On our first day in Florence, our travel agents had arranged for a private breakfast. There was food as far as the eye could see. I quickly learned that Italian yogurt all tastes like plain American yogurt, which is the taste equivalent to sucking pus out of an abcess. And what passes for bacon is would actually be quite good, if only they didn't leave it nearly raw. I found a tray in the back of the room where the supposedly overcooked bacon had been hidden - jackpot! Before long, word spread and everyone was headed toward that table. The bright red orange juice is quite excellent, made from Sicilian blood oranges, and the pastries were to die for. Over the next 14 days, I became quite a fan of Nutella, and I swear I had withdrawals once I got back. It won't be long til I'm making back alley deals to get the good stuff.Our first stop of the day was at the Piazalle Michelangelo, which is the best place to get great shots of Florence. The guide, Matteo, was extremely perturbed that some took too long getting back on the bus. He started waving his arms frantically and shouting about "poonctuality", telling us how disrespectful it was to make others wait. Yet, when the next bus was late to get us and we asked why, Matteo shrugged his shoulders and said, "This is Italy." Go figure.
We took a tour of Pierotucci, a leather factory/store where everything is handmade from lambskin and kidskin (apparently of the goat variety, not child). The products were beautiful but extremely pricey. I was admiring one coat and the owner told me I had excellent taste. Just as he told me it was "only 700 euro", it fell off the hanger and landed on the floor. I swear I hadn't touched it, but the man sniffed indignantly, snatched up the jacket, and rushed away stiff-legged like he was suffering alli "treatment effects". Guess I didn't want to buy it after all.We were then handed off to a tour guide for a half day tour of Florence. She was 30's, pretty, and dressed very stylish. And then she gestured toward a statue. Ho. Lee. Crap. She could have braided the pit hair that was flowing from underneath her arm. It was like the woman on the bicycle in that Boost Mobile commercial. I made sure to stay upwind of her from then on. I hate having hair in my face.She showed us tons of churches and statues, and I think the R-rated figures may have broadened my mother's horizons more than I'm comfortable with. Her trip pictures look like a slideshow of marble porn.Of course, each one of the statues had some pretty little story to go along with it, generally involving violence, greed, war, lust, and sodomy. You know, all the ingredients for a children's book. Here we see the Rape of the Sabine Women.There were street performers everywhere, and while I would normally scoff at their expectation of money for doing very little, it was freakishly hot the entire time we were there. You couldn't pay me enough to paint my body and prance around for strangers in 100 degree weather. Then again, no one would want to see me do that, so it's kind of a moot point.Once our tour was over, we headed back to the shops we had bypassed during the race of the sights. In one of the piazzas stood a golden boar with lines of people waiting to touch it. Legend has it that if you put a coin in its mouth and rub its nose, it brings you good luck. Swine flu is more likely.And of course, a trip wouldn't be complete without a picture of a diplomat who had just left our U.S. embassy, also known as McDonalds. Can you find her in the picture?Speaking of food, the restaurants in the piazzas have a host/greeter trying to draw people in. They will stand outside the restaurant and shout at passersby. Normally, I was very good at not making eye contact. But the man outside one spoke to me, and I made the mistake of looking his way."Buon giorno! Que bella! You hungry? You look for good meal?"I smile and shake my head. We keep walking."How about a nice boy?""Husband?!"Sorry. I just don't want that kind of commitment for a meal.We ended up eating at a place near our hotel, where no one spoke English. The surly waiter directed us to a back room, which was actually an outside area enclosed by latticework and grape vines. He handed us menus and wandered away, only to return a couple minutes later to take our order. We asked for more time, and apparently that is the equivalent to peeing in someone's soup. He sighed, said something in Italian that I'm pretty sure meant "stupid frickin' Americans", and scurried back to the kitchen, where he shouted and waved his hands like a drunken air traffic controller. But to be fair, that's what I did when I had to deal with idiot customers too. It just doesn't sound as pretty in English.But the menu decoder in my phrase book was very helpful, the food was plentiful and we had a good time all the same. Once he brought us our food, he disappeared and never returned, so there was no fear of my pidgin Italian causing an international incident. Here is one of the ginormous calzones.On our way back to our motel, we had to pass an area that was a little dark and seedy looking. I wasn't too concerned until we came around the corner into an area where all the homeless were laying out their blankets for the night. Still wouldn't have been a problem until I saw one man's companion: a huge German Shepherd with a pink collar. I swear that sucker was tall enough to look me in the eye. The man had her tied up next to his "house", and she was eyeballing anyone who walked near it. That's one way to protect your shopping cart. I casually strolled by it, careful not to make eye contact. The last thing I needed was a hobo's girlfriend tearing my throat out on a urine-soaked street.Part IV might be more interesting. But don't count on it.
Labels: freaks n geeks, pics, vacation
posted by trinamick at 2:07 PM 60 comments
Friday, September 11, 2009
Quest for an Italian Stepfather: Part II
If you haven't read the first Italy post, check it out first.Alrighty then, now where were we? Oh yes, this was the day we flew out. We awoke to pouring rain once again, and so we decided to just stay all day at the airport, instead of going sightseeing after dropping off the luggage. As it turned out, that was a wise decision. The roads to the airport ended up flooded and many people were unable to get in. We would have missed our flight to Milan, and I would have had a royal freakout. Nobody wants that.Our flight out was supposed to leave at 6:35 p.m. All the flights around our gate were being delayed or cancelled due to the weather, so we were holding our breath. The lightning was unbelievable, and the thunder was rocking that place like a taco fart in church. We were sure that even if they did let us fly, our plane was going to end up in a fireball over the ocean. But they let us board at 5:50 p.m. and then we sat and waited. And waited. And sighed, shifted, cursed the weather, and contemplated how long it would be before the toilets would start to overflow on the tarmac. At 8:50 p.m., they finally let us start an active taxi, at which point we discovered my mother was in the bathroom. I fully expected her to return to her seat, the bottom of her shirt wet and stained blue, but she came back unscathed just as we were taking off.My seat mate and I watched the airport lackeys hauling loads of luggage to the various planes. Remember, there are sheets of rain coming down. And not one load of luggage is covered. So we were chuckling about how many people were going to be seriously pissed when they picked up soggy suitcases at baggage claim. Yeah, well, when we got to our hotel, I opened my suitcase and discovered that everything around the edges of it was soaked, and the suitcase color had dyed my clothes. That's karma, baby.It was about an eight hour flight to Milan, so it was 10:00 in the morning when we arrived there. It was then a four hour bus ride to Florence. We had decided we would all stay awake for the day to lessen the jet lag. Guess who was the only one who didn't snooze on the bus?We were all stoked about staying at the Hilton Hotel, since we had checked it out online and it looked relatively awesome. Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure the rooms were actually designed by Paris Hilton. The shower doors were clear glass, the bathroom door was blocks of frosted glass separated by lines of clear glass, and the wall separating the bathroom from the bedroom was also glass. Oh sure, there was a sliding door that would cover it, but really, are there a lot of guests requesting the ability to see their fellow room dweller perched on the throne or scrubbing their bits? Creepy. Oh, and they don't provide washcloths, and they ran out of towels the second day we were there.In addition, the elevators clearly were not equipped for the number of us who were there. Shortly after arriving, Paralegal Barbie and I were attempting to get on and our bus captain was already in the elevator. We stepped in and the alarm sounded that the elevator was overweight. It was supposed to hold eight people! Now I'll admit I appreciate my fast food as much as the next guy, but it's not like people moo when I lumber past them. And the pavement doesn't crack when PB falls, so clearly there was a maintenance issue. They finally quit working altogether, some with guests stuck inside.We then spent the next hour searching for the stairs. If you were in the lobby, there were stairs to take you to the first floor. That's where they stopped, unless you took the set on the other side. They returned you to the lobby. It was like being trapped in an MC Escher painting. We finally discovered that the door to the stairwell was behind the bar, but as the burly bellman informed us, they were "for emergencies only." Ignoring his glares, we ripped open the door and headed to the third floor. Just one problem: the doors off the stairwells were locked. After much gesturing and breaking out my mad face, the bellman finally sighed and unlocked them. There was a mad dash of people using the stairs, much to the disgust of the staff, who apparently preferred we spend the evening sprawled in heaps in the lobby. Stupid demanding foreigners.Of course, once we got to our rooms, there was the little matter of getting the lights to stay on. Now I realize that I'm not the most traveled person in the world, so I fully accept that there are going to be times when my redneck reality rears its ugly head. But come on now, even I understand the basic concept of a light switch. Off. On. Bam! Let there be light! Yeah, well, not so much here, past the first thirty seconds. So we spent the next 10 minutes trying to figure out how to keep the suckers on, short of having one of us open the door every 30 seconds. For those of you better-traveled than I, perhaps you've already figured out that they required the room key being inserted in the sensor in the wall and left there. Pardon me 'most to death, but wouldn't it just be easier to have a switch? Surely the Hilton can handle the occasional light switch being left on when someone leaves their room.In addition, the TV didn't work right either. The picture kept scrolling while I attempted to watch an episode of Bonanza dubbed in Italian. The windows wouldn't open past a half inch, there were only two outlets in the entire room, both of which were used for lamps, and there was no swimming pool, only a jacuzzi that cost extra to use. Where's my Super 8, dang it?We decided to hit the town on our own for the night. But after waiting an hour for the hotel shuttle to come back, we gave up and took off walking. We found a strip mall nearby, where they were playing American Christmas music. In July. We wandered around until we found a restaurant, only to discover The Crazy Bull was a sports lounge that serves... American food. I went with the pizza, which is sparse on cheese, sauce and toppings and is always thin crust in Italy. Their pepperoni is very spicy and has a strange aftertaste, but the beer helps you forget that. Plus, you are easily distracted by the sports shows that, between news items, feature random women dressed like they are headed for an S&M party, prancing past the news desk and giggling. Not sure what sport they represented, but I think it involves a whip.By the time we got back, the hotel was pretty dead and the elevator worked...until the third floor. The rest of our group had to hoof it up the stairs to get to the ninth floor where they were staying. If a fire broke out that night, we'd have just laid in our beds and held out marshmallows on sticks.Part III coming soon...
Labels: freaks n geeks, pics, vacation
posted by trinamick at 2:07 PM 60 comments
Friday, September 11, 2009
Quest for an Italian Stepfather: Part II
If you haven't read the first Italy post, check it out first.Alrighty then, now where were we? Oh yes, this was the day we flew out. We awoke to pouring rain once again, and so we decided to just stay all day at the airport, instead of going sightseeing after dropping off the luggage. As it turned out, that was a wise decision. The roads to the airport ended up flooded and many people were unable to get in. We would have missed our flight to Milan, and I would have had a royal freakout. Nobody wants that.Our flight out was supposed to leave at 6:35 p.m. All the flights around our gate were being delayed or cancelled due to the weather, so we were holding our breath. The lightning was unbelievable, and the thunder was rocking that place like a taco fart in church. We were sure that even if they did let us fly, our plane was going to end up in a fireball over the ocean. But they let us board at 5:50 p.m. and then we sat and waited. And waited. And sighed, shifted, cursed the weather, and contemplated how long it would be before the toilets would start to overflow on the tarmac. At 8:50 p.m., they finally let us start an active taxi, at which point we discovered my mother was in the bathroom. I fully expected her to return to her seat, the bottom of her shirt wet and stained blue, but she came back unscathed just as we were taking off.My seat mate and I watched the airport lackeys hauling loads of luggage to the various planes. Remember, there are sheets of rain coming down. And not one load of luggage is covered. So we were chuckling about how many people were going to be seriously pissed when they picked up soggy suitcases at baggage claim. Yeah, well, when we got to our hotel, I opened my suitcase and discovered that everything around the edges of it was soaked, and the suitcase color had dyed my clothes. That's karma, baby.It was about an eight hour flight to Milan, so it was 10:00 in the morning when we arrived there. It was then a four hour bus ride to Florence. We had decided we would all stay awake for the day to lessen the jet lag. Guess who was the only one who didn't snooze on the bus?We were all stoked about staying at the Hilton Hotel, since we had checked it out online and it looked relatively awesome. Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure the rooms were actually designed by Paris Hilton. The shower doors were clear glass, the bathroom door was blocks of frosted glass separated by lines of clear glass, and the wall separating the bathroom from the bedroom was also glass. Oh sure, there was a sliding door that would cover it, but really, are there a lot of guests requesting the ability to see their fellow room dweller perched on the throne or scrubbing their bits? Creepy. Oh, and they don't provide washcloths, and they ran out of towels the second day we were there.In addition, the elevators clearly were not equipped for the number of us who were there. Shortly after arriving, Paralegal Barbie and I were attempting to get on and our bus captain was already in the elevator. We stepped in and the alarm sounded that the elevator was overweight. It was supposed to hold eight people! Now I'll admit I appreciate my fast food as much as the next guy, but it's not like people moo when I lumber past them. And the pavement doesn't crack when PB falls, so clearly there was a maintenance issue. They finally quit working altogether, some with guests stuck inside.We then spent the next hour searching for the stairs. If you were in the lobby, there were stairs to take you to the first floor. That's where they stopped, unless you took the set on the other side. They returned you to the lobby. It was like being trapped in an MC Escher painting. We finally discovered that the door to the stairwell was behind the bar, but as the burly bellman informed us, they were "for emergencies only." Ignoring his glares, we ripped open the door and headed to the third floor. Just one problem: the doors off the stairwells were locked. After much gesturing and breaking out my mad face, the bellman finally sighed and unlocked them. There was a mad dash of people using the stairs, much to the disgust of the staff, who apparently preferred we spend the evening sprawled in heaps in the lobby. Stupid demanding foreigners.Of course, once we got to our rooms, there was the little matter of getting the lights to stay on. Now I realize that I'm not the most traveled person in the world, so I fully accept that there are going to be times when my redneck reality rears its ugly head. But come on now, even I understand the basic concept of a light switch. Off. On. Bam! Let there be light! Yeah, well, not so much here, past the first thirty seconds. So we spent the next 10 minutes trying to figure out how to keep the suckers on, short of having one of us open the door every 30 seconds. For those of you better-traveled than I, perhaps you've already figured out that they required the room key being inserted in the sensor in the wall and left there. Pardon me 'most to death, but wouldn't it just be easier to have a switch? Surely the Hilton can handle the occasional light switch being left on when someone leaves their room.In addition, the TV didn't work right either. The picture kept scrolling while I attempted to watch an episode of Bonanza dubbed in Italian. The windows wouldn't open past a half inch, there were only two outlets in the entire room, both of which were used for lamps, and there was no swimming pool, only a jacuzzi that cost extra to use. Where's my Super 8, dang it?We decided to hit the town on our own for the night. But after waiting an hour for the hotel shuttle to come back, we gave up and took off walking. We found a strip mall nearby, where they were playing American Christmas music. In July. We wandered around until we found a restaurant, only to discover The Crazy Bull was a sports lounge that serves... American food. I went with the pizza, which is sparse on cheese, sauce and toppings and is always thin crust in Italy. Their pepperoni is very spicy and has a strange aftertaste, but the beer helps you forget that. Plus, you are easily distracted by the sports shows that, between news items, feature random women dressed like they are headed for an S&M party, prancing past the news desk and giggling. Not sure what sport they represented, but I think it involves a whip.By the time we got back, the hotel was pretty dead and the elevator worked...until the third floor. The rest of our group had to hoof it up the stairs to get to the ninth floor where they were staying. If a fire broke out that night, we'd have just laid in our beds and held out marshmallows on sticks.Part III coming soon...
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