All I know for certain is that when the clothes come out of the washer/dryer, they will not be the same as when they went it.

Turns out that not only do I not speak Italian, I don’t read it either, even when I know roughly what it’s supposed to say.

Because the washer, you see, even though it’s a Whirlpool, is a European one.

You put your clothes in there and pull out a little drawer with three unmarked slots and you pour in an indeterminate amount of detergent, and then you guess where to turn the dial.

And then it locks shut.

I had the foresight not to put my pants or brassiere in there, but if all doesn’t go well, I will be seeing the sights in those and my red nightshirt tomorrow.

Lorenzo, who runs the place, is a very nice young man who looks like a long-haired cross between my friend David Dowd and David Copperfield. I don’t want to have to call him for such a matter, but I will, of course.

The Hard Rock Café is right around the corner and I’m dying to go. It’s not like I haven’t been to other Hard Rock Cafés, but for some reason I just want to go to this one. Maybe get a t-shirt. Because it’s just so cheesy.

You know what else is right around the corner? A gigantic carousel. And a lot of pizza. And Japanese people. Lots of Japanese people.

Once we got here, we walked over to the Baptistry (surprisingly sparse in there), and then roamed around the city until dinner time, which we had at what appeared to be a hole-in-the-wall joint, but suddenly an egg on a pizza seems perfectly reasonable. We met a nice couple from Yonkers, of all places.

After that we went to the Ponte Vecchio to take some pictures, and now we’re at our lovely Florence apartment, where I’m sure I’m shredding the clothes in the Whirlpool.

Tomorrow is the Uffizi and the Accadamia, perhaps a little shopping, maybe the Hard Rock Café.

About S.

Reader, writer, talker, knitter, picture taker, tennis player, music lover, Southerner.
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