Sizzling in Firenze

Who knew I could suffer while shopping?  Seriously.  How could that even be a possibility?  Those who know me, know I shop till I drop.  Actually I do everything until I drop and believe me, I take European shopping to the next level…especially if it’s Italian clothing and accessories.

So after lunch, TFH suggested shopping for a few hours. At first I thought, My kinda guy!  Until I began shopping in the outdoor markets. The heat was brutal.  If this shopping expedition was a Gladiator vs. Heidi Event sponsored by Caesar, Italy would be up by one million.  Me: Zip, Zilch, Nada, Nyet. Zero. A total loser with my hand formed in an “L” stuck to my sweaty forehead. Forget Man vs. Man; Man vs. Animal; this gladiatorial combat was between none other than our favorite heroine: Heidi vs. Italy’s heat.

I’ve always said that I don’t sweat.  It’s not girlie.  I glisten. Truth be told, I didn’t glisten.  I didn’t glisten at all.  I sweat like a warrior minus the suit of armor and Roman sandals.  Even my clothes wilted.  If it were possible, they would have been waving a white cotton hanky as a sign of retreat.  I was no competitor for this sweltering heat even though I did have a bit of an advantage having lived in the desert where triple digits last a good six months out of the year.

Although I live in Arizona, I can only say it isn’t true that eventually you get used to the heat.  After all, it’s a dry heat.  With all due respect, who ever came up with that philosophy is a moron.  Did you ever put your head in a 400 degree oven to check on a roast?  Sure it’s a dry heat…but let’s face it:  Hot is Hot! 

I’ve been to Florida in the summer.  Humidity is nothing to sneeze at either.

So, when people talk about Tuscany, I think about art, leather goods, haute couture, food~of course, Michelangelo’s David, but never do I think about the Tuscan sun.  And now just thinking about the movie, Under the Tuscan Sun, makes me break-out into an intolerable shirt clinging, forehead dripping, hair mopping, pinky promise-to-never-visit-Italy-in-the-summer-again sweat.

And sweating in front of TFH left me mortified.  I hoped my deodorant wasn’t as much of a wuss as me and could stand up to even the most intolerable weather conditions.

“Why don’t we head back to the hotel to shower and rest before dinner,” he asked, watching droplets of sweat roll down my nose.  “Unless you have another blind date with David?”

“It’s a good thing you’re so darn handsome!” I tweaked his nose; he deserved that and then some.

On the way to the Hotel Baglioni, he lead me astray to Ponte Vecchio’s Vasari’s Corridor where I knew I could get into some deep trouble looking at beautiful jewelry in the shops that lined the bridge.  Before the 16^th century, many of the stores were butcher shops.  I can only imagine the stench of meat sizzling in the scorching sun during the summer months.  Thank goodness they had the common sense to bring in a little razzle dazzle with all things that glitter in the sun, rather than roast.

TFH watched me eye-ing every window, pointing to all the gorgeous jewels: gold, diamonds, cameos,  jade of all colors and designs, semi precious stones adorned in elaborate settings. You need it-they got it.  Don’t need it? What are you crazy? It’s not even a question of need.  It’s a question of want.  They’ve got it and more.  Each opulent store front window kept beckoning me to ring the little doorbell and enter the tiny store that was electronically locked.  With one buzz, I could have maxed out my Mastercard tenfold. Who say’s money can’t buy happiness?  Frankly, if you have to be miserable, better to be miserable with money than without…But, that’s just my way of thinking, wishing I had won the lottery before the trip began.

Finally, TFH pulled me away from all things beautiful and we hurried as fast as our tired hot bodies would let us walk to the hotel, agreeing to meet for dinner in the lobby at 7pm.

At the bewitching hour, I found Tall, Fair and Handsome pacing in the lobby, waiting for me. When  he saw me, he sauntered over quickly and taking me into his arms, he gave me a warm embrace and an even warmer kiss hello.  The heat was rising in the air conditioned hotel. Ciao bello!

We took some side streets and unexpected detours looking for some place to dine. The evenings in Firenze cool down and the stroll through the city was lovely.  Especially with TFH by my side.  We found a cute little restaurant and peeked in the window.  Charming ambiance.  White table cloths.  Ding. Ding. Ding.  Another winner.

We were seated in front of a window which is always great for people watching.  But, little did we know the watching would take place in the restaurant in front of us.

Two older waiters were completely smitten with two young ladies dining at a corner table.  So much so, that we were ignored for a half hour.  I didn’t mind.  It was like having front row seats at the theater.  And these Italian men didn’t disappoint.  The hand gestures were flying with exuberant enthusiasm as each man tried to out-do the other.  Each showed off his “skill” speaking English, trying to impress each of the women.  They oozed charm; told jokes; engaged their delightful customers with small talk.

The taller waiter asked the women, who were also trying to impress them with their knowledge of Italian, what their nationalities were. One twenty-something said she was half Italian and half Portuguese.  I couldn’t help wonder which half.  Her friend was Japanese.

At this point my stomach was growling.  The waiters were drooling.  TFH was smirking at the waiters knowing instinctively what the men were thinking.  Definitely a guy-thing.  Actually a deaf, dumb, blind mute would have seen through flirting and guessed the outcome.

Finally, the short, fat, balding waiter came over, took our order without his eyes leaving both women and his waiter friend who was now getting the advantage of having him out of the way.



Half hour later, the waiter threw our salads in front of us and ditched us for what he hoped would be his dessert.

The two men were like magnets to a refrigerator. 

We were ignored and hungry for our entrées which would also be delayed by our amorous Italian waiters- who may have been old…but they sure weren’t dead.

Boys will be boys.  Men will be men.  And my wonderful Italians never fail to be just that.  Sizzling in their own heat.

Naked in Firenze!

Bright light washed over Michelangelo’s David in the Galleria Dall’Accademia.  I was overwhelmed with the vision in front of my eyes. 

He’s the perfect man, I thought.  Handsome. Muscular…love his wavy hair and piercing eyes.   I continued scrutinizing his physique from head to toe and then back again. The detail on every part of his body was so life-like. Actually better than life-like.  I never dated anyone who looked like that.   He was more perfect than perfection.  

“Have I got competition?”  asked Tall, Fair and Handsome softly.

What can I tell you? I simply felt star-struck.  Having studied art for years, it’s an extraordinary experience to be so close to the works of the masters.  The size of paintings and sculptures make art come alive compared to viewing diminutive one dimentional photographs in an art history book. 

Sometimes my eyes tear up when I see a favorite painting or sculpture in an art museum.  I’m transcended back in time and imagine myself in that particular era, fantasizing what it would be like to know these brilliant artisans.  I suppose that’s why I love Woody Allen’s movie, Midnight in Paris.  I have often wondered what it would be like to have a glass of wine with Michelangelo or one of the Impressionist artists that I adore, getting to know them as men as well as artists.  Of course in my imagination none of them have personality flaws.  If only life could imitate art and my imagination. Talk about a win-win.

Eventually TFH was able to gently nudge me away from my beloved David and we walked around the museum pointing, ooh-ing and aah-ing at Michelangelo’s unfinished works: Prisons and Prison, St. Matthew, and the Palestrina Piet`a. 



Michelangelo's 'Prisons'

Michelangelo's 'Pieta'

I find these sculptures to be haunting.  Unsettling.  They touch my soul.  TFH put his arm around me and wiped away a few tears.

Another sculpture I admire solely for its emotional impact, is The Rape of the Sabines by Giambologna. 

Rape of the Sabines by Giambologna

It’s harsh.  Violent.  Ruthless.  But, it makes you feel something dramatic.  This particular sculpture is like a train-wreck waiting to happen.  You know you shouldn’t look, but you can’t take your eyes off of it none-the-less.

Seeing the look of horror in my eyes at first glance of this work of art, TFH whispered in my ear, “Let’s get something to eat.”

And with that, he whisked me away from the ugliness of the subject matter and once we were in broad daylight, my mood shifted dramatically.

We found a lovely restaurant, Trattoria Cammillo, on the Borgo S. Jacopo.  When I see white linen tablecloths in a European restaurant, I know it’s a good sign.

The décor was lovely.  The brick ceiling was charming as were the attractive lampshades with different scenes of ancient Florence decorating the walls.  What’s not to love about dining in beautiful surroundings, especially in Italy? A little ambiance goes a long way.

The waiter took our order and when he returned to fill our glasses with water, he told me he was a ski instructor and teaches in Cortona.  He gave me his business card and phone number and said to call if I wanted lessons.  I smiled inwardly because I didn’t think this girlie-girl looked all that athletic.  TFH had other opinions about him and the skiing invitation. None of them had anything to do with skiing.  What do I know?

By the time he brought us vegetable soup in a light broth and white fish with tomatoes and olives, my mouth was watering. 

I didn’t realize one could work up quite an appetite in a museum.  TFH ordered a delicious white wine to accompany the meal.  A little buzz in the afternoon along with a good meal and good company is always a winning combination.

After lunch, TFH didn’t want to take a chance taking me to a museum again, so he made me suffer and shop for cashmere scarves, fur lined gloves, leather jackets and jewelry for the remainder of the afternoon.

Ohhhhhh, the things I have to endure for romance.

Let The Good Times Roll

Dinner was fabulous.  The company divine. And it didn’t hurt that we polished off two bottles of champagne before the dessert menu arrived.

The waiter came over to the table.  “Can I tempt you with something sweet?”  He handed the award-winning menu to us.  Looking at all the yummilicious choices on the dessert menu, I mentally said, “Yeeeees!” to all.

After we finished our gastronomical delights, we walked back to the hotel hand-in-hand like a couple of school kids.  I was much more relaxed knowing the truth and TFH seemed more comfortable having told me the truth.  A secret can weigh down even the most anorexic of anorexics, so it was wonderful to see him lighthearted and playful.

By the time we reached the hotel, I had to use the ladies room…but not to freshen up this time.  Consuming two bottles of alcohol nearly did me in.  I’m an easy drunk.  I get giddy and laugh at everything.

"I don’t suppose I need to follow you in?” asked TFH, with an impish grin as we stood outside the restroom in the lobby.

“Noooooooooo!” I said, simultaneously hiccupping.

We both got hysterical.  Easy drunk, I thought about myself.  What a hoot.

I wasn’t planning to write about this part of the evening because frankly I didn’t think anyone would believe that I actually got locked in the bathroom.  First the elevator and now this.  What must you think?  Well, they say…And who is they anyway, having so many opinions about everything and nothing…that truth is stranger than fiction.  I hate to generalize.  I hate to repeat clichés…but, it’s true, isn’t it?

Picture this.  I’m in the stall doing my, well, <<ahem>>  business…and minding my own if you know what I mean. When I finished, I couldn’t open the door. The deadbolt, like why is there a deadbolt in the stall anyway? I’ve always wanted to know that…but I digress…would not budge.  So, I turned it the opposite way only to jam it tighter.  I couldn’t stop laughing.  It was ludicrous.  I was drunk.  The lock was stuck. Now what?  I didn’t really know what to do, so I kept repeating the same ritual, probably making the lock only more difficult to budge.

I yelled, but TFH didn’t hear.  I kept calling out for help, but no one came.  The lobby is heavily carpeted, the bathroom large. Acoustically speaking, I was in a sound proof room, which was beginning to feel like a tomb… I figured I might be in there for awhile.

My choices were limited.  So, in my girlie, feminine dress and stilettos, I somehow contorted my body, which is now close to six feet in heels, to squirm, wiggle and slide my body under the bathroom door.  It reminded me of the Limbo when you have to shimmy under the pole.  Do I slide out head first?  Legs first?  The commode was in the way and I had to make an immediate decision.

With a bit of champagne under my proverbial belt, I was laughing hysterically.  So much so that if I were a cartoon character I would have literally laughed my head off. There it would be, spinning across the floor like a dreydl during a Chanukah festival.

With one more force of determination, I abandoned the stall and as luck would have it~ my luck that is,~ the bathroom door itself was locked, too.  Maybe they lock it after hours.  I didn’t know.  Through tears of laughter, I kept calling out for help.  Finally, I heard TFH’s voice and another man.

“Oh! Don’t tell me. You’re locked in the bathroom?  Really?  How do these things always happen to you?”

I shrugged my shoulders, completely speechless.

In broken English, the Italian janitor asked what the problem was as he opened the door effortlessly.  I’m sure I must have loosened it for him somehow, I rationalized.

The janitor looked at me like I was a pathetic American wearing a slightly disheveled, slightly dirty dress-which irritated me since his job was to keep the floors clean.  My pretty white dress was not supposed to be repurposed into a chiffon mop. My job was to leave the facility like a proper lady and sashay into the arms of my hero once again.

I don’t know what to say.  Blame it on Rio?  Blame it on champagne?  Somehow these things just happen to me.  Or I happen to be at the right place at the wrong time…or is it being at the wrong place at the right time?  None the less, it doesn’t really matter.  All I know is that TFH and I ended the date with peals of laughter, affection and a night to remember.

TFH walked me back to my room.

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Oh,  I, uh...” stammered.

“What?”

“Well, I kind of have a date.”

“You what?”

I looked down as though I was inspecting my shoes.  “Well, yes.  It’s more like a blind date, really.  I haven’t met him yet.”

“Oh.” 

TFH was silent.  I suppose I should have been used to that but after our evening of romance topped with a cherry of sheer silly delight from the bathroom escapade, the spell was broken.

“His name is David.”

“I don’t care if his name is Goliath.”

I smiled like the Cheshire Cat.  He was easy.

He cocked his head and looked at me.

“Yes, Michelangelo’s David.  He’s tall, fair and well, down right cold actually.  No need to be jealous.”

“Right.  Marble.  I’m going to accompany you to the Galleria Accademia.”

“Really?  That would be wonderful.”

“I can’t trust you to be out of my sight for a minute.”

“Oh, come on.  I’ll be alright.”

“If it weren’t for the bad luck you have…you wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

He cupped my face in his large, soft hands and gently placed a kiss on my lips.

All I know is that heaven and earth moved, and I’m sure somewhere fireworks were lighting the sky as our bodies intertwined.

Freaking out in Firenze!

Tall, Fair and Handsome wasn’t a man of mystery.  He was a man in mourning. You try going out to dinner, even in a three star Michelin restaurant, after someone tells you they just cremated their loved one and see if you can eat, let alone swallow.  A lump forms in my throat as I visualize how he scattered her ashes in the Arno River.  The sadness I felt was palpable.



View from Borgo San Jacopo Restaurant



Once we arrived at the restaurant, there was only one thing I could do: excuse myself and dash off to the ladies room to compose myself.  If this were a Hollywood movie, I would splash cold water all over my face.  Naturally my make-up would remain in tact;  however, in real life my mascara would run down my cheeks making me look either like a prize fighter with half circles of darkness under my eyes or a depressed raccoon.  Either way, it wasn’t the look I was going for.

With everything I do, there’s always a little glitch.  Some sort of problem I encounter.  I call it the plight of the pickle-since I always seem to get myself into one.

The maitre d' escorted me to an elevator that would take me to the top floor where the restroom was located and gave me explicit directions on how to operate the elevator.  Gosh, do I look like a moron? I wondered.  It’s only an elevator.  How much trouble could I get into?  So, I listened patiently with a placid look on my perfectly rouged face, wanting to take a fast time-out from TFH’s reality.   My emotions were shrouded in his sorrow.  The ‘fight or flight’ instinct made me want to take wing and put myself into a new environment immediately even if it was only the bathroom.

I needed to be alone and pronto to process all that he told me.  First, he started out as a jewel thief being chased by the FBI and Interpol and now he was a sentimental man who followed out the wishes of his dying wife.  It was a lot to absorb.

Meanwhile, the Maitre d' repeatedly said that I needed to push and hold down the “up” button until I arrived on the top floor.  “Do not remove your finger,” he cautioned.  Kid stuff, I thought.

The elevator stopped moving, so I removed my finger, but the door didn’t open.  So, I put my finger back on the red button.  Nothing:  Zip, Ziltch, Nada. Nyet. That door would not open.

I’m stuck in an elevator, having flashbacks about the little fiascos I had in my hotel room trying to turn on the light and operate the knobs and faucets in the bathtub and sink. And now~the elevator fiasco.

Here we go again.

I pushed the door to open it.  It wouldn’t budge.  I used all the might that a girl with Olive Oil arms has to no avail.   Seconds turned into minutes.  And I panicked.  Voices from my throat began softly…after all, I was in a three star Michelin restaurant.  I didn’t want to seem less than classy. 

“Help,” I called out gently.

No one answered.

“Help,” I repeated, but a little louder.  Still no response.

“Help! Is anyone there?”

And then a familiar voice.

“Seems I can’t leave you alone for one minute.”

TFH!  To the rescue. 

He slid the door open and stood in front of me, grinning.  Mind you, I said slid.  I have never seen a  pocket-elevator door until now.  Especially one that had to be opened, prodded, and glided by hand.

I ran into his arms, appreciative of being rescued first from the train and now from the elevator.  We laughed spontaneously at my amusing situation. 

No more tears.  No more cloud of darkness hovering over our evening.  He waited for me to freshen up in the ladies room.  I suppose he didn’t trust me to be alone in there, either.  Knowing my luck, the door in the bathroom stall would probably have jammed, leaving me in yet another pickle.

It’s amazing how a little comic relief goes a long way; it came at the right moment, and so did he.