Greetings from Palazzo Niccolini, Suite 2. 20 foot ceilings. Frescoes with hunting scenes, courtships, and various apotheoses. A mammoth four poster bed with satin curtains. My mother is horrified by the vicious butchery of the fresco hunt, and relinquished the huge bed to me in favor of sleeping on the pull out couch so she won’t have to wake up to the image of the beagle on its back, its face contorted in a death agony as its entrails gush from its ruptured abdomen. A few inches away the wild boar who created this damage is ready to impale another dog, oblivious of the spears about to penetrate its hide. High drama.
In Florence,the crowds have swollen. Hordes of Americans: men in the usual baggy khaki shorts down to the knees; women in “practical” , color-coordinated travel togs from Chico; students – guys in baggy shorts and baggy t-shirts gals in short-shorts or cut offs and tube tops. You know the drill: leaning on every wall and column and railing, hands perpetually in pockets. I, of course, just scream “American trying to go incognito” . Now that my sister is back in NYC, my mother and I are a little more relaxed. Logistics are much simpler with two adults and two dogs, vs. three adults and two dogs.In our family, the women are intolerably headstrong, opinionated, and diva-esque and everybody has to have the last word; consequently, conversations tend to drag on for hours.
The day began with three repair men, seriatim, trying to address the issue of the excruciatingly slow internet.
And now, many many hours later, I am falling alseep.