Sitting in a Railway Station

Got a ticket to our destination.

It's Thursday morning and we're hanging at the Florence train station, waiting to head to Venice. I know this blog is jumping around the narrative a bit, but that's life.

This morning at breakfast, I gave the kids the Sound of Music speech. It went something like this:

Me: "Remember the scene in the Sound of Music where they crossover the Alps into Switzerland?"
Maddy/Torie: "Yup."
Julia: Non-verbal eyeroll. Says plenty.
Me: "Well, we're walking to the train station, but this walk will be easier than what they did in the Sound of Music."

(A guy just walked by and threw his cigarette on the marble floor, then stepped on it. I bet the Von Trapp family didn't have THAT happen to them.)

The walk from the hotel was non-eventful. Except that Italians who are walking on your part of the sidewalk, right at you, will not move. So we have to jump off the sidewalk and then back on. When we arrived at the station, I sent Carol to get the tickets.

She can understand some Italian because of her Spanish abilities. She hates to ask for information -- especially when we were driving. When in a foreign country, I'm NOT the stereotypical male. I will ask for help getting some place (it's better than going the wrong way).

I find the Glen method works well. Say the destination or point to it on a map, and look helpless AND bemused (the right attitude is important -- simply helpless and they don't like you, bemused and they laugh). People always go out of their way to help.

Carol is the opposite. She must think that asking for directions in broken Engtalian is a sign to the locals that we are to be grabbed, robbed, and killed. That hasn't happened yet though.

I've downloaded some more photos on the previous posts, for those who are huge fans of the blog (and I do appreciate the myriad emails).

Other observations:

In Rome, the drivers were friendly and would stop when people stepped into the street. In Florence the drivers are angry and wouldn't stop. Torie and I (in separate instances) nearly got run over by motorcyclists.

We finally met an Italian we didn't like -- the desk clerk at the Hotel de la Ville in Florence was very officious and snooty. He helped when asked, but didn't seem particularly interested in doing so. Heck, while I didn't like Stefano's driving, he was a nice enough fellow.

There are only so many pre-Renaissance works of art that a 9 year old, a 12 year old, a 14 year old, and a 44 year old (yes, Jennifer, I may look 54, but I'm 44) can handle. We never got tired of Michelangelo's work.

Eating out every night in Italy is expensive. Of course, a bottle of wine with dinner isn't cheap. I've developed a simple trick -- order a mid-range Tuscan (or Brunello) from 2001, and the waiter will compliment your choice. And it is good. In case you wonder, I do listen in at the other tables, and their wine choices are automatically complimented.