I woke up in the morning to the sounds of my Ma stomping around the room. My ears were tied to my head and I couldn’t see a thing.
Okay let me go ahead and explain that.
Mama Sue is without a doubt the most bizarre sleeper I have ever met in my entire damn life. She likes the TV to remain on and she is prone to waking up in the middle of the night and, I don’t know, cracking open a book to pass the time until she falls asleep again. Before bed I usually watch Netflix until I’m just tired enough to cry, at which point I either do, or shut it down and pass the f-ck out. I don’t wake up until I am absolutely forced to. Now, my Ma (being a Ma) employed her nurturing instincts and foresaw that we were going to need a solution to our sleeping arrangement. She thus retained those eye cover things they give you on the plane and handed it to me on the first night as I crawled into my bed. They work pretty well, except I think I have a permanent and unsightly crease in my ears from the elastic.
Anyway, Ma got up at 5am, tossed back a few chapters of her book, packed her shit, and began pacing around the room for a few hours. I can only imagine the sight of my confused ass sitting up 4 hours later with a mask over my eyes reading DELTA, wondering aloud what the hell she was doing.
Turns out she was a little stressed out about going to Naples. We had tentatively planned to go there, but neither of us had ever been, and we didn’t really know a whole lot about what to do there, and she was worried about pick-pockets (I welcome them so I can crush their skulls with my ninja moves). I think this was why she was pacing (Naples, not the ninja moves. Though I’d be pacing if I had to be on the business end of my moves).
So we decided to go to Florence. I hadn’t seen David in a few years and I welcomed the opportunity to stand around and stare at him like a creep.
Now, normal people would return the damn car to the Hertz place, get on the train, and go to Florence. We, of course, thought it would be a MUCH better idea to extend the rental, and drive the car. Never mind that we have no idea how the freeway system of Italy works, nor did we have any clue that you really can’t drive in Florence. 3 hours, 2 freeway changes, 1 five-car pileup, several mental breakdowns later, we arrived in Florence. I found some random doorman who pointed us to a place we could park for the next few days (a service I would later repay by walking by later, after a lot of wine, and awkwardly handing over a 5 Euro note I had crumpled in my fist). Ma was convinced the garage guys were going to steal all the wine we bought. I was busy trying to flirt with the cute grease-monkeys that run the place, a task I was failing spectacularly at.
We got to the hotel, which I booked using the phone in the car during the drive over. It ended up being a very, very nice place about 100 meters from the Duomo, not to mention right in the middle of some of the best shopping. After we settled ourselves in we headed to a little restaurant for some, you guessed it, Italian food. After that we went over to the Hotel De La Ville, on Via Tournabouni, to say hi to the bartender, Ahkmed. He’s been working there for years and was one of the first people I met on my first trip to Italy. He knows a lot of us pretty well and has even traveled to other parts of Italy with parts of the group. He’s originally from Egypt but moved to Italy when he met his now wife. He invented a drink called a Cleopatra, which was some crazy mix of vodka, grenadine, orange juice, and orange liqueur and probably some other weird stuff. Being that I always welcome any opportunity to overdose on sugar, I went ahead and ordered one. We met this other mother and daughter there as well. The daughter was studying in Florence and the mom was visiting. They were from Long Island, and boy did they sound like it. The mother yapped about something for a few minutes (I don’t know I’m ADD and I was chugging my Cleopatra), but then made sure to recommend this dish at the restaurant we were going to the next night. Pear and Pecorino ravioli. More on that shit later.
After a fun reunion with Ahkmed, we walked over to the Uffizi Gallery (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uffizi_gallery). It’s one of the oldest museums in the world, it was commissioned in 1540! I didn’t tour the inside this time, instead wandering the outdoor halls where the rows of statues are. Check out that link though, it gives a really great brief history of the gallery (it’s old as all hell), as well as pictures of the inside. Gorgeous.
Anyway, there are openings in the walls in the courtyard between the two wings of the Uffizi. These are filled with statues of scientists, artists, and statesmen important to Florentine history. Here is a picture of them all: http://www.ericcovey.com/photos/2003/italy/florence/uffizi/index.html.
Really close by is the Palazzo della Signoria (Palazzo Vecchio), which is where the replica statue of David is. The real David used to stand at the entrance to from 1504 to 1873, but he was too exposed to the elements so they thought it be best to move him inside (to the Accademia Gallery, where it remains today). Probably a good idea. I don’t want anything putting a dent in that fine ass.
On the other side of the entrance is the weirdest statue I have ever seen in my life. Bear with me here. See, when you are in Italy, you sort of get used to scrotums. Apparently bare ass and scrotums were all the rage during the Renaissance, and so we, as descendants of these great artists and minds, are stuck having to deal with eyefuls of genitalia, all in the name of highbrow culture. However, the statue of Hercules and Cacus, by Baccio Bandinelli, involves the unusual use of scrotums in that, well, one of the subjects is ever so rudely plopping his on the head of some other dude who appears to be just sitting there, confused. Take a look: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hercules_and_Cacus. I read that this is supposed to represent Hercules’ defeat of Cacus, which was meant to serve as an analogy to the Medici’s return from exile and rise to power. Freud would have has a field day.
And really, was there some kind of memo that went out that gave the Renaissance artists the idea that all great mythological/biblical wars were fought while butt-ass nekkid? Just sayin. Anyway, I know Cacus was a fire-breathing demon, but did he deserve nuts dropped on his head?
Yeah so after walking around for another hour or so and taking in just enough art to make me feel superior to you for the next calendar year, we decided it was time to party. My mother, apparently, decided it was time to farm me out as someone’s wife.
We headed back to the Piazza di Republicca, where we spotted a Hard Rock Café. Now, this is going to sound stupid, but after 6 days of Italian food three times a day, it is always good to find a burger or a sushi place. Clean the palate or what not. We waltzed over to the bar and ordered Bloody Marys, like real Americans. We also ordered red meat and french fries and shrimp cocktails, like real, homegrown, dumbass Americans. Then we thought it would be totally brilliant to start shooting tequila. Apparently it was spring break in Florence that evening.
It was at this point that we drew the attention of a gaggle of Russian dudes that were sitting along the other of the bar. They thought we were hilarious, or nuts (we’re both). So they decided to join the party. Within minutes my ma could be seen sitting in between all of them giving a lesson on how to salt your hand, take the shot, and then suck on the lime. They focused like little apprentices, hoping that they too would one day become loud Americans.
Salt. Shoot. Lime.
We learned that these guys were not Russian but in fact Tajikistanian (huh?). They were in town for business. Apparently they work in pasta/bread manufacturing and sales (“So lemme get this straight! You make carbs?!”). My Ma kept offering me up to the cute one, who seemed more than happy to make me his reverse mail-order bride. Although I am aware that my eggs are not getting any younger, something just felt a little off about the whole thing. Call me a damn hippie, but arranged marriages just don’t tickle my fancy. Not to mention the guy had a real issue with my mandatory personal space bubble. God I hate close talkers.
Ma successfully got these idiots totally tanked on tequila, so we figured it was probably best to get out while we could (always best to prevent your night from turning into a multiple crime scene, I always say). We went to close our tab, and discovered that the Russian boss man (probably a black market nuclear arms dealer), picked up our entire tab. Thanks fellas!
The rest of the night carried on the way nights like that do: walk home, brush teeth, fall in bed, pass out. We needed to get our rest for David in the morning. Like I said, I hadn’t seen him in a few years and I had so many things to tell him.
