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These
weeks
of
spontaneous
travel
are
such
a
glorious
twirl
of
time
,
some
of
the
loosest
days
of
my
life
,
running
to
the
train
station
and
buying
tickets
left
and
right
,
finally
beginning
to
flex
my
freedom
for
real
because
it
has
finally
sunk
in
that
I
can
go
wherever
I
want
.
I
don
’
t
see
my
friends
in
Rome
for
a
while
.
Giovanni
tells
me
over
the
phone
,
"
Sei
una
trottola
"
(
"
You
’
re
a
spinning
top
"
)
.
One
night
in
a
town
somewhere
on
the
Mediterranean
,
in
a
hotel
room
by
the
ocean
,
the
sound
of
my
own
laughter
actually
wakes
me
up
the
middle
of
my
deep
sleep
.
I
am
startled
.
Who
is
that
laughing
in
my
bed
?
The
realization
that
it
is
only
me
just
makes
me
laugh
again
.
I
can
’
t
remember
now
what
I
was
dreaming
.
I
think
maybe
it
had
something
to
do
with
boats
.
Florence
is
just
a
weekend
,
a
quick
train
ride
up
on
a
Friday
morning
to
visit
my
Uncle
Terry
and
Aunt
Deb
,
who
have
flown
in
from
Connecticut
to
visit
Italy
for
the
first
time
in
their
lives
,
and
to
see
their
niece
,
of
course
.
It
is
evening
when
they
arrive
,
and
I
take
them
on
a
walk
to
look
at
the
Duomo
,
always
such
an
impressive
sight
,
as
evidenced
by
my
uncle
’
s
reaction
:
"
Oy
vey
!
"
he
says
,
then
pauses
and
adds
,
"
Or
maybe
that
’
s
the
wrong
word
for
praising
a
Catholic
church
…
"
We
watch
the
Sabines
getting
raped
right
there
in
the
middle
of
the
sculpture
garden
with
nobody
doing
a
damn
thing
to
stop
it
,
and
pay
our
respects
to
Michelangelo
,
to
the
science
museum
,
to
the
views
from
the
hillsides
around
town
.
Then
I
leave
my
aunt
and
uncle
to
enjoy
the
rest
of
their
vacation
without
me
,
and
I
go
on
alone
to
wealthy
,
ample
Lucca
,
that
little
Tuscan
town
with
its
celebrated
butcher
shops
,
where
the
finest
cuts
of
meat
I
’
ve
seen
in
all
of
Italy
are
displayed
with
a
"
you
know
you
want
it
"
sensuality
in
shops
across
town
.
Sausages
of
every
imaginable
size
,
color
and
derivation
are
stuffed
like
ladies
’
legs
into
provocative
stockings
,
swinging
from
the
ceilings
of
the
butcher
shops
.
Lusty
buttocks
of
hams
hang
in
the
windows
,
beckoning
like
Amsterdam
’
s
high
-
end
hookers
.
The
chickens
look
so
plump
and
contented
even
in
death
that
you
imagine
they
offered
themselves
up
for
sacrifice
proudly
,
after
competing
among
themselves
in
life
to
see
who
could
become
the
moistest
and
the
fattest
.
But
it
’
s
not
just
the
meat
that
’
s
wonderful
in
Lucca
;
it
’
s
the
chestnuts
,
the
peaches
,
the
tumbling
displays
of
figs
,
dear
God
,
the
figs
…
The
town
is
famous
,
too
,
of
course
,
for
having
been
the
birthplace
of
Puccini
.
I
know
I
should
probably
be
interested
in
this
,
but
I
’
m
much
more
interested
in
the
secret
a
local
grocer
has
shared
with
me
-
that
the
best
mushrooms
in
town
are
served
in
a
restaurant
across
from
Puccini
’
s
birth
-
place
.
So
I
wander
through
Lucca
,
asking
directions
in
Italian
,
"
Can
you
tell
me
where
is
the
house
of
Puccini
?
"
and
a
kind
civilian
finally
leads
me
right
to
it
,
and
then
is
probably
very
surprised
when
I
say
"
Grazie
,
"
then
turn
on
my
heel
and
march
in
the
exact
opposite
direction
of
the
museum
’
s
entrance
,
entering
a
restaurant
across
the
street
and
waiting
out
the
rain
over
my
serving
of
risotto
ai
funghi
.
I
don
’
t
recall
now
if
it
was
before
or
after
Lucca
that
I
went
to
Bologna
-
a
city
so
beautiful
that
I
couldn
’
t
stop
singing
,
the
whole
time
I
was
there
:
"
My
Bologna
has
a
first
name
!
It
’
s
P
-
R
-
E
-
T
-
T
-
Y
.
"
Traditionally
Bologna
-
with
its
lovely
brick
architecture
and
famous
wealth
-
has
been
called
"
The
Red
,
The
Fat
and
The
Beautiful
.
"
(
And
,
yes
,
that
was
an
alternate
title
for
this
book
.
)
The
food
is
definitely
better
here
than
in
Rome
,
or
maybe
they
just
use
more
butter
.
Even
the
gelato
in
Bologna
is
better
(
and
I
feel
somewhat
disloyal
saying
that
,
but
it
’
s
true
)
.
The
mushrooms
here
are
like
big
thick
sexy
tongues
,
and
the
prosciutto
drapes
over
pizzas
like
a
fine
lace
veil
draping
over
a
fancy
lady
’
s
hat
.
And
of
course
there
is
the
Bolognese
sauce
,
which
laughs
disdainfully
at
any
other
idea
of
a
ragu
.
It
occurs
to
me
in
Bologna
that
there
is
no
equivalent
in
English
for
the
term
buon
appetito
.
This
is
a
pity
,
and
also
very
telling
.
It
occurs
to
me
,
too
,
that
the
train
stops
of
Italy
are
a
tour
through
the
names
of
the
world
’
s
most
famous
foods
and
wines
:
next
stop
,
Parma
…
next
stop
,
Bologna
…
next
stop
,
approaching
Montepulciano
…
Inside
the
trains
there
is
food
,
too
,
of
course
-
little
sandwiches
and
good
hot
chocolate
.
If
it
’
s
raining
outside
,
it
’
s
even
nicer
to
snack
and
speed
along
.
For
one
long
ride
,
I
share
a
train
compartment
with
a
good
-
looking
young
Italian
guy
who
sleeps
for
hours
through
the
rain
as
I
eat
my
octopus
salad
.
The
guy
wakes
up
shortly
before
we
arrive
in
Venice
,
rubs
his
eyes
,
looks
me
over
carefully
from
foot
to
head
and
pronounces
under
his
breath
:
"
Carina
.
"
Which
means
:
Cute
.
"
Grazie
mille
,
"
I
tell
him
with
exaggerated
politeness
.
A
thousand
thanks
.
