Guys. GUYSSSSS. I had a moment. A tourist ahead of me decked out in Camelbak glory turned around not once but TWICE to check if I was following him. How the tables have turned! Hi, what’s your name? I’m Creepy Mia.
In Florence, I power walk past the cathedrals spilling queues out their wooden buttholes and affirm my status as Worst Tourist Ever. I pay a round man for one peach and walk away with a kilogram of yellow plums and a pat on the cheek. They are delightful and I eat fourteen (14) of them.
Michelangelo’s David and I share a special moment and I take a naughty selfie that I won’t include because there are parents reading! There are some genuinely weird mutant babies in the museum and I’m wondering if they might have popped out of the womb as fully grown shrunken prunes.
Back in Fontanella I spend a relaxing afternoon in my Airbnb with a belly full of stolen grapes after being followed home for the umpteenth time. I’m perfecting The Snarl™ and reserving it for viscous dogs and barking men. Dinner is peanut butter and peanut butter because the only store is closed on Sundays and SOMEBODY didn’t prepare.
An uneventful train ride to Bologna lands me in a city bustling with history and hipsters. I meet a polite German girl and we explore huge cathedrals with tomato-shaped roofs and celery columns with string cheese decor. We gobble the creamiest gelato in all the world with our turkey tongues, made of I don’t know what but it’s got no milk and feels like silk.
We climb a tower that may as well have been a pipe with a view unworthy of the desperate sightseers clogging the plumbing. There’s a one-woman fashion show featuring sparkles and glitter and if only my bag was bigger. Our shopping extravaganza leads us to fluffy heels and lavish jewellery sparkling in fluorescent incandescence. I’m glad my preconceptions of Italy are somewhat accurate because there is So. Much. Gucci.
I hear a lot of the word “tutti” and have vivid recollections of one weird orchestra conductor who would swiftly raise both arms and smack them down again with a flick of glossy Lord Farquaad locks. ‘From letter A, tutti!’ he’d exclaim melodically.
Dopa Hostel, which is dope-as-shit, has good tea for once, which I enjoy twice. There’s a long discussion about thinking about nothing and trying not to have fun. The Dutch man doesn’t want to be the one in the hostel that plays guitar but I’m only half awake and the Oxford professor is meditating again.
A poetic interlude:
Bread and pasta
Scoff it down
Digest it faster
It’s dinner time which means time to check on my spaghetti. It’s a slow growing plant but I have high hopes. Halfway through a very delicious bowl of eggplant penne (not grown by me), I consider the spiritual possibilities and skin benefits of bathing in pasta sauce. They’re quite religious in Italy. Maybe they baptise their children in salsa al pomodore.
Frase del giornio: PREGO
Musica del posto: La Dolce Vita - Ryan Paris