From Africa To Russia

I wake up at 8, less than refreshed. Get up, take a walk around on Michaelangelo, find out that the road actually makes a full circle back, which saves me some backtracking. Back down and into the city, I walk around a bit more, then find a nice dark bar to watch some more World Cup (this time England) with a couple of Scotsmen and a pretty waitress (originally from Romania) who grabs my arm a few times. The bathroom was designed for dwarves, the door is literally about five feet high and I almost knock myself out on it. After the game, walk back to the campsite, sit down (to watch more futbol) and chat with a frenetic girl from Buffalo named Jamie, who is all nervous energy. Her hair is frizzy, and the mania just flows from it like electricity. We drink a bottle of wine and make nice. I also get in a conversation with a stoic German fellow who is interesting but has a rather plodding verbal style which begins to tire me out. I drink wine and beer, watch a Brazilian guy desperately try to score with two Mexican chicks (unsuccessfully). At night it rains, finally. It comes in through the window, I roll over in the middle of the night into a puddle of water on my pillow.

I walk down a hill on a cobblestone street in the morning and across a bridge into Florence. It is an old city, steeped in history. The buildings look ancient and stylish. There are the expected hordes of tourists hungry for photos, stampeding in formation to get their shots. I check out the piazzas, the statues, the Duomo, and am impressed. One cannot do the Duomo justice with any one photograph, it is just too big. I think about going into a museum (maybe the Uffizi), but they charge like twenty euros per and I think that’s a bit steep and besides, visual artwork isn’t really my thing, so I pass. I grab some lunch near the Duomo (small portions of pasta again, and the hole-in-the-ground toilet from Tangiers). I am picking the lunch spots that are the most empty, where the proprietors come out and ask you to come in. At least I can be reasonably sure of not getting treated like shit. I walk around the city, and after go up to a park, watch the pigeons and the fountain and drink my beer. Off to the side, two pigeons are courting. The one is sort of pecking at the other’s neck gently, while she coyly leans back. It is touching, and I watch it for a while, just smiling. I walk back to the campsite, sit down in the tent and discover that the blister on my heel has reached unmanageable proportions, so I pop it. Pus goes everywhere. I am tired but I am forcing myself to stay awake at least until the sun goes down. I go to the terrace where they are showing the World Cup on TV, and Luis and Debra turn up. We spend the night talking and watching the game, along with a fanatical throng of futball fans. Luis and Debra are practicing members of the Baha’i faith (spelling?), which is a relatively new religion (1844 I believe) that shares traits in common with Islam. I discover they are not a couple, but brother and sister. Luis is an aspiring film director, and Debra has recently stayed in Belfast for a spell. I retire for the evening, climb in and go to sleep. It gets damn cold again, but this time I have my fleece on. My tent mate has a cold and cannot breathe through his nose, so I am treated to Darth Vader’s Second Symphony all night long. Someone behind has also decided to shine a freaking spotlight in through our window.

Needless to say I get no sleep and arise, tired as usual at 8 am. Go down to reception, the door and window are closed, there is a sign on the window, "went out to eat, will return". I wait ... [Continue reading this entry]