That Strange Woman: 5 February through 8 February

But first we had to get out of Rome. The snow from the previous two days was still taking its toll on the streets of the city. Rome isn't used to snow, so the ice hadn't been salted down, or had street-keeping machines plowing and scraping like you see in places that are regularly affected. When visiting my best friend in Utah, you see snowplows hovering every few hours, but Rome? Nope. The news was showing snow banks two feet high in cities to the south which NEVER get hit with snow and ice. I tried calling every single dingle cab company in the phone book. Twice. No cabs available was what I got for the three that answered. Most just rang off the hook. Awful.

Niccolo arrived to take the keys back and make sure we hadn't burned the place down (kidding) and he tried calling people he knows with car services or even large vehicles for the luggage. Nothing. And so Niccolo became a saint in all of our eyes by helping us to the metro station. It was three city blocks away, but with luggage, Dad's precarious walking situation with a rolling walker and not wanting anyone to slip, we took it slow. As in S-L-O-W. Niccolo and I managed the luggage while Mom & Dad managed themselves very carefully. Not only did he get us to the station, he walked us and the luggage down into the bowels of the place and made sure we got on a train okay. Such a sweetheart. Kisses and hugs all around. What a nice guy. I can't say enough good things about that man. Truly.

But we were arriving at the train station from the metro down below and after making our way up the many levels to the Termini train station we were getting there unfortunately just as the train would be leaving. Oy. I checked the board and didn't see our train was up there. It must have gone. I dropped the parentals in a cafe and headed off to go change the ticket for the next available. To my happy surprise, out train was just late, we hadn't missed it at all. Whew! Happy dance.

After that, getting to Florence was a breeze, aside from the asshat in our seats that refused to move. Dude needed a kidney shanking or a fork in his eye. Seriously. Prissy bastard. But we found seats together in another grouping that nobody tried to kick us from, plus the added bonus of me giving the asshat dirty looks the whole way. Why can't people sit where they are supposed to? It's not difficult. We are supposed to be in a polite society. Do the right thing. Come on now.

There was snow everywhere in the surrounding towns along way to Florence but it felt colder that Rome because of the icy winds. Serious cold winds. We all looked like snowmen when trying to go out and about. I had a hat & cowl that I had made for my friend Giorgio in Venice that ended up saving the day for Dad. He looked like the Michelin Man but it kept him from freezing his face off.

The second day there we had snow mists, just a light dusting of flakes in the air, but nothing really stuck to the ground. I walked the block over to Cafe Oibo, near the language school I attended in October. I found one of my teachers, Caterina, and completely surprised her. Hugs, kisses, coffee and pastries. Doesn't get a whole lot better in the morning. The baristas remembered me. Kristina! Caffe doppio e sfogliata con crema... that's me.

Yes Florence has amazing art and beautiful churches. But I also got to introduce my mother to the “Tutti Per 99e/c” store. That means “Everything For 99 Eurocents.” Yep, the Italian dollar store exists. She actually made a really great buy in finding a nice thick scarf for extra warmth on her chest and neck under her winter coat. And cookies and juice to snack on. But the scarf was the best.

We had another great apartment, even if it was up one flight of stairs, but it was fully heated and in a 14^th century building for only 60E per night. Not bad, eh? You can write me for details. I'm keeping this one close to the vest.

I received distressing news on two topics while in Florence. One, Mamma would definitely be staying in Bologna and I was seriously bummed that my parents would not get to meet her. I had tried to cajole Marco into letting her come back sooner than anticipated. I understand the reasoning – the family had already planned for her to stay with her nephew and family during Carnivale time to help Marco be able to work the crazy hours he always ends up working, but I felt that I could have helped out if she was back in Venice while I was there, with or without my parents present. Plus the weather was many times worse in Bologna than in Venice. She was literally snowed in there and Venice had no snow at all. Oy.

The second piece of news was that my friend Davide was in the hospital in Senegal. He had gone home away from Venice for the winter months and wouldn't be coming back for his seasonal start in February as expected. He had his brother write me with the news, but I still haven't been able to get more info from Dakar since then. And I am still sincerely worried about him at the ti e of this writing.

We got into a cab after visiting the Museo dell'Opera dei Duomo (where my statues of Mary Magdalene and another Michelangelo Pieta live) and had the most hilarious cab driver. He had on a camouflage jacket. Big ole redneck looking guy, Italian style. Rustic looking and ruddy. Unshaven. Plus a wool coat over the camo. I saw he had a hunter's cap on the dashboard, ear flaps and all. Looked like the foreign embodiment of Ignatius J. Reilly of “A Confederacy of Dunces” but in a taxi instead of behind a hotdog cart in New Orleans. Truly a slovenly sight to behold.

I asked him if he was a hunter “Sei un cacciatore?” because of his gear. “Si.” I indicated to Dad in the back and said “Mio Babbo e' un cacciatore di troppo.” - my father is a hunter too. “E' un uomo realita.” He's a real man.

All right then. There you have it. Only real men are hunters apparently. In a city of some of the most beautiful art, historical culture and architecture in the world, it all really boils down to shooting your guns off. Go figure.