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 16th 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.
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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.
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