Consider The Streets Hit

It took a lot of courage to get out of the hotel. Having only eaten two airline meals (a meal of two triangles and two circles from Paris to Florence) and three granola bars in the past eternity, it was my stomach that finally dragged me out. The day got off to a great start when my "buon giorno" was good enough to completely fool the front desk. Having emptied my Italian arsenal, I fired a victory "parla inglese?" One guy stood up and left, the other said "yes" as he fished out a map for tourists. He said he'd take in my bags if Air France ever made it this far, and wished me luck.

And then I walked. Oh, did I walk. The hundreds of people up and down the streets looked straight ahead as I smiled and looked in every direction. I couldn't get enough of it. Every cracked stone wall with holes for pigeons, every street sign built right into the building, every moped that sent an echoed warning in the caverned streets (motorists are greatly outnumered) was perfect. I came to a tall wall at the end of a street, the first clearing for a while. I headed for the park bench at the small part of the wall and there, spanning out as far as I could see, was Tuscany.

I doubled back south, heading for the Siena's famous campo. After gawking with so many other tourists, I ate at the Italian fast-food pizza place with a meal consisting of a quarter of a pizza, a coke, and golf-ball sized fried tear-drops filled with what seemed to be spaghettios.

Then it was time for University hunting. Had I known what "stranieri" meant, then Universita per Stranieri would not have been my second try. Through large-doored tunnels was a garden that reminded me of summer. And I sat down and wrote most of what you just read.


(This picture seemed like a cool idea at the time)

I timed the reprive poorly. When I finished, everyone in the city was off to siesta. I wandered souther and souther, and spent more time in the construction zone of the "Ospedal Psichiatrico" than I would've liked. I ended up on the very southmost wall of the city before heading up (uphill and up north) the looooong dirt road called via di porta giustizia, which is Italian for "is this some sort of park?" There were geese in a pen.

Back at il campo, I searched for a bottle of water. I peered in through the door of a small souvenir shop to scope out the beverage situation, and the doors flew open faster than any door I have ever encountered. There were eleven people in the tiny shop, chatting or owning the place, but all glancing at me. There was no walking away from this one. I did my best shy Italian impression as I looked at the gum rack, finally pickng out a "Big Bobol." It cost me a small fortune.