A Very Eightblack Christmas...
Dec 21, 2011, 12:24 am
#76
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I wonder if there is one single child who actually came up with the saying "are we there yet?" I mean, does that person actually exist? Maybe his parents went insane. Who do we, the modern parents blame? I mean, there must be someone we can hold responsible. I actually Googled the expression and came up with zero. Zip. Nada. Nothing.
Truth be told, I didn't search too far in case the latest Wikipedia entry included either of my children.
Today (or yesterday) was one of those "are we there yet days?". Except for the fact that we were on the Italian version of the TGV, hurtling through the countryside at 300 km/h and the entire journey from Milan to Florence took all of 90-minutes.
For Number One son, it was still 89-minutes too long.
I've been fortunate to catch plenty of fast German trains this past year, due to a client I have who is located in the middle of nowhere - somewhere north east of Frankfurt. The only practical way to get there is via one of Germany's finest ICE services. The Germans, being the conservative types, take train travel very seriously. You board, find your seat, and the train leaves right on time and then slowly and gently accelerates to a terminal speed. If you blink, you'll miss it. It is super efficient.
The Italians. Well, they approach things a little more haphazardly. Firstly, there is the whole buying the ticket thing. We get to the station at Malpensa Airport and we say to the guy behind the ticket counter that we want to catch the fast train to Firenze.
The man nods his head and says we owe him 12 Euro.
Puzzled, I say "really?"
"Yes", says the man
I show him the name of the train service I want to catch, which was written on a piece of paper by the very helpful receptionist from the Crowne Plaza.
The man nods his head again, this time with a slight twinge of impatience.
I'm thinking there has got to be a mistake. And there was. The 12 euros was for the one-way trip to Milan Central, where we would have to change and catch the "FRECCIAROSSA" to our final destination. And buy the real ticket there.
So that's what we do.
When we get to Milan Central, it was a bit of a madhouse. In Germany, most of the stations have these large, impressive ticket offices where very officious Germans can issue the most complex of tickets. So I looked for one of those. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Again.
Then I spy a little portable booth. Like a vending stall. There were actually 2 of them. And they were sort of stuck out in the middle of the station, and clearly not permanent. There was a short queue to both.
When it's our turn, I say to the rotund Italian that we want 2 tickets to Florence. Son interjects and says "make sure it's the fast one"
Man nods his head and starts tapping on a BlackBerry looking device. There was a PC and keyboard but he never touched it. Have no idea why. Then I see the "Olivetti" logo on the back of the screen, which explains everything. I think they went out of business in the late 80's.
The man then says "which a class?"
Before I could blink, Number One son says "Prima"
What the…? Did that just come out of the small humans mouth.
The man slowly smiles, sensing a parental fleecing and taps away now, even more feverishly than before.
Son turns to me and demands that I hurry up and stop asking questions. Give him your card, he says impatiently. I'm hungry.
One Hundred And Blooming Six Euro later and we are charging off down the platform, looking for car 2. The rotund Italian didn't even print us tickets, he simply wrote our seat number on the credit card receipt.
I quickly figured out that when you get on one of these intercity trains, you simply sit where you want. Well, the Italians do anyway. The braver, younger guys, try and sit next to gorgeous members of the opposite sex. Until they start waving both arms and hurling abuse at them.
So we find our seats and blow me down, the train departs right on time. You know how I said a little earlier that in Germany, there is this calm efficiency to train travel. They leave on time. Everyone sits where they are supposed to. And the trains gently accelerate to a very fast clip.
In Italy, train divers must go to a different school. I think there are only 2 speeds. Full speed. And derailment. Within minutes of departing Milan Central, we are flying along. And I mean flying. I turn to Number One Son and say isn't this most excellent. But he is already in a fluster because I forgot to bring the right adapter with me and his stupid iPad thing is running low on battery.
He's emptied the contents of both of our bags on the seats beside us and now he's using the F word. I try and explain to the people sitting close by that he's suffering a mental illness and he's hungry. But even people who don't speak the same language as you do know just by your body language that you are simply a poor, defenseless parent, held hostage by a person half your size. One you helped create.
In an attempt to calm him down I suggest that we go and eat lunch in the dining car. Reluctantly, he agrees.
This to me, is the most enjoyable part of European train travel. And the Italians take this to a whole other level. There are these impressively dressed waiters and as soon as you are comfortable at your table, your glass is being filled with Vino Rosso. Even if you don't drink.
Then you are served a delicious 3-course meal. The dining car is full - with the obligatory businessmen, french tourists and a smattering of other nationalities. And then us. Like fish out of water.
Meanwhile, my son is trying to figure out how he can run jumper cables from the dining car galley so he can power his beloved Apple device. I try and ignore him. Buts it's no use, and I reluctantly end up letting him drain my laptop battery.
As far as I'm concerned - train travel like that can never be long enough. But to an 11-year child, its simply another train trip. With a parent.
"Did you enjoy that?" I gently enquire, as we get off the train at the main station in Florence
"Not really…"
"Why not?"
"Took too long"
"But we were flying along at 300 km'h" I protest
"So…"
"So that's fast…"
He then agrees it was slightly more enjoyable than the 3-hour card ride home from Maranello the day before.
Moments later we are in a taxi - heading towards the Holiday Inn. Son is mildly inquisitive of why I chose this hotel. I say to him, because I booked using points. He infers yet again that I am a cheap alpha sierra sierra. The taxi weaves its way through tiny streets within the bowels of Florence (and streets you and I wouldn't think of riding a push bike down let alone drive a car). A few minutes later we pop out of the city and finally reach the unimpressive facade of the hotel.
There's a gas station right in front, which should tell you something about the location.
Son turns to me and asks me if I found the hotel on the Afghanistan version of hotels.com. I pretend to ignore his insolence and politely tell him that while it was only early in the day, it wasn't too early for a damn good beating.
You should have heard him when we reached the room. Firstly, there was only one bed. A big one nonetheless but he was perturbed at having to share with his old man.
In an effort to distract him, I tell him to go back to reception and ask for every power adapter they had. Which he did.
I then tell him that we are not going to sit in the room for the rest of the day, and that we were going back into town to take a look around. Then I tell him we're going to take a bus, which I figured you could catch right out front. And you could buy the tickets directly from the gas station.
Son thinks I have flipped and asks if he can call his mother to send out a mayday. I tell him to be quiet and that he needs to see how the other half live.
Why is it that that line of reasoning never works with kids? I tell this to my offspring often.
So I drag the child onto the bus. We journey into town and get off somewhere near the Cathedral (the Santa Maria one). The place is brimming with people and I am always in awe of the staggering history which makes Florence so unique. Son simply asks where a sports store is as he wants to buy a soccer ball. And more outrageously priced football sweaters.
We walk past the Ponte Vecchio, we see gorgeous old museums, we're literally breathing in a part of history. I love it.
Son then turns to me and says.
"Dad, why are there a lot of statues of naked men, holding their fishing tackle?"
"Because it's Italy"
"Are all Italians gay?"
"I don't think so"
Before I am dragged into yet another difficult father/son conversation, son is distracted by a store, which I later find out is called the Florence Curiosity Shop. It is packed with all things soccer. Or Football. Same same. You know what I mean.
The owner, a wonderfully gregarious guy called Tutunci, senses that his newest customer is a soccer freak and they immerse themselves in player banter. He also senses that my son knows what he's talking about and within minutes he has found my child yet another hideously overpriced soccer shirt. But it's a very pleasant experience.
I then ask where a good restaurant is. I didn't want a typical touristy place right in the center of Florence. I wanted to go to where the locals eat. This turns out to be the most intelligent question I have asked on this trip so far.
Tutunci insists we eat at a place called Ristorante Briganti. He writes the owners name on a card and even tells me what to order. I thank him profusely and we bid farewell. It is but a 5-minute cab ride from the center of town.
There was only one problem. It was now around 4.30pm. And most Italians don't even start thinking about eating until 8pm (or later)
I tell number one son that we should sit down and have a drink and gather our thoughts. We come across yet another find of the day. A wonderful place called Castello Di Verrazzano. It's what the Italians call an "enoteca". Essentially a wine bar. My kind of place.
So we find a table and a very cheerful waiter, who we find out is an American, serves us. He's one of those people who discovered Italy 20-something years ago and obviously never left. Maybe the IRS is still after him. No matter. He was a hoot.
As soon as we sat down, he asked us what we would both like to drink.
I politely asked if I could have a beer.
"No you may not" came the reply, with just a slight hint of a cheeky smile
"Why not?"
"Because this is a wine bar and in case you hadn't realized, we've been making the stuff since the eleven hundreds, so I think we have pretty much figured it out by now"
I loved it. How could I refuse. I didn't even ask to see the wine list. Told the fugitive American to bring me whatever he thought. Which he did.
If you're thinking about going to Italy and visiting Florence, do me a favor and find this place. Whatever you do. It is a cracker.
So we kill an hour there. But boredom gets the better of us and at 6ish, we grab a cab and head to the restaurant, hoping that it might be open. Which it wasn't.
The staff are busily preparing for the nights pending trade and they tell us to come back at 7ish. Finding ourselves in a little predicament (and with an ambient temperature of around 1 degree celsius) we head for warmth.
As luck would have it, we stumble across a little cafe, which turns into a sort of hip little corner bar in the evenings. My son thought this was perfecto, due to the fact that there was a football game on the plasma. I too thought it was perfecto due to the fact that I could drink beer and try and pretend to the 3 stunningly attractive women standing beside us that I was really much younger than I looked and the child really wasn't mind, but my little brother.
It would have worked but for the constant interrupting of the boy saying, "Dad I think I might have had too much Coke today". As in cola. Or "Dad, don't you think you've had enough to drink today?" type queries.
When we get back to Briganti's, the place is buzzing with activity. I tell the staff that Tutunci sent us. Son orders the obligatory pizza and I order what Tutunci instructed, which was an exceptional pasta pomodoro dish and an amazing steak. By the time I had finished, I had to unbutton my trousers. Which was no different to the other men in the restaurant, save the fact that the boy insisted I removed my hand from my underpants.
Or something like that.
Getting home was a little more of a challenge. For some strange reasons, cabs weren't aplenty where we were. So we caught a bus back to the train station. I tried to convince numero uno son to grab the next bus back to our hotel, but before I could turn to pitch my case, he had hailed a cab.
So that was Florence Day One. Apart from the fact that I have been insulted all day by my offspring for my economical choice of hotels, and use of public transport, we had a great time. No plans. No firm agenda. We just went where the day took us. And sometimes thats the best thing to do...
Truth be told, I didn't search too far in case the latest Wikipedia entry included either of my children.
Today (or yesterday) was one of those "are we there yet days?". Except for the fact that we were on the Italian version of the TGV, hurtling through the countryside at 300 km/h and the entire journey from Milan to Florence took all of 90-minutes.
For Number One son, it was still 89-minutes too long.
I've been fortunate to catch plenty of fast German trains this past year, due to a client I have who is located in the middle of nowhere - somewhere north east of Frankfurt. The only practical way to get there is via one of Germany's finest ICE services. The Germans, being the conservative types, take train travel very seriously. You board, find your seat, and the train leaves right on time and then slowly and gently accelerates to a terminal speed. If you blink, you'll miss it. It is super efficient.
The Italians. Well, they approach things a little more haphazardly. Firstly, there is the whole buying the ticket thing. We get to the station at Malpensa Airport and we say to the guy behind the ticket counter that we want to catch the fast train to Firenze.
The man nods his head and says we owe him 12 Euro.
Puzzled, I say "really?"
"Yes", says the man
I show him the name of the train service I want to catch, which was written on a piece of paper by the very helpful receptionist from the Crowne Plaza.
The man nods his head again, this time with a slight twinge of impatience.
I'm thinking there has got to be a mistake. And there was. The 12 euros was for the one-way trip to Milan Central, where we would have to change and catch the "FRECCIAROSSA" to our final destination. And buy the real ticket there.
So that's what we do.
When we get to Milan Central, it was a bit of a madhouse. In Germany, most of the stations have these large, impressive ticket offices where very officious Germans can issue the most complex of tickets. So I looked for one of those. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Again.
Then I spy a little portable booth. Like a vending stall. There were actually 2 of them. And they were sort of stuck out in the middle of the station, and clearly not permanent. There was a short queue to both.
When it's our turn, I say to the rotund Italian that we want 2 tickets to Florence. Son interjects and says "make sure it's the fast one"
Man nods his head and starts tapping on a BlackBerry looking device. There was a PC and keyboard but he never touched it. Have no idea why. Then I see the "Olivetti" logo on the back of the screen, which explains everything. I think they went out of business in the late 80's.
The man then says "which a class?"
Before I could blink, Number One son says "Prima"
What the…? Did that just come out of the small humans mouth.
The man slowly smiles, sensing a parental fleecing and taps away now, even more feverishly than before.
Son turns to me and demands that I hurry up and stop asking questions. Give him your card, he says impatiently. I'm hungry.
One Hundred And Blooming Six Euro later and we are charging off down the platform, looking for car 2. The rotund Italian didn't even print us tickets, he simply wrote our seat number on the credit card receipt.
I quickly figured out that when you get on one of these intercity trains, you simply sit where you want. Well, the Italians do anyway. The braver, younger guys, try and sit next to gorgeous members of the opposite sex. Until they start waving both arms and hurling abuse at them.
So we find our seats and blow me down, the train departs right on time. You know how I said a little earlier that in Germany, there is this calm efficiency to train travel. They leave on time. Everyone sits where they are supposed to. And the trains gently accelerate to a very fast clip.
In Italy, train divers must go to a different school. I think there are only 2 speeds. Full speed. And derailment. Within minutes of departing Milan Central, we are flying along. And I mean flying. I turn to Number One Son and say isn't this most excellent. But he is already in a fluster because I forgot to bring the right adapter with me and his stupid iPad thing is running low on battery.
He's emptied the contents of both of our bags on the seats beside us and now he's using the F word. I try and explain to the people sitting close by that he's suffering a mental illness and he's hungry. But even people who don't speak the same language as you do know just by your body language that you are simply a poor, defenseless parent, held hostage by a person half your size. One you helped create.
In an attempt to calm him down I suggest that we go and eat lunch in the dining car. Reluctantly, he agrees.
This to me, is the most enjoyable part of European train travel. And the Italians take this to a whole other level. There are these impressively dressed waiters and as soon as you are comfortable at your table, your glass is being filled with Vino Rosso. Even if you don't drink.
Then you are served a delicious 3-course meal. The dining car is full - with the obligatory businessmen, french tourists and a smattering of other nationalities. And then us. Like fish out of water.
Meanwhile, my son is trying to figure out how he can run jumper cables from the dining car galley so he can power his beloved Apple device. I try and ignore him. Buts it's no use, and I reluctantly end up letting him drain my laptop battery.
As far as I'm concerned - train travel like that can never be long enough. But to an 11-year child, its simply another train trip. With a parent.
"Did you enjoy that?" I gently enquire, as we get off the train at the main station in Florence
"Not really…"
"Why not?"
"Took too long"
"But we were flying along at 300 km'h" I protest
"So…"
"So that's fast…"
He then agrees it was slightly more enjoyable than the 3-hour card ride home from Maranello the day before.
Moments later we are in a taxi - heading towards the Holiday Inn. Son is mildly inquisitive of why I chose this hotel. I say to him, because I booked using points. He infers yet again that I am a cheap alpha sierra sierra. The taxi weaves its way through tiny streets within the bowels of Florence (and streets you and I wouldn't think of riding a push bike down let alone drive a car). A few minutes later we pop out of the city and finally reach the unimpressive facade of the hotel.
There's a gas station right in front, which should tell you something about the location.
Son turns to me and asks me if I found the hotel on the Afghanistan version of hotels.com. I pretend to ignore his insolence and politely tell him that while it was only early in the day, it wasn't too early for a damn good beating.
You should have heard him when we reached the room. Firstly, there was only one bed. A big one nonetheless but he was perturbed at having to share with his old man.
In an effort to distract him, I tell him to go back to reception and ask for every power adapter they had. Which he did.
I then tell him that we are not going to sit in the room for the rest of the day, and that we were going back into town to take a look around. Then I tell him we're going to take a bus, which I figured you could catch right out front. And you could buy the tickets directly from the gas station.
Son thinks I have flipped and asks if he can call his mother to send out a mayday. I tell him to be quiet and that he needs to see how the other half live.
Why is it that that line of reasoning never works with kids? I tell this to my offspring often.
So I drag the child onto the bus. We journey into town and get off somewhere near the Cathedral (the Santa Maria one). The place is brimming with people and I am always in awe of the staggering history which makes Florence so unique. Son simply asks where a sports store is as he wants to buy a soccer ball. And more outrageously priced football sweaters.
We walk past the Ponte Vecchio, we see gorgeous old museums, we're literally breathing in a part of history. I love it.
Son then turns to me and says.
"Dad, why are there a lot of statues of naked men, holding their fishing tackle?"
"Because it's Italy"
"Are all Italians gay?"
"I don't think so"
Before I am dragged into yet another difficult father/son conversation, son is distracted by a store, which I later find out is called the Florence Curiosity Shop. It is packed with all things soccer. Or Football. Same same. You know what I mean.
The owner, a wonderfully gregarious guy called Tutunci, senses that his newest customer is a soccer freak and they immerse themselves in player banter. He also senses that my son knows what he's talking about and within minutes he has found my child yet another hideously overpriced soccer shirt. But it's a very pleasant experience.
I then ask where a good restaurant is. I didn't want a typical touristy place right in the center of Florence. I wanted to go to where the locals eat. This turns out to be the most intelligent question I have asked on this trip so far.
Tutunci insists we eat at a place called Ristorante Briganti. He writes the owners name on a card and even tells me what to order. I thank him profusely and we bid farewell. It is but a 5-minute cab ride from the center of town.
There was only one problem. It was now around 4.30pm. And most Italians don't even start thinking about eating until 8pm (or later)
I tell number one son that we should sit down and have a drink and gather our thoughts. We come across yet another find of the day. A wonderful place called Castello Di Verrazzano. It's what the Italians call an "enoteca". Essentially a wine bar. My kind of place.
So we find a table and a very cheerful waiter, who we find out is an American, serves us. He's one of those people who discovered Italy 20-something years ago and obviously never left. Maybe the IRS is still after him. No matter. He was a hoot.
As soon as we sat down, he asked us what we would both like to drink.
I politely asked if I could have a beer.
"No you may not" came the reply, with just a slight hint of a cheeky smile
"Why not?"
"Because this is a wine bar and in case you hadn't realized, we've been making the stuff since the eleven hundreds, so I think we have pretty much figured it out by now"
I loved it. How could I refuse. I didn't even ask to see the wine list. Told the fugitive American to bring me whatever he thought. Which he did.
If you're thinking about going to Italy and visiting Florence, do me a favor and find this place. Whatever you do. It is a cracker.
So we kill an hour there. But boredom gets the better of us and at 6ish, we grab a cab and head to the restaurant, hoping that it might be open. Which it wasn't.
The staff are busily preparing for the nights pending trade and they tell us to come back at 7ish. Finding ourselves in a little predicament (and with an ambient temperature of around 1 degree celsius) we head for warmth.
As luck would have it, we stumble across a little cafe, which turns into a sort of hip little corner bar in the evenings. My son thought this was perfecto, due to the fact that there was a football game on the plasma. I too thought it was perfecto due to the fact that I could drink beer and try and pretend to the 3 stunningly attractive women standing beside us that I was really much younger than I looked and the child really wasn't mind, but my little brother.
It would have worked but for the constant interrupting of the boy saying, "Dad I think I might have had too much Coke today". As in cola. Or "Dad, don't you think you've had enough to drink today?" type queries.
When we get back to Briganti's, the place is buzzing with activity. I tell the staff that Tutunci sent us. Son orders the obligatory pizza and I order what Tutunci instructed, which was an exceptional pasta pomodoro dish and an amazing steak. By the time I had finished, I had to unbutton my trousers. Which was no different to the other men in the restaurant, save the fact that the boy insisted I removed my hand from my underpants.
Or something like that.
Getting home was a little more of a challenge. For some strange reasons, cabs weren't aplenty where we were. So we caught a bus back to the train station. I tried to convince numero uno son to grab the next bus back to our hotel, but before I could turn to pitch my case, he had hailed a cab.
So that was Florence Day One. Apart from the fact that I have been insulted all day by my offspring for my economical choice of hotels, and use of public transport, we had a great time. No plans. No firm agenda. We just went where the day took us. And sometimes thats the best thing to do...
Dec 21, 2011, 1:54 am
#77
Join Date: Mar 2011
Location: London
Programs: BA Silver, I'm back!
Posts: 657
I wonder if there is one single child who actually came up with the saying "are we there yet?" I mean, does that person actually exist? Maybe his parents went insane. Who do we, the modern parents blame? I mean, there must be someone we can hold responsible. I actually Googled the expression and came up with zero. Zip. Nada. Nothing.
Truth be told, I didn't search too far in case the latest Wikipedia entry included either of my children.
Today (or yesterday) was one of those "are we there yet days?". Except for the fact that we were on the Italian version of the TGV, hurtling through the countryside at 300 km/h and the entire journey from Milan to Florence took all of 90-minutes.
For Number One son, it was still 89-minutes too long.
I've been fortunate to catch plenty of fast German trains this past year, due to a client I have who is located in the middle of nowhere - somewhere north east of Frankfurt. The only practical way to get there is via one of Germany's finest ICE services. The Germans, being the conservative types, take train travel very seriously. You board, find your seat, and the train leaves right on time and then slowly and gently accelerates to a terminal speed. If you blink, you'll miss it. It is super efficient.
The Italians. Well, they approach things a little more haphazardly. Firstly, there is the whole buying the ticket thing. We get to the station at Malpensa Airport and we say to the guy behind the ticket counter that we want to catch the fast train to Firenze.
The man nods his head and says we owe him 12 Euro.
Puzzled, I say "really?"
"Yes", says the man
I show him the name of the train service I want to catch, which was written on a piece of paper by the very helpful receptionist from the Crowne Plaza.
The man nods his head again, this time with a slight twinge of impatience.
I'm thinking there has got to be a mistake. And there was. The 12 euros was for the one-way trip to Milan Central, where we would have to change and catch the "FRECCIAROSSA" to our final destination. And buy the real ticket there.
So that's what we do.
When we get to Milan Central, it was a bit of a madhouse. In Germany, most of the stations have these large, impressive ticket offices where very officious Germans can issue the most complex of tickets. So I looked for one of those. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Again.
Then I spy a little portable booth. Like a vending stall. There were actually 2 of them. And they were sort of stuck out in the middle of the station, and clearly not permanent. There was a short queue to both.
When it's our turn, I say to the rotund Italian that we want 2 tickets to Florence. Son interjects and says "make sure it's the fast one"
Man nods his head and starts tapping on a BlackBerry looking device. There was a PC and keyboard but he never touched it. Have no idea why. Then I see the "Olivetti" logo on the back of the screen, which explains everything. I think they went out of business in the late 80's.
The man then says "which a class?"
Before I could blink, Number One son says "Prima"
What the…? Did that just come out of the small humans mouth.
The man slowly smiles, sensing a parental fleecing and taps away now, even more feverishly than before.
Son turns to me and demands that I hurry up and stop asking questions. Give him your card, he says impatiently. I'm hungry.
One Hundred And Blooming Six Euro later and we are charging off down the platform, looking for car 2. The rotund Italian didn't even print us tickets, he simply wrote our seat number on the credit card receipt.
I quickly figured out that when you get on one of these intercity trains, you simply sit where you want. Well, the Italians do anyway. The braver, younger guys, try and sit next to gorgeous members of the opposite sex. Until they start waving both arms and hurling abuse at them.
So we find our seats and blow me down, the train departs right on time. You know how I said a little earlier that in Germany, there is this calm efficiency to train travel. They leave on time. Everyone sits where they are supposed to. And the trains gently accelerate to a very fast clip.
In Italy, train divers must go to a different school. I think there are only 2 speeds. Full speed. And derailment. Within minutes of departing Milan Central, we are flying along. And I mean flying. I turn to Number One Son and say isn't this most excellent. But he is already in a fluster because I forgot to bring the right adapter with me and his stupid iPad thing is running low on battery.
He's emptied the contents of both of our bags on the seats beside us and now he's using the F word. I try and explain to the people sitting close by that he's suffering a mental illness and he's hungry. But even people who don't speak the same language as you do know just by your body language that you are simply a poor, defenseless parent, held hostage by a person half your size. One you helped create.
In an attempt to calm him down I suggest that we go and eat lunch in the dining car. Reluctantly, he agrees.
This to me, is the most enjoyable part of European train travel. And the Italians take this to a whole other level. There are these impressively dressed waiters and as soon as you are comfortable at your table, your glass is being filled with Vino Rosso. Even if you don't drink.
Then you are served a delicious 3-course meal. The dining car is full - with the obligatory businessmen, french tourists and a smattering of other nationalities. And then us. Like fish out of water.
Meanwhile, my son is trying to figure out how he can run jumper cables from the dining car galley so he can power his beloved Apple device. I try and ignore him. Buts it's no use, and I reluctantly end up letting him drain my laptop battery.
As far as I'm concerned - train travel like that can never be long enough. But to an 11-year child, its simply another train trip. With a parent.
"Did you enjoy that?" I gently enquire, as we get off the train at the main station in Florence
"Not really…"
"Why not?"
"Took too long"
"But we were flying along at 300 km'h" I protest
"So…"
"So that's fast…"
He then agrees it was slightly more enjoyable than the 3-hour card ride home from Maranello the day before.
Moments later we are in a taxi - heading towards the Holiday Inn. Son is mildly inquisitive of why I chose this hotel. I say to him, because I booked using points. He infers yet again that I am a cheap alpha sierra sierra. The taxi weaves its way through tiny streets within the bowels of Florence (and streets you and I wouldn't think of riding a push bike down let alone drive a car). A few minutes later we pop out of the city and finally reach the unimpressive facade of the hotel.
There's a gas station right in front, which should tell you something about the location.
Son turns to me and asks me if I found the hotel on the Afghanistan version of hotels.com. I pretend to ignore his insolence and politely tell him that while it was only early in the day, it wasn't too early for a damn good beating.
You should have heard him when we reached the room. Firstly, there was only one bed. A big one nonetheless but he was perturbed at having to share with his old man.
In an effort to distract him, I tell him to go back to reception and ask for every power adapter they had. Which he did.
I then tell him that we are not going to sit in the room for the rest of the day, and that we were going back into town to take a look around. Then I tell him we're going to take a bus, which I figured you could catch right out front. And you could buy the tickets directly from the gas station.
Son thinks I have flipped and asks if he can call his mother to send out a mayday. I tell him to be quiet and that he needs to see how the other half live.
Why is it that that line of reasoning never works with kids? I tell this to my offspring often.
So I drag the child onto the bus. We journey into town and get off somewhere near the Cathedral (the Santa Maria one). The place is brimming with people and I am always in awe of the staggering history which makes Florence so unique. Son simply asks where a sports store is as he wants to buy a soccer ball. And more outrageously priced football sweaters.
We walk past the Ponte Vecchio, we see gorgeous old museums, we're literally breathing in a part of history. I love it.
Son then turns to me and says.
"Dad, why are there a lot of statues of naked men, holding their fishing tackle?"
"Because it's Italy"
"Are all Italians gay?"
"I don't think so"
Before I am dragged into yet another difficult father/son conversation, son is distracted by a store, which I later find out is called the Florence Curiosity Shop. It is packed with all things soccer. Or Football. Same same. You know what I mean.
The owner, a wonderfully gregarious guy called Tutunci, senses that his newest customer is a soccer freak and they immerse themselves in player banter. He also senses that my son knows what he's talking about and within minutes he has found my child yet another hideously overpriced soccer shirt. But it's a very pleasant experience.
I then ask where a good restaurant is. I didn't want a typical touristy place right in the center of Florence. I wanted to go to where the locals eat. This turns out to be the most intelligent question I have asked on this trip so far.
Tutunci insists we eat at a place called Ristorante Briganti. He writes the owners name on a card and even tells me what to order. I thank him profusely and we bid farewell. It is but a 5-minute cab ride from the center of town.
There was only one problem. It was now around 4.30pm. And most Italians don't even start thinking about eating until 8pm (or later)
I tell number one son that we should sit down and have a drink and gather our thoughts. We come across yet another find of the day. A wonderful place called Castello Di Verrazzano. It's what the Italians call an "enoteca". Essentially a wine bar. My kind of place.
So we find a table and a very cheerful waiter, who we find out is an American, serves us. He's one of those people who discovered Italy 20-something years ago and obviously never left. Maybe the IRS is still after him. No matter. He was a hoot.
As soon as we sat down, he asked us what we would both like to drink.
I politely asked if I could have a beer.
"No you may not" came the reply, with just a slight hint of a cheeky smile
"Why not?"
"Because this is a wine bar and in case you hadn't realized, we've been making the stuff since the eleven hundreds, so I think we have pretty much figured it out by now"
I loved it. How could I refuse. I didn't even ask to see the wine list. Told the fugitive American to bring me whatever he thought. Which he did.
If you're thinking about going to Italy and visiting Florence, do me a favor and find this place. Whatever you do. It is a cracker.
So we kill an hour there. But boredom gets the better of us and at 6ish, we grab a cab and head to the restaurant, hoping that it might be open. Which it wasn't.
The staff are busily preparing for the nights pending trade and they tell us to come back at 7ish. Finding ourselves in a little predicament (and with an ambient temperature of around 1 degree celsius) we head for warmth.
As luck would have it, we stumble across a little cafe, which turns into a sort of hip little corner bar in the evenings. My son thought this was perfecto, due to the fact that there was a football game on the plasma. I too thought it was perfecto due to the fact that I could drink beer and try and pretend to the 3 stunningly attractive women standing beside us that I was really much younger than I looked and the child really wasn't mind, but my little brother.
It would have worked but for the constant interrupting of the boy saying, "Dad I think I might have had too much Coke today". As in cola. Or "Dad, don't you think you've had enough to drink today?" type queries.
When we get back to Briganti's, the place is buzzing with activity. I tell the staff that Tutunci sent us. Son orders the obligatory pizza and I order what Tutunci instructed, which was an exceptional pasta pomodoro dish and an amazing steak. By the time I had finished, I had to unbutton my trousers. Which was no different to the other men in the restaurant, save the fact that the boy insisted I removed my hand from my underpants.
Or something like that.
Getting home was a little more of a challenge. For some strange reasons, cabs weren't aplenty where we were. So we caught a bus back to the train station. I tried to convince numero uno son to grab the next bus back to our hotel, but before I could turn to pitch my case, he had hailed a cab.
So that was Florence Day One. Apart from the fact that I have been insulted all day by my offspring for my economical choice of hotels, and use of public transport, we had a great time. No plans. No firm agenda. We just went where the day took us. And sometimes thats the best thing to do...
Truth be told, I didn't search too far in case the latest Wikipedia entry included either of my children.
Today (or yesterday) was one of those "are we there yet days?". Except for the fact that we were on the Italian version of the TGV, hurtling through the countryside at 300 km/h and the entire journey from Milan to Florence took all of 90-minutes.
For Number One son, it was still 89-minutes too long.
I've been fortunate to catch plenty of fast German trains this past year, due to a client I have who is located in the middle of nowhere - somewhere north east of Frankfurt. The only practical way to get there is via one of Germany's finest ICE services. The Germans, being the conservative types, take train travel very seriously. You board, find your seat, and the train leaves right on time and then slowly and gently accelerates to a terminal speed. If you blink, you'll miss it. It is super efficient.
The Italians. Well, they approach things a little more haphazardly. Firstly, there is the whole buying the ticket thing. We get to the station at Malpensa Airport and we say to the guy behind the ticket counter that we want to catch the fast train to Firenze.
The man nods his head and says we owe him 12 Euro.
Puzzled, I say "really?"
"Yes", says the man
I show him the name of the train service I want to catch, which was written on a piece of paper by the very helpful receptionist from the Crowne Plaza.
The man nods his head again, this time with a slight twinge of impatience.
I'm thinking there has got to be a mistake. And there was. The 12 euros was for the one-way trip to Milan Central, where we would have to change and catch the "FRECCIAROSSA" to our final destination. And buy the real ticket there.
So that's what we do.
When we get to Milan Central, it was a bit of a madhouse. In Germany, most of the stations have these large, impressive ticket offices where very officious Germans can issue the most complex of tickets. So I looked for one of those. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Again.
Then I spy a little portable booth. Like a vending stall. There were actually 2 of them. And they were sort of stuck out in the middle of the station, and clearly not permanent. There was a short queue to both.
When it's our turn, I say to the rotund Italian that we want 2 tickets to Florence. Son interjects and says "make sure it's the fast one"
Man nods his head and starts tapping on a BlackBerry looking device. There was a PC and keyboard but he never touched it. Have no idea why. Then I see the "Olivetti" logo on the back of the screen, which explains everything. I think they went out of business in the late 80's.
The man then says "which a class?"
Before I could blink, Number One son says "Prima"
What the…? Did that just come out of the small humans mouth.
The man slowly smiles, sensing a parental fleecing and taps away now, even more feverishly than before.
Son turns to me and demands that I hurry up and stop asking questions. Give him your card, he says impatiently. I'm hungry.
One Hundred And Blooming Six Euro later and we are charging off down the platform, looking for car 2. The rotund Italian didn't even print us tickets, he simply wrote our seat number on the credit card receipt.
I quickly figured out that when you get on one of these intercity trains, you simply sit where you want. Well, the Italians do anyway. The braver, younger guys, try and sit next to gorgeous members of the opposite sex. Until they start waving both arms and hurling abuse at them.
So we find our seats and blow me down, the train departs right on time. You know how I said a little earlier that in Germany, there is this calm efficiency to train travel. They leave on time. Everyone sits where they are supposed to. And the trains gently accelerate to a very fast clip.
In Italy, train divers must go to a different school. I think there are only 2 speeds. Full speed. And derailment. Within minutes of departing Milan Central, we are flying along. And I mean flying. I turn to Number One Son and say isn't this most excellent. But he is already in a fluster because I forgot to bring the right adapter with me and his stupid iPad thing is running low on battery.
He's emptied the contents of both of our bags on the seats beside us and now he's using the F word. I try and explain to the people sitting close by that he's suffering a mental illness and he's hungry. But even people who don't speak the same language as you do know just by your body language that you are simply a poor, defenseless parent, held hostage by a person half your size. One you helped create.
In an attempt to calm him down I suggest that we go and eat lunch in the dining car. Reluctantly, he agrees.
This to me, is the most enjoyable part of European train travel. And the Italians take this to a whole other level. There are these impressively dressed waiters and as soon as you are comfortable at your table, your glass is being filled with Vino Rosso. Even if you don't drink.
Then you are served a delicious 3-course meal. The dining car is full - with the obligatory businessmen, french tourists and a smattering of other nationalities. And then us. Like fish out of water.
Meanwhile, my son is trying to figure out how he can run jumper cables from the dining car galley so he can power his beloved Apple device. I try and ignore him. Buts it's no use, and I reluctantly end up letting him drain my laptop battery.
As far as I'm concerned - train travel like that can never be long enough. But to an 11-year child, its simply another train trip. With a parent.
"Did you enjoy that?" I gently enquire, as we get off the train at the main station in Florence
"Not really…"
"Why not?"
"Took too long"
"But we were flying along at 300 km'h" I protest
"So…"
"So that's fast…"
He then agrees it was slightly more enjoyable than the 3-hour card ride home from Maranello the day before.
Moments later we are in a taxi - heading towards the Holiday Inn. Son is mildly inquisitive of why I chose this hotel. I say to him, because I booked using points. He infers yet again that I am a cheap alpha sierra sierra. The taxi weaves its way through tiny streets within the bowels of Florence (and streets you and I wouldn't think of riding a push bike down let alone drive a car). A few minutes later we pop out of the city and finally reach the unimpressive facade of the hotel.
There's a gas station right in front, which should tell you something about the location.
Son turns to me and asks me if I found the hotel on the Afghanistan version of hotels.com. I pretend to ignore his insolence and politely tell him that while it was only early in the day, it wasn't too early for a damn good beating.
You should have heard him when we reached the room. Firstly, there was only one bed. A big one nonetheless but he was perturbed at having to share with his old man.
In an effort to distract him, I tell him to go back to reception and ask for every power adapter they had. Which he did.
I then tell him that we are not going to sit in the room for the rest of the day, and that we were going back into town to take a look around. Then I tell him we're going to take a bus, which I figured you could catch right out front. And you could buy the tickets directly from the gas station.
Son thinks I have flipped and asks if he can call his mother to send out a mayday. I tell him to be quiet and that he needs to see how the other half live.
Why is it that that line of reasoning never works with kids? I tell this to my offspring often.
So I drag the child onto the bus. We journey into town and get off somewhere near the Cathedral (the Santa Maria one). The place is brimming with people and I am always in awe of the staggering history which makes Florence so unique. Son simply asks where a sports store is as he wants to buy a soccer ball. And more outrageously priced football sweaters.
We walk past the Ponte Vecchio, we see gorgeous old museums, we're literally breathing in a part of history. I love it.
Son then turns to me and says.
"Dad, why are there a lot of statues of naked men, holding their fishing tackle?"
"Because it's Italy"
"Are all Italians gay?"
"I don't think so"
Before I am dragged into yet another difficult father/son conversation, son is distracted by a store, which I later find out is called the Florence Curiosity Shop. It is packed with all things soccer. Or Football. Same same. You know what I mean.
The owner, a wonderfully gregarious guy called Tutunci, senses that his newest customer is a soccer freak and they immerse themselves in player banter. He also senses that my son knows what he's talking about and within minutes he has found my child yet another hideously overpriced soccer shirt. But it's a very pleasant experience.
I then ask where a good restaurant is. I didn't want a typical touristy place right in the center of Florence. I wanted to go to where the locals eat. This turns out to be the most intelligent question I have asked on this trip so far.
Tutunci insists we eat at a place called Ristorante Briganti. He writes the owners name on a card and even tells me what to order. I thank him profusely and we bid farewell. It is but a 5-minute cab ride from the center of town.
There was only one problem. It was now around 4.30pm. And most Italians don't even start thinking about eating until 8pm (or later)
I tell number one son that we should sit down and have a drink and gather our thoughts. We come across yet another find of the day. A wonderful place called Castello Di Verrazzano. It's what the Italians call an "enoteca". Essentially a wine bar. My kind of place.
So we find a table and a very cheerful waiter, who we find out is an American, serves us. He's one of those people who discovered Italy 20-something years ago and obviously never left. Maybe the IRS is still after him. No matter. He was a hoot.
As soon as we sat down, he asked us what we would both like to drink.
I politely asked if I could have a beer.
"No you may not" came the reply, with just a slight hint of a cheeky smile
"Why not?"
"Because this is a wine bar and in case you hadn't realized, we've been making the stuff since the eleven hundreds, so I think we have pretty much figured it out by now"
I loved it. How could I refuse. I didn't even ask to see the wine list. Told the fugitive American to bring me whatever he thought. Which he did.
If you're thinking about going to Italy and visiting Florence, do me a favor and find this place. Whatever you do. It is a cracker.
So we kill an hour there. But boredom gets the better of us and at 6ish, we grab a cab and head to the restaurant, hoping that it might be open. Which it wasn't.
The staff are busily preparing for the nights pending trade and they tell us to come back at 7ish. Finding ourselves in a little predicament (and with an ambient temperature of around 1 degree celsius) we head for warmth.
As luck would have it, we stumble across a little cafe, which turns into a sort of hip little corner bar in the evenings. My son thought this was perfecto, due to the fact that there was a football game on the plasma. I too thought it was perfecto due to the fact that I could drink beer and try and pretend to the 3 stunningly attractive women standing beside us that I was really much younger than I looked and the child really wasn't mind, but my little brother.
It would have worked but for the constant interrupting of the boy saying, "Dad I think I might have had too much Coke today". As in cola. Or "Dad, don't you think you've had enough to drink today?" type queries.
When we get back to Briganti's, the place is buzzing with activity. I tell the staff that Tutunci sent us. Son orders the obligatory pizza and I order what Tutunci instructed, which was an exceptional pasta pomodoro dish and an amazing steak. By the time I had finished, I had to unbutton my trousers. Which was no different to the other men in the restaurant, save the fact that the boy insisted I removed my hand from my underpants.
Or something like that.
Getting home was a little more of a challenge. For some strange reasons, cabs weren't aplenty where we were. So we caught a bus back to the train station. I tried to convince numero uno son to grab the next bus back to our hotel, but before I could turn to pitch my case, he had hailed a cab.
So that was Florence Day One. Apart from the fact that I have been insulted all day by my offspring for my economical choice of hotels, and use of public transport, we had a great time. No plans. No firm agenda. We just went where the day took us. And sometimes thats the best thing to do...
Dec 21, 2011, 2:19 am
#78
Join Date: Sep 2011
Location: Brisbane
Programs: QF gold, HH Diamond, VA plat, Aegean Gold
Posts: 684
Eightback, I think it's time to fess up that you really are a best selling author masquerading as someone who works out of Singapore. You intimidate the rest of us writing TR's because yours are so brilliannt. Thanks for taking the time and I am sure your small human is very grateful for your efforts,
Dec 21, 2011, 5:39 am
#81
FlyerTalk Evangelist
Join Date: Dec 2001
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It would have worked but for the constant interrupting of the boy saying, "Dad I think I might have had too much Coke today". As in cola. Or "Dad, don't you think you've had enough to drink today?" type queries.
[/QUOTE]
8B have no idea where your son comes from, but I have never ever heard a kid even think about the first phrase... Even when they are running any kind of marathons due to the sugar rush...
As for the second phrase, they have no problem uttering it even if you are just reading the wine list.
Now you are making me want to go to Florence instead of London...
[/QUOTE]
8B have no idea where your son comes from, but I have never ever heard a kid even think about the first phrase... Even when they are running any kind of marathons due to the sugar rush...
As for the second phrase, they have no problem uttering it even if you are just reading the wine list.
Now you are making me want to go to Florence instead of London...
Dec 21, 2011, 7:48 am
#83
Join Date: Sep 2006
Location: CLE
Programs: CO Gold - 1MM, IC Plat, Hertz PC
Posts: 1,644
OMG another trip report from EightBlack....I loved the previous ones and even share them with non traveling coworkers....time to grab a cup of tea and sit back and enjoy the fine penmanship he has.
Dec 21, 2011, 9:19 am
#84
Join Date: Jan 2011
Location: Europe
Posts: 1,503
Dec 21, 2011, 1:44 pm
#86
Join Date: Oct 2011
Location: MIA
Programs: Who cares about your car rental elite status?
Posts: 128
I had to really struggle to keep from snorting hot coffee all over my iphone while reading this. Another patron in the coffee shop looked like she was about to come over and heimlich me, until I waved her off.
Dec 21, 2011, 3:30 pm
#87
FlyerTalk Evangelist
Join Date: Aug 2007
Location: UK
Posts: 10,709
When I use to travel for weekends away one of my little things was ask cabin crew where to eat. There was always one member of crew on the plane who knew where to eat depending on what food you liked.
But thanks for another great update.
But thanks for another great update.
Dec 21, 2011, 3:48 pm
#88
Join Date: Jan 2008
Programs: AB Platinum (AB4EVA), IHG Diamond, Dominos Gold
Posts: 956
Fantastic Trip Report eightblack! I need to make sure to catch up on your previous ones - when are you going to release your book (may also help financing some football shirts 
)?
I have to admit, I'm a little jealous of your son.
Considering that I haven't even been on a plane before the age of 18 and have yet to experience first... you're serving him the world on asilver platinum platter and he appears quite used to some standards, ah let's face it: Spoilt and ungrateful.
No offense though, I am sure my Kids will turn out the same. It's already happening to my Girlfriend - from "Ryanair is fine" to "This is what they call a lounge???", from an old Opel to "I'm glad I don't have to drive such a piece of car p" [or something] traveling in a friends car...
I really enjoy reading your TR! Keep it coming!
Finally, I do agree with your #1 Son that the 308CC is a great car. Or maybe it's a horribly great car? Or a great horrible car? I had a 307CC (the previous model) as a rental for two weeks and loved it. I hired a 308CC in DUS and it broke down after 15km with check engine light and no more power (I assume the turbo died). I guess it's fun while it lasts
)?I have to admit, I'm a little jealous of your son.
Considering that I haven't even been on a plane before the age of 18 and have yet to experience first... you're serving him the world on a
No offense though, I am sure my Kids will turn out the same. It's already happening to my Girlfriend - from "Ryanair is fine" to "This is what they call a lounge???", from an old Opel to "I'm glad I don't have to drive such a piece of car p" [or something] traveling in a friends car...
I really enjoy reading your TR! Keep it coming!
Finally, I do agree with your #1 Son that the 308CC is a great car. Or maybe it's a horribly great car? Or a great horrible car? I had a 307CC (the previous model) as a rental for two weeks and loved it. I hired a 308CC in DUS and it broke down after 15km with check engine light and no more power (I assume the turbo died). I guess it's fun while it lasts
Last edited by raph; Dec 21, 2011 at 6:26 pm
Dec 21, 2011, 11:54 pm
#90
Moderator, Trip Reports
Original Poster
Join Date: Jul 2009
Location: Denver, CO
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Posts: 3,715
I don't know about you, but I hate paying hotel rates for laundry, no matter who is picking up the tab. So yesterday morning, after breakfast I told number one son that we were off in pursuit of a lavanderia.
Laundry to an 11-year old male is something of an enigma. For one, if I had not insisted on him changing his clothes every day and showering, he'd still be in what he wore out of the house on Saturday night when we left Singapore. And second, if you tell a young male to put clean underwear on when they are on holidays, they simply take the ones they are wearing and turn them inside out. Voila! Clean.
The kind lady at reception gave us a little map and explained to us in half italian/half english where the laundromat was so we set off on foot, confident that we would soon be washing our smalls like a local.
Except that we roamed up and down the street for half an hour and couldn't find anything close to a laundry. We even tried asking the locals. One man, who was taking his kids to school, started out being helpful enough until he realized that I was holding a bag of dirty underwear, at which point he quickly bundled his kids into the car, and stormed off down the road in a little Fiat 500, waving his fist at me. Most likely he was also headed in the wrong direction.
"Dad, what did you do to him?" son enquires
"Nothing…." I say innonecently
"Then why is he swearing in Italian at you and giving you the bird?"
"Because the poor man is doing the school run with the kids - I understand his pain"
Son didn't buy the cover story for a minute.
Dejected, we traipse back to the hotel. Son was complaining bitterly that I really was the cheapest person on the planet but I ignored his protest and decided to try again with the receptionist. This time, with a lot better success. A different lady this time told me to make a right out of the street, look for the Tabacchi shop and just past there on the right, the Lavanderia would appear.
Which it did. Because I was starting to hallucinate from the methane gas being emitted from our soiled clothes and wasn't quite sure how much more of carrying the bag I could take. I was making a mental note in my head that I think it might be a good idea if the both of us cut back on the amount of salami we were eating for breakfast…
Anyway.
The cutest little old lady appeared and we had the funniest verbal exchange I have had in Italy ever. She spoke no english. My Italian is limited to things like "birra" (ie beer), "vino rosso" (ie red wine) or a sentence which basically says "please give me your bra and underpants. Quickly". Thinking that this particular phrase my not be that suitable at 9am in the morning and to a woman older than my own mother, i decided to try and use sign language instead.
I basically showed her my Holiday Inn room key, she nodded. Pointed to son in corner, retrieved a pair of his underwear from the bag with a pen and held my nose. She nodded again. Then I reached in my pocket and thrust a wad of folded paper money in her direction. He eyes lit up like a beacon and she promptly took all of 12 Euros, made me write my name on a piece of paper and as far as I could work out, someone was going to drop the clothes back to the hotel by 6pm that night. All for 12 blooming Euros!
In case we had misunderstood the recent round of verbal intercourse, I beckoned to the child that we should evacuate quickly. Which we did. I was well and truly pleased with myself and to celebrate the victory, I told junior that I was in need of several espressos.
Now, you cant swing a cat in Italy without hitting a coffee shop. They are one of the best places or things about this fine country. People stand at bars and counters, catching up on the morning gossip, eating home made pastries and generally starting their day out in a very civilized manner. You pay at one end, the nice person gives you a ticket and then you tell the barista what you want. I could go in and out of these places all day.
Which is what we did - and even my son decided that these were places he could get used to.
After the laundry mission was accomplished, I asked the child what he wanted to do. He shrugged his shoulders. I said that we should go into town and perhaps take a tour. He rolled his eyes. I told him to give me 10-mins on Google and I would be back in a flash with a plan of attack. More rolling of the eyes and a simple "I'll play with my iPad until the battery runs out"
So I start. There are even tours for kids. I call. I email. But because it's winter, a lot of the tours are either closed or only running sporadically.
Then I see it. A 3-hr tour of Florence on a Segway, those amazing 2-wheeled contraptions that seem to be the purview of billionaires and overweight mall cops.
So I call. But because its 10am ish, the nice woman says to me that its too late to arrange a tour guide. Either that, or the fact that the current tour guide who was supposed to show up for work this morning didn't, as a result of last nights christmas party.
Or something like this.
Dejected once more, I tell his royal highness that tours were out and that we would have to resort to the next best thing. Eating. At least one of his eyebrows raised. Ever so slightly. I googled "best pasta Florence", which I know wasn't terribly sophisticated but blow me down, I found what appeared to be a very legitimate place on TripAdvisor. A cafe called Osteria De'Benci, located on Via De Benci.
So we went there. I found the street address via Google Maps and we packed our things and jumped on the bus again, much to the disgust and rather loud protests of my son.
Luck was clearly on our side today as the bus sailed right past the restaurant. We get out at the next stop, walk back and moments later, are the only ones seated in the dining area. Son insists that today he is going to expand his culinary horizon and instead of ordering pizza, he will have pasta.
"Do you not think we should order a salad?" I quip.
"No" he says defiantly
"What about a plate of steamed vegetables?"
"You said they were for girls with short haircuts, who didn't like men"
"No I didn't"
"Yes you did"
I try and change the subject..
"What about we have a fruit salad?"
"But it's not breakfast time, it's lunchtime" he tells me
Then he asks if he can have it with ice cream
"No you may not"
By this stage, one very bemused waiter was standing beside us. We order pasta, and I order a carafe of vino bianco. And a straw. I decide to abort the strategy of healthy eating, given that we are in Florence and that I am sure, I can find a cheap place to have a colonoscopy when we get to Michigan in a few days.
The lunch was outstanding. We were barely able to move let alone stand up, but we finally made it out the door. When we got off the bus a little earlier, we spied a place renting bicycles, as in the same sort of bikes Boris The Mayor has peppered all over London. They weigh about the same as the Queen Mary, don't look very manly and the risk of you stealing them is minimal. But, undeterred by all this, we decide to give them a go. I tell number one son that this would be our exercise for the day. Meanwhile, he's trying to work out if he can strap his iPad to the basket on the front of the handlebars.
I sigh.
So we head off on bikes. Around Florence. When I say we headed off, we got to the other side of the square. Upon which, a car came towards us, number one son panicked and then promptly crashed the bike into the wall. Bottom lip started to quiver and he was clutching his groin. Which to be honest, is the first place you should clutch if you are a male and are involved in any sort of mishap.
The language which erupts from his mouth would make a Sicilian blush. He tells me that I can stick the rental bike up my asino.
As we walk back to the rental place, 2 Segways glide by us. We both look at each other. And then we look at the Segways. I bolt after them.
Now this is absolutely true. I swear. But the 2 guys riding the Segways were Australian. Also a father and son. They gave us directions to the Segway rental place and within minutes, we were in a cab, heading to Martelli street, in search of the promised land. We simply left the bikes where they were, with the little old italian lady from the bike rental joint waving her arms at us in disgust.
I don't know about you, but I've never ridden a Segway before. They are an amazing piece of technology. Son, sadly has been on one previously and within seconds, was piloting the thing like a pro. I was perhaps wishing now that I hadn't consumed that carafe of Vino for lunch. Things soon settled down and my uncoordinated Asian genes started to get the hang of it.
The man giving us instructions was a very untrusting little Indian. He kept saying "slowly, slowly" We had to demonstrate to him that we both could go forwards, backwards, turn around and stop. All within the rental shop. For those of you who have been on one of these contraptions before, they come with a little remote control which you put in your pocket. The round device allows you to lock the thing if you want to leave it outside a shop. For example, to have a beer to calm your nerves. It also shows you how much juice is left in the batteries. Which is probably a handy feature.
Then there is a picture of a turtle on the screen. This is the go slow mode. Both son and I insisted that this be deactivated. The Segway man was very unsure and there was a lot of head rocking. Finally he relented (20 euros folded and then thrust into his hand helped) and moments later, we were off.
The next 2-hours were probably the best 2 hours of the trip. We charged all over Florence on these amazing vehicles. They let you roam wild. I'm not sure if Davinci and the founding fathers of Italy and all that goes with the Renaissance period, would condone 2 fools like us tearing all over the ancient grounds on electric vehicles, but you know what, it was a blast.
At the end of the 2-hours, we were spent. And a whisker cold. So we headed back to the hotel and promptly had a good lie down. Amazingly, our laundry appeared soon after we got home, fresh as a daisy.
Being males, and being creatures of habit, we decided that we had such a good time at Briganti's Restaurant the night before, that we should go there for dinner. Again. So we did. After all, it was our last night in Florence…
Tomorrow we head back to Milan. On yet another fast train. Much to my child's surprise, I have decided to spring for a room at the Sheraton at the MXP Airport. We've got a 9am flight to FRA on Fri morning and then a 2hr transit before we take another LH flight to DTW.
That Friday flight is going to be the one with the arm waving. You know, the flights where I could only find one F seat and one J seat. Damn you, US Air….Damn you.
Talk to you from the FCT in FRA. If my child lets me in, that is...
Laundry to an 11-year old male is something of an enigma. For one, if I had not insisted on him changing his clothes every day and showering, he'd still be in what he wore out of the house on Saturday night when we left Singapore. And second, if you tell a young male to put clean underwear on when they are on holidays, they simply take the ones they are wearing and turn them inside out. Voila! Clean.
The kind lady at reception gave us a little map and explained to us in half italian/half english where the laundromat was so we set off on foot, confident that we would soon be washing our smalls like a local.
Except that we roamed up and down the street for half an hour and couldn't find anything close to a laundry. We even tried asking the locals. One man, who was taking his kids to school, started out being helpful enough until he realized that I was holding a bag of dirty underwear, at which point he quickly bundled his kids into the car, and stormed off down the road in a little Fiat 500, waving his fist at me. Most likely he was also headed in the wrong direction.
"Dad, what did you do to him?" son enquires
"Nothing…." I say innonecently
"Then why is he swearing in Italian at you and giving you the bird?"
"Because the poor man is doing the school run with the kids - I understand his pain"
Son didn't buy the cover story for a minute.
Dejected, we traipse back to the hotel. Son was complaining bitterly that I really was the cheapest person on the planet but I ignored his protest and decided to try again with the receptionist. This time, with a lot better success. A different lady this time told me to make a right out of the street, look for the Tabacchi shop and just past there on the right, the Lavanderia would appear.
Which it did. Because I was starting to hallucinate from the methane gas being emitted from our soiled clothes and wasn't quite sure how much more of carrying the bag I could take. I was making a mental note in my head that I think it might be a good idea if the both of us cut back on the amount of salami we were eating for breakfast…
Anyway.
The cutest little old lady appeared and we had the funniest verbal exchange I have had in Italy ever. She spoke no english. My Italian is limited to things like "birra" (ie beer), "vino rosso" (ie red wine) or a sentence which basically says "please give me your bra and underpants. Quickly". Thinking that this particular phrase my not be that suitable at 9am in the morning and to a woman older than my own mother, i decided to try and use sign language instead.
I basically showed her my Holiday Inn room key, she nodded. Pointed to son in corner, retrieved a pair of his underwear from the bag with a pen and held my nose. She nodded again. Then I reached in my pocket and thrust a wad of folded paper money in her direction. He eyes lit up like a beacon and she promptly took all of 12 Euros, made me write my name on a piece of paper and as far as I could work out, someone was going to drop the clothes back to the hotel by 6pm that night. All for 12 blooming Euros!
In case we had misunderstood the recent round of verbal intercourse, I beckoned to the child that we should evacuate quickly. Which we did. I was well and truly pleased with myself and to celebrate the victory, I told junior that I was in need of several espressos.
Now, you cant swing a cat in Italy without hitting a coffee shop. They are one of the best places or things about this fine country. People stand at bars and counters, catching up on the morning gossip, eating home made pastries and generally starting their day out in a very civilized manner. You pay at one end, the nice person gives you a ticket and then you tell the barista what you want. I could go in and out of these places all day.
Which is what we did - and even my son decided that these were places he could get used to.
After the laundry mission was accomplished, I asked the child what he wanted to do. He shrugged his shoulders. I said that we should go into town and perhaps take a tour. He rolled his eyes. I told him to give me 10-mins on Google and I would be back in a flash with a plan of attack. More rolling of the eyes and a simple "I'll play with my iPad until the battery runs out"
So I start. There are even tours for kids. I call. I email. But because it's winter, a lot of the tours are either closed or only running sporadically.
Then I see it. A 3-hr tour of Florence on a Segway, those amazing 2-wheeled contraptions that seem to be the purview of billionaires and overweight mall cops.
So I call. But because its 10am ish, the nice woman says to me that its too late to arrange a tour guide. Either that, or the fact that the current tour guide who was supposed to show up for work this morning didn't, as a result of last nights christmas party.
Or something like this.
Dejected once more, I tell his royal highness that tours were out and that we would have to resort to the next best thing. Eating. At least one of his eyebrows raised. Ever so slightly. I googled "best pasta Florence", which I know wasn't terribly sophisticated but blow me down, I found what appeared to be a very legitimate place on TripAdvisor. A cafe called Osteria De'Benci, located on Via De Benci.
So we went there. I found the street address via Google Maps and we packed our things and jumped on the bus again, much to the disgust and rather loud protests of my son.
Luck was clearly on our side today as the bus sailed right past the restaurant. We get out at the next stop, walk back and moments later, are the only ones seated in the dining area. Son insists that today he is going to expand his culinary horizon and instead of ordering pizza, he will have pasta.
"Do you not think we should order a salad?" I quip.
"No" he says defiantly
"What about a plate of steamed vegetables?"
"You said they were for girls with short haircuts, who didn't like men"
"No I didn't"
"Yes you did"
I try and change the subject..
"What about we have a fruit salad?"
"But it's not breakfast time, it's lunchtime" he tells me
Then he asks if he can have it with ice cream
"No you may not"
By this stage, one very bemused waiter was standing beside us. We order pasta, and I order a carafe of vino bianco. And a straw. I decide to abort the strategy of healthy eating, given that we are in Florence and that I am sure, I can find a cheap place to have a colonoscopy when we get to Michigan in a few days.
The lunch was outstanding. We were barely able to move let alone stand up, but we finally made it out the door. When we got off the bus a little earlier, we spied a place renting bicycles, as in the same sort of bikes Boris The Mayor has peppered all over London. They weigh about the same as the Queen Mary, don't look very manly and the risk of you stealing them is minimal. But, undeterred by all this, we decide to give them a go. I tell number one son that this would be our exercise for the day. Meanwhile, he's trying to work out if he can strap his iPad to the basket on the front of the handlebars.
I sigh.
So we head off on bikes. Around Florence. When I say we headed off, we got to the other side of the square. Upon which, a car came towards us, number one son panicked and then promptly crashed the bike into the wall. Bottom lip started to quiver and he was clutching his groin. Which to be honest, is the first place you should clutch if you are a male and are involved in any sort of mishap.
The language which erupts from his mouth would make a Sicilian blush. He tells me that I can stick the rental bike up my asino.
As we walk back to the rental place, 2 Segways glide by us. We both look at each other. And then we look at the Segways. I bolt after them.
Now this is absolutely true. I swear. But the 2 guys riding the Segways were Australian. Also a father and son. They gave us directions to the Segway rental place and within minutes, we were in a cab, heading to Martelli street, in search of the promised land. We simply left the bikes where they were, with the little old italian lady from the bike rental joint waving her arms at us in disgust.
I don't know about you, but I've never ridden a Segway before. They are an amazing piece of technology. Son, sadly has been on one previously and within seconds, was piloting the thing like a pro. I was perhaps wishing now that I hadn't consumed that carafe of Vino for lunch. Things soon settled down and my uncoordinated Asian genes started to get the hang of it.
The man giving us instructions was a very untrusting little Indian. He kept saying "slowly, slowly" We had to demonstrate to him that we both could go forwards, backwards, turn around and stop. All within the rental shop. For those of you who have been on one of these contraptions before, they come with a little remote control which you put in your pocket. The round device allows you to lock the thing if you want to leave it outside a shop. For example, to have a beer to calm your nerves. It also shows you how much juice is left in the batteries. Which is probably a handy feature.
Then there is a picture of a turtle on the screen. This is the go slow mode. Both son and I insisted that this be deactivated. The Segway man was very unsure and there was a lot of head rocking. Finally he relented (20 euros folded and then thrust into his hand helped) and moments later, we were off.
The next 2-hours were probably the best 2 hours of the trip. We charged all over Florence on these amazing vehicles. They let you roam wild. I'm not sure if Davinci and the founding fathers of Italy and all that goes with the Renaissance period, would condone 2 fools like us tearing all over the ancient grounds on electric vehicles, but you know what, it was a blast.
At the end of the 2-hours, we were spent. And a whisker cold. So we headed back to the hotel and promptly had a good lie down. Amazingly, our laundry appeared soon after we got home, fresh as a daisy.
Being males, and being creatures of habit, we decided that we had such a good time at Briganti's Restaurant the night before, that we should go there for dinner. Again. So we did. After all, it was our last night in Florence…
Tomorrow we head back to Milan. On yet another fast train. Much to my child's surprise, I have decided to spring for a room at the Sheraton at the MXP Airport. We've got a 9am flight to FRA on Fri morning and then a 2hr transit before we take another LH flight to DTW.
That Friday flight is going to be the one with the arm waving. You know, the flights where I could only find one F seat and one J seat. Damn you, US Air….Damn you.
Talk to you from the FCT in FRA. If my child lets me in, that is...