Ok, that's an exaggeration. For 15 euros each, we bought two wine cards which included 6 credits. It cost one credit to buy a glass, which seems ridiculous. Why not just give people a plastic cup? A sippy cup would be awesome. We are each issued a bib complete with pocket to wear around our necks to hold said wine glass. So this means there are dozens of winos walking around Florence with a glass around their neck, meandering past Fendi, Gucci and Prada. I find this funny.
It takes a long time to get each glass, because in Italy, everything takes a long time. I suppose we aren't in much of a hurry. I just have bistecca on the brain and am looking forward to a non-pasta meal of dead cow. Sorry... steak. I am a carnivore, after all, and Florence is known for doing bistecca well.
I digress. Back to my other love... wine. The "tasting rooms" were located all over town, winding us from Palazzo Gianfigliazzi to the Doumo, staged in all these darling little courtyards. There are musicians playing in each, including the Italian version of Sinatra, complete with wing tip shoes (mom says they are called spatz) and a fedora. We try a bunch of different kinds of wine, but I am only sold on two -- a white, the Selvabianca Vernaccea De San Gimignano 2010, and a red, the Castellaccio Toscana 2007. I really love those Supertuscans.
Mom has decided to visit every leather store in Italy. Oh, wait... she's correcting me now -- every wine store in Florence. At the last one of the evening, she hits the jackpot. Or maybe the owner does. She finds a stunning red leather reversible jacket that just looks amazing on her. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was her "romantic" color. It's lamb skin. Madame. The guy in the shop is trying to sell me on it, from where i sit in a red velvet chair in the center if the shop. Ok, princepessa. Mom also finds a purse and a little something for my brother, which I won't reveal here, in case he's reading the blog. Which I doubt. Highly.
The gentleman at the store offers a suggestion for a non-touristy place down the street for dinner with good bistecca. It is here at Trattoria "Roberto" that I learn another valuable Italian lesson. Know your measurement conversions before you order a kilogram of steak.
It is entirely too much.
Right now, we are sitting in a little pub beyond the Ponte Vecchio bridge called Friends. I know, the irony is not lost on me. How American. I am drinking a Harp and watching Italian futball on television. Mom is drinking an Irish coffee. There is a Brit hitting on me. How international of us.
Tomorrow, she says she's going to climb the dome of the duomo with me. That's 463 steps. She says she may end up going home in a body bag.
Would this be an inappropriate time to mention how much I like that red coat of hers?
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