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22 Florentine Acquaintances We left Rome for Florence at eight the next morning. Restless during my first night there, I wanted to do something and enjoy a bit of Florentine culture; however, no one wanted to drink with me or join the Florentine passiagata, so I drank the beer from the hotel fridge and quickly bored of Italian television. Desperate to get some night air after a few irritating cigarettes, I put on my navy-blue trench coat and walked to the nearby piazza of San Maria Novella carrying a bottle of beer. The light drizzle looked like fine steam in the church’s floodlights. I walked down an alleyway and found a dimly lit Irish pub with just two patrons. People from my tour group passed by the expansive window of the pub. I implored them to join me, but they gave me the inarticulate expressions and gestures typical of hearing people—all they had to do was walk away. The pungent smell of cigarettes hung in the air, mixing with the odor of weak beer and spirits. Fresh rain-scented air blew in whenever the door opened. I asked the barman to play a song by the American band Nirvana while drinking some more and writing in my travel diary. Half an hour later, a well-dressed woman walked in and sat at the bar. She removed her raincoat. Her smooth black hair glittered with raindrops , and her grey pullover defined her slender breasts. She opened a newspaper and began reading. I tried to read the language of the print, but looked away the moment her eyes turned to me. I saw her smile in my peripheral vision and looked again to see her mouthing the lyrics to the song “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam.” I caught her gaze and kept it. Her smile welcomed me. I walked over, sat a stool beside hers, and introduced myself. “My name’s Marci,” she said, “I’m from Oregon, U.S.A.” 150 After explaining my being in Florence, she asked the question that gelled our brief relationship, “What did you think of the art?” I told her the truth. “I’ve seen so many reproductions of Botticelli, Michelangelo, and Da Vinci that the real things seem to have lost their allure.” She nodded at the irony. “The art has long been the bait of businessoriented tourism.” I agreed. Our knees touched. We shared cigarettes, bought each other drinks, and talked about our university education, our love for travel, smoking, and sex. According to Marci, there are certain sexual positions that induce amnesia. Her theory proved true the next morning when I awoke with scant recollection of lovemaking just hours previously. She too was gone, except for her scent in the bed sheets and her phone number etched into a coaster on my bedside table. We spent hours walking in Sienna and medieval towns such as San Gimignano and Volterro that day. On a bus trip, we saw famous olive groves and vineyards that were barren in the cold winter as well as the snow-tipped summits of the Tuscan hills. Volterro is renowned for its alabaster that litters the ground, and I remember picking up one of the cream-colored stones and scratching its softness with my thumbnail. It was Sunday in Volterro. The shops were shut and the streets were empty save for a wretched man with a body odor of liquor and tobacco following him. Then, at exactly noon, the incessant tolling of bells rang out into the cool blue sky. Hundreds of people poured into the piazza within minutes, conversed with smiles, and then dispersed into alleyways. The whole town had been to church. Violent lightning shattered the night sky in Florence that night. Torrents of water spilled from the spouting overhead as I walked to the Irish pub. I tucked my chin down and tried to avoid the drenching rain as much as possible. My trench coat was soaked. I crossed the road, and a speeding motorcyclist nearly knocked me over when he skidded on the wet bitumen . I jumped sideways, evaded his front tire, and kept my footing. He opened the visor of his helmet, cursed, and shook his gloved fist at me. The two of us stood stupefied for a moment as the rain pelted down. Then he revved the motor and spun off while I ran to the pub door. f l o r e n t...

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