Anyway: yes, we made it. And so far, so good. Mostly.
Venice was pretty, but it held 0.00% interest for me. It’s old. It’s charming. It’s mysterious. I get it. But then, I live in New Orleans, so I see that schtick every day. Other, less-jaded people in our party would gladly turn right around and spend another week there. Which only goes to show…something.
Other things of note:
- Venetians really hate to make change. I don’t know why this is so, but if I’m going to buy a flavorless cheese sandwich from some gum-smacking waif in skinny jeans, the least she can do is break a twenty.
- Americans get a bad rap on the road, but compared to the Russians I’ve seen, we’re a nation of Donna freakin’ Reeds.
- I do not understand the Italian aversion to ice, leg room, and blow driers, but I can appreciate two of the three.
And now: coffee. Lots of it. Florence awaits. (The city, sadly, not Ms. Henderson. …But OMG how funny would that be if she were here? Could you imagine? Like, you know, The Surviving Bradys and Their Groovy European Smile-Time Variety Hour and Funicular Hoe-Down Holiday? This, people, is when I ask myself, “Why am I not a bazillionaire TV producer with the Swifty Lazar glasses and the murder of Pekingeseseses at my feet?” And the answer: probably because I’m an idiot and because a group of Pekingeseseseses would be a pack, not a murder. But whatever.)
What was I saying? Oh, yes: coffee.
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Florentines were terribly cranky, I found. My Neopolitan neighbor agrees with me.