than running their restaurant – things such as epic family arguments.
We realised quite quickly that it was a family establishment, with children running around all over the place, an elderly apron-clad woman “helping” in the kitchen and palpable tension. The major source of the tension seemed to stem from two similar-looking men who we assumed were brothers. Exactly what had caused the hostility between them, we will never know, but they were undoubtedly in the midst of a major conflict, and all ten generations of the family present in the restaurant were getting involved. Brothers 1 and 2 were really going at it, at one point getting right up in each other’s faces. With our lack of Italian we had no idea what they were saying, but we imagined it was something along the lines of: ‘WHEN I LOOK INTO YOUR EYES, I CAN SEE STRAIGHT THROUGH TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD.'
'WELL YOU'RE SO STUPID, YOU FAILED A BLOOD TEST.'
We had fun translating the argument into English and then, about twenty minutes after we had been presented menus, Brother 1 re-appeared outside to take our order. Kaitlyn ordered pasta (not Carbonara, but I imagine only because there wasn’t any on the menu), I ordered a calzone, and we both ordered water. Brother 2 was in the bar by now, so Brother 1 had to procure the water from him. Brother 2 slammed the glasses on the counter, one of them shattering, and Brother 1 shouted something at him, before flinging his tray like a frisbee at Brother 2 who just managed to duck out of its trajectory. More shouting followed, before a different young man appeared from nowhere and brought us out water.
'WELL YOU'RE SO STUPID, YOU FAILED A BLOOD TEST.'
We had fun translating the argument into English and then, about twenty minutes after we had been presented menus, Brother 1 re-appeared outside to take our order. Kaitlyn ordered pasta (not Carbonara, but I imagine only because there wasn’t any on the menu), I ordered a calzone, and we both ordered water. Brother 2 was in the bar by now, so Brother 1 had to procure the water from him. Brother 2 slammed the glasses on the counter, one of them shattering, and Brother 1 shouted something at him, before flinging his tray like a frisbee at Brother 2 who just managed to duck out of its trajectory. More shouting followed, before a different young man appeared from nowhere and brought us out water.
The novelty of having ring-side seats for the spectacle had worn off, and now we were just hungry. Brother 1 appeared with Kaitlyn’s pasta, slamming it down on the table in front of her, all the while screaming at his brother over his shoulder, ‘YOU’RE FACE LOOKS LIKE IT CAUGHT ON FIRE AND SOMEONE TRIED TO PUT IT OUT WITH A FORK.’ As he turned around and stormed back inside, Kaitlyn directed my attention to her meal. ‘Does that look cooked to you?’ Her pasta, in fact, did not look as if it had been cooked at all. This wasn’t al dente, this was still crunchy. I could hear Kaitlyn eating it. It sounded like she was eating rice crackers, not Rigatoni. ‘Are you going to send it back?’
‘And have him throw it in my face and give me third-degree f@#%ing burns? I’d rather keep eating it and f@#%ing break a tooth.’ She had a fair point. As you can imagine, it was quite time-consuming to crunch through a whole plate of pasta. Still, Kaitlyn had well and truly finished by the time my meal was slammed down in front of me. It wasn’t what I ordered, but it appeared to be cooked, so I ate it anyway. Towards the end of the meal, things inside really seemed to come to a head, and Brother 2 stormed out from behind the bar, scooped up two children from the floor and stalked past us into the night. Around this time the elderly couple on the table next to us started to make conversation. German, this was their third night in a row at this restaurant as they absolutely loved it. ‘Ze food iz gut. Ze vine iz chip. And ze men, zey ah viry nahce.’ Viry nahce?! I guess growing up with Hitler and then the Soviet occupation gives one low standards.
After dinner we headed back to the hostel by way of the supermarket, as we needed supplies for breakfast, and wine for that very second. The novelty of being able to cook led us to go all-out with our breakfast supplies: eggs, mozzarella, spinach, muesli, bread, fruit, juice and proper, wog hot chocolate. As for the wine, I don’t discriminate when it comes to alcohol and, when I see a bottle of wine for less than €1.00, I consider it a challenge to see whether or not I can stomach it. I spent 94 cents on my bottle of red, while Kaitlyn totally splurged and spent upwards of €2.50 on her bottle of white. Armed with supplies, we began the trek back to the hostel where we intended to spread our stuff out across the room, get into our pyjamas, find something to watch on our “flat screen TV” and drink wine. We were maybe 150 metres away from the train station, when a man broke away from the group he was standing with and started chasing us. There was no subtlety, no slow build-up – he just peeled-off from the group and started running after us. And I mean running – dude was as quick as a cheetah. Fortunately, we made it into the train station before he could reach us. (Exactly what he would have “done” had he reached us I am unsure, but I doubt it would have been a friendly hug, or bestowing on us some famous gold Florence jewellery.) We hung around the station for a few minutes, before departing via an alternative exit and walked to the hostel.
I was glad it was “just steps” between there and the hostel, as Kaitlyn’s racially-motivated tantrum could have gone on indefinitely. ‘I F@#%ING HATE ALL F@#%ING ITALIANS. THIS WHOLE F@#%ING COUNTRY IS FULL OF DIRTY F@#%ING GYPSIES WHO JUST WANT TO F@#%ING ROB US.’ Not sure why I bothered to interject, but I felt the need to at least attempt to defend the Italian race. ‘Not all Italians are like that.’
‘Well clearly they F@#%ING ARE. Every one I’ve met has tried to f@#%ing mug me.’
‘Remember, I have some Italian in me.’
‘Yeah. Well I f@#%ing hate that f@#%ing part of you too. You’ve probably tried to f@#%ing mug me in my f@#%ing sleep.’ I should have known it was a fruitless exercise. At this point, she ceased directing her tirade at me and started telling everyone her true thoughts on Italy. ‘I mean, for F@#%S SAKE. NO WONDER YOUR COUNTRY’S ECONOMY IS IN THE F@#%ING SHITHOLE. I COME HERE TO INJECT MY F@#%ING SAVINGS INTO YOUR F@#%ING ECONOMY AND YOU TRY AND KILL ME. WE’LL YOU’RE NOT GETTING ANYMORE OF MY MONEY. I’LL JUST SPEND THE REST OF MY TIME HERE SITTING ON MY BED NOT DOING ANYTHING BECAUSE I’M NOT GIVING YOU F@#%ERS ANOTHER F@#%ING CENT. Oh! Are we here already?’ Indeed we were. It’s amazing how quickly time goes when you’re in the midst of a tantrum.
Between the tense dinner, the second potential mugging, and the revelation there was a part of me Kaitlyn “f@#%ing hated”, I needed a drink. Kaitlyn needed one too, primarily to lubricate her parched throat. I had no trouble opening her bottle but, for the life of me, I could not remove the cork from mine. I braved asking Kaitlyn to give it a try, but she had no luck either. I ended up going downstairs and suffering through a condescending conversation with Mr Patronising on the desk. I guess that’s what I get for being cheap. That, and a beverage that tasted like decaying vegetation.
‘And have him throw it in my face and give me third-degree f@#%ing burns? I’d rather keep eating it and f@#%ing break a tooth.’ She had a fair point. As you can imagine, it was quite time-consuming to crunch through a whole plate of pasta. Still, Kaitlyn had well and truly finished by the time my meal was slammed down in front of me. It wasn’t what I ordered, but it appeared to be cooked, so I ate it anyway. Towards the end of the meal, things inside really seemed to come to a head, and Brother 2 stormed out from behind the bar, scooped up two children from the floor and stalked past us into the night. Around this time the elderly couple on the table next to us started to make conversation. German, this was their third night in a row at this restaurant as they absolutely loved it. ‘Ze food iz gut. Ze vine iz chip. And ze men, zey ah viry nahce.’ Viry nahce?! I guess growing up with Hitler and then the Soviet occupation gives one low standards.
After dinner we headed back to the hostel by way of the supermarket, as we needed supplies for breakfast, and wine for that very second. The novelty of being able to cook led us to go all-out with our breakfast supplies: eggs, mozzarella, spinach, muesli, bread, fruit, juice and proper, wog hot chocolate. As for the wine, I don’t discriminate when it comes to alcohol and, when I see a bottle of wine for less than €1.00, I consider it a challenge to see whether or not I can stomach it. I spent 94 cents on my bottle of red, while Kaitlyn totally splurged and spent upwards of €2.50 on her bottle of white. Armed with supplies, we began the trek back to the hostel where we intended to spread our stuff out across the room, get into our pyjamas, find something to watch on our “flat screen TV” and drink wine. We were maybe 150 metres away from the train station, when a man broke away from the group he was standing with and started chasing us. There was no subtlety, no slow build-up – he just peeled-off from the group and started running after us. And I mean running – dude was as quick as a cheetah. Fortunately, we made it into the train station before he could reach us. (Exactly what he would have “done” had he reached us I am unsure, but I doubt it would have been a friendly hug, or bestowing on us some famous gold Florence jewellery.) We hung around the station for a few minutes, before departing via an alternative exit and walked to the hostel.
I was glad it was “just steps” between there and the hostel, as Kaitlyn’s racially-motivated tantrum could have gone on indefinitely. ‘I F@#%ING HATE ALL F@#%ING ITALIANS. THIS WHOLE F@#%ING COUNTRY IS FULL OF DIRTY F@#%ING GYPSIES WHO JUST WANT TO F@#%ING ROB US.’ Not sure why I bothered to interject, but I felt the need to at least attempt to defend the Italian race. ‘Not all Italians are like that.’
‘Well clearly they F@#%ING ARE. Every one I’ve met has tried to f@#%ing mug me.’
‘Remember, I have some Italian in me.’
‘Yeah. Well I f@#%ing hate that f@#%ing part of you too. You’ve probably tried to f@#%ing mug me in my f@#%ing sleep.’ I should have known it was a fruitless exercise. At this point, she ceased directing her tirade at me and started telling everyone her true thoughts on Italy. ‘I mean, for F@#%S SAKE. NO WONDER YOUR COUNTRY’S ECONOMY IS IN THE F@#%ING SHITHOLE. I COME HERE TO INJECT MY F@#%ING SAVINGS INTO YOUR F@#%ING ECONOMY AND YOU TRY AND KILL ME. WE’LL YOU’RE NOT GETTING ANYMORE OF MY MONEY. I’LL JUST SPEND THE REST OF MY TIME HERE SITTING ON MY BED NOT DOING ANYTHING BECAUSE I’M NOT GIVING YOU F@#%ERS ANOTHER F@#%ING CENT. Oh! Are we here already?’ Indeed we were. It’s amazing how quickly time goes when you’re in the midst of a tantrum.
Between the tense dinner, the second potential mugging, and the revelation there was a part of me Kaitlyn “f@#%ing hated”, I needed a drink. Kaitlyn needed one too, primarily to lubricate her parched throat. I had no trouble opening her bottle but, for the life of me, I could not remove the cork from mine. I braved asking Kaitlyn to give it a try, but she had no luck either. I ended up going downstairs and suffering through a condescending conversation with Mr Patronising on the desk. I guess that’s what I get for being cheap. That, and a beverage that tasted like decaying vegetation.
The next morning we rose early, not so much because we wanted to fit in as much sight-seeing as possible, but because we wanted to maximise breakfast-time as much as possible. Although Ciao’s website didn’t wax lyrical about amazing hot showers, I expected them to at least be warm. They weren’t even tepid, they were freezing. The water was so cold that it acted like dry ice, freezing the hairs on my legs so they snapped off when I dried myself. At least that problem was solved. I guess it was lucky we had proper, wog hot chocolate to warm us up – and not just any wog hot chocolate, gianduja hot chocolate. Which is healthier, because there is protein in the hazelnuts.
We had a pretty busy morning seeing the hotspots of Florence, taking in the Ponte Vecchio, and, in more detail, Palazzo Vecchio and the Piazza della Signoria, which is home to Fake David, the replica of Michelangelo’s famous statue. We had a great morning, and Florence was as beautiful as I had remembered it. Unfortunately, the weather was incredibly overcast, so all the photos we took were somewhat lacklustre and mostly failed to capture its magnificence. Speaking of meteorological conditions, by lunchtime, Kaitlyn was beginning to feel a bit under the weather herself. We tried ice-cream but, unfortunately, that didn’t help her so, in the early afternoon, we went back to the hostel so she could rest up.
It was that evening another of Ciao’s online claims was controverted. I don’t know about anyone else but, to me, “soundproof rooms” suggests that the rooms would possess the ability to keep most sounds out. Not an air-attack, or even a Kaitlyn tantrum, but most sounds. What it doesn’t suggest to me, is that the room would have the acoustics of an empty quarry and actually amplify even the smallest of sounds. But this is exactly what Ciao’s “soundproof rooms” did. That afternoon, a group of half a dozen Asians took up residence in the rooms next to ours. Between them, they managed to portray every Asian stereotype imaginable: they ate miso soup and seaweed for breakfast, seaweed and steamed rice for dinner; the boys watched Anime on their laptops, while the girls wrote on Hello Kitty stationary with bejewelled pens. I’m not sure whether he was carrying it around Europe, but one of them was always drinking out of a ginormous Starbucks mug. Notice the stereotype missing? No, not karate, the other one: ninjas. These guys would be as successful as ninjas as I would be as a hurdler.
When they first arrived, I thought perhaps Yeast Infection, Dick, Scorsese, The Other One and Bogan Daddy had arrived with a group of friends, because I attributed the sound levels emanating from the halls with those produced by a large group of drunk Australians. I was thoroughly surprised when I ventured into the kitchen later and found, not boardie-clad men watching porn on a table strewn with empties, but six Asians reading Manga and drinking bubble tea. I would like stress that I am not employing these stereotypes as a means of being racist – everything that I have said happened. Including the bubble tea, although I have no idea from where they managed to procure that in Florence.
That night, Kaitlyn was in the throes of a horrible cold, so we took it easy, cooking up pasta in the kitchen and watching montages of Christian Bale on YouTube. So far in Italy, we had kept up a strict routine of having two ice-creams a day, so we had to venture out briefly so as not to fall behind. Especially as, according to Kaitlyn, ice-cream was the only thing Italy had going for it. ‘They might all be dirty f@#%ing criminals, but they f@#%ing know how to make ice-cream.’
The next day started off much like the previous: hypothermic showers, mozzarella and spinach omelettes and gianduja hot chocolate. Kaitlyn still wasn’t feeling 100%, but she was feeling better, so we braved a walk up to Piazzle Michelangelo. Piazzle Michelangelo is the famous square which provides the most amazing panoramic views of the city. All the pictures and postcards you’ve seen of Florence which weren’t of David’s genitals would have been taken from up there. It was a warm and humid day making it quite the walk up there, especially for Kaitlyn who was clearly not well. The views made it completely worthwhile, as did the ice-cream. Although, the warm weather and our sugary confections invited the presence of some wasps, threatening to derail the entire afternoon. ‘WHAT THE F@#%?! PISS OFF! DID YOU FOLLOW ME HERE FROM PRAGUE OR SOMETHING, YOU LITTLE F@#%ERS? They’re Italian wasps too, so I bet they’re here to f@#%ing kill me.’
From Piazza Michelangelo, we headed back down and went in search of David. Given that David is, after Il Duomo, probably Florence’s most sought-after attraction, you’d think it would be easy to find. Incorrect. I believe you would have better luck finding me in Rome again, than you would finding David in anything under three hours. Even then probably only stumbling upon him by accident. I’ve seen David twice in the past but, for some reason, my memory of Florence’s layout was not particularly great, and I couldn’t remember where I had seen him. Despite having the assistance of a city booklet and our phones, David proved to be as elusive as my first hangover. Our main problem came from asking people for directions. You’d think we’d have learnt from Rome to not ask Italians for directions. Everyone we asked pointed us in a completely different way. I was of the opinion this was because they didn’t know and/or didn’t quite understand what we were asking. Kaitlyn, however, was of the opinion they were deliberately trying to confound us and point us in the direction of a torture chamber. ‘They’re f@#%ing doing it on purpose. We’re going to end up in a rape dungeon somewhere. I bet David doesn’t even f@#%ing exist.’ Eventually, we accidently stumbled across his home. When we realised it was going to cost us €16.00, we decided to refrain from paying him a visit. After all, we’d already seen the replica in the Piazza della Signoria, and we were staying in hostels, so it’s not as if we weren’t seeing that every single day. Besides, our €16.00 would have been much better spent at H&M, which is where we spent the rest of our afternoon, trying on an assortment of nice and nasty clothing and accessories.
That night, we made the most of the kitchen facilities, cooking up a storm and forcing down the rest of our cheap wine. It’s amazing how quickly one grows to almost enjoy the tannin tastes of alcoholic swamp water. We both had enough wine in our system to feel brave enough to negotiate the seedy streets and find some ice-cream, eventually returning to finish our Florentine experience with a badly-dubbed version of Juno on our “flat screen TV”.
Next stop, Lake Como. George, baby, we’re coming for you. All of you. Both of us.
It was that evening another of Ciao’s online claims was controverted. I don’t know about anyone else but, to me, “soundproof rooms” suggests that the rooms would possess the ability to keep most sounds out. Not an air-attack, or even a Kaitlyn tantrum, but most sounds. What it doesn’t suggest to me, is that the room would have the acoustics of an empty quarry and actually amplify even the smallest of sounds. But this is exactly what Ciao’s “soundproof rooms” did. That afternoon, a group of half a dozen Asians took up residence in the rooms next to ours. Between them, they managed to portray every Asian stereotype imaginable: they ate miso soup and seaweed for breakfast, seaweed and steamed rice for dinner; the boys watched Anime on their laptops, while the girls wrote on Hello Kitty stationary with bejewelled pens. I’m not sure whether he was carrying it around Europe, but one of them was always drinking out of a ginormous Starbucks mug. Notice the stereotype missing? No, not karate, the other one: ninjas. These guys would be as successful as ninjas as I would be as a hurdler.
When they first arrived, I thought perhaps Yeast Infection, Dick, Scorsese, The Other One and Bogan Daddy had arrived with a group of friends, because I attributed the sound levels emanating from the halls with those produced by a large group of drunk Australians. I was thoroughly surprised when I ventured into the kitchen later and found, not boardie-clad men watching porn on a table strewn with empties, but six Asians reading Manga and drinking bubble tea. I would like stress that I am not employing these stereotypes as a means of being racist – everything that I have said happened. Including the bubble tea, although I have no idea from where they managed to procure that in Florence.
That night, Kaitlyn was in the throes of a horrible cold, so we took it easy, cooking up pasta in the kitchen and watching montages of Christian Bale on YouTube. So far in Italy, we had kept up a strict routine of having two ice-creams a day, so we had to venture out briefly so as not to fall behind. Especially as, according to Kaitlyn, ice-cream was the only thing Italy had going for it. ‘They might all be dirty f@#%ing criminals, but they f@#%ing know how to make ice-cream.’
The next day started off much like the previous: hypothermic showers, mozzarella and spinach omelettes and gianduja hot chocolate. Kaitlyn still wasn’t feeling 100%, but she was feeling better, so we braved a walk up to Piazzle Michelangelo. Piazzle Michelangelo is the famous square which provides the most amazing panoramic views of the city. All the pictures and postcards you’ve seen of Florence which weren’t of David’s genitals would have been taken from up there. It was a warm and humid day making it quite the walk up there, especially for Kaitlyn who was clearly not well. The views made it completely worthwhile, as did the ice-cream. Although, the warm weather and our sugary confections invited the presence of some wasps, threatening to derail the entire afternoon. ‘WHAT THE F@#%?! PISS OFF! DID YOU FOLLOW ME HERE FROM PRAGUE OR SOMETHING, YOU LITTLE F@#%ERS? They’re Italian wasps too, so I bet they’re here to f@#%ing kill me.’
From Piazza Michelangelo, we headed back down and went in search of David. Given that David is, after Il Duomo, probably Florence’s most sought-after attraction, you’d think it would be easy to find. Incorrect. I believe you would have better luck finding me in Rome again, than you would finding David in anything under three hours. Even then probably only stumbling upon him by accident. I’ve seen David twice in the past but, for some reason, my memory of Florence’s layout was not particularly great, and I couldn’t remember where I had seen him. Despite having the assistance of a city booklet and our phones, David proved to be as elusive as my first hangover. Our main problem came from asking people for directions. You’d think we’d have learnt from Rome to not ask Italians for directions. Everyone we asked pointed us in a completely different way. I was of the opinion this was because they didn’t know and/or didn’t quite understand what we were asking. Kaitlyn, however, was of the opinion they were deliberately trying to confound us and point us in the direction of a torture chamber. ‘They’re f@#%ing doing it on purpose. We’re going to end up in a rape dungeon somewhere. I bet David doesn’t even f@#%ing exist.’ Eventually, we accidently stumbled across his home. When we realised it was going to cost us €16.00, we decided to refrain from paying him a visit. After all, we’d already seen the replica in the Piazza della Signoria, and we were staying in hostels, so it’s not as if we weren’t seeing that every single day. Besides, our €16.00 would have been much better spent at H&M, which is where we spent the rest of our afternoon, trying on an assortment of nice and nasty clothing and accessories.
That night, we made the most of the kitchen facilities, cooking up a storm and forcing down the rest of our cheap wine. It’s amazing how quickly one grows to almost enjoy the tannin tastes of alcoholic swamp water. We both had enough wine in our system to feel brave enough to negotiate the seedy streets and find some ice-cream, eventually returning to finish our Florentine experience with a badly-dubbed version of Juno on our “flat screen TV”.
Next stop, Lake Como. George, baby, we’re coming for you. All of you. Both of us.
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