“Firenze, Firenze, we gotta go to Firenze!” I shouted in my best Italian accent, which I thought convincing but brought a pillow fired at my head by my would be travel companion and (not would be) best girl Annie. “All right already, finish packing, let’s go,” she said, already showered, packed and tapping her foot, anxious to get to Florence. We had two hours before the train from Milan where we had flown in to get there, but she wanted to make sure we got onto the right train on the right track, and to get cappuccino and a pastry on the corner one last time. We got our cappuccinos, ordering in the funny Italian manner of speaking to the gal at the door, and realizing (at least the first time) we had no idea what we were doing, gave us our receipt which we put on the counter of at the coffee bar weighed down by a Euro coin as a tip, and ate standing up and slurping, in the Italian manner.

“They have the best bar food in Firenze. Says so right here in the Hotels Florence Italy guide. I need bruschetta!” I carried on, high on the bright Italian air and strong cappuccino. Annie said listening to me made her want a Negroni, gin, vermouth and Campari. I wanted to eat, first and foremost, some nice risotto, a little pasta, a lotta pasta, I loved Italian food and could not get enough. the train squeaked to a halt (train travelis so nice, where are all the trains back home? Try to get around New Mexico on a train) and we rushed off where were drawn like n=moth to a porch light to the no charge f at the cities’ wine bars.

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