I apologize in advance because I am still on a dumbass kick. Rather it has metastasized into a rant proportionate to the number of churches I visit – because each time I am in one, I see more and more people do the most idiotic, somewhat (okay, mostly) disrespectful, STUPID crap. It really doesn’t matter to me what place of worship you choose to attend, or tour, or whatever, I will make sure then when I enter into your place of worship that I do so with some semblance of respect and integrity (and then I will make fun of you later, but that is a whole other Oprah). So, if it says no pictures with a flash, I take pictures without a flash (hence some of the dark POS’s you have been subjected to), if the sign says no photos then I don’t take any, if there are signs that say don’t touch this or that or don’t sit here, I oblige. Just as I appreciate when the place of worship asks that you wear appropriate attire, cover your shoulders, don’t wear red-neck wifebeater tank, and so on. This is not my house, so I don’t expect to enter it within the context and framework of my rules.
But, then there are the “others”, you know the ones who are completely unaware of themselves and their special surroundings, or possibly are either blind or illiterate? No, if they were blind or illiterate, they would still have more of a clue than the “others” do. Inside the Cathedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore (why do the names of the churches have to be so damned long, does anyone know?) many of these “others” had gathered. Gratefully, I haven’t run into a whole lot of them so far, but I have definitely have seen more in Italy than anywhere else (I wonder if there is any correlation with that to the fact that there are way more Americans vacationing here than anywhere else I have been so far…hmmmm?). Anyway, here I am, in this Roman Temple built in 897, converted to a Christian Church in 1059, gazing at a very delicate, to-scale model of the Cathedrale that was used as a guide when the church was remodeled in 1838, but not too close mind you because there is a HUGE rope in front of the model. What does it mean when there is a rope in front of a piece of art – or in front of anything for that matter? I know you all know, because you are brilliant, so maybe you can explain to the dipshit woman who reaches waaaaay past the rope to TOUCH the model.
Insert loud, blaring alarm and shock and horror fill the woman’s face. Well, WTF did you think would happen when you leaned in and touched a piece of art (and it was art) with a ROPE in front of it? Here is your sign, stupid. Let me take a moment to interject that I am a bit pissy because there is a nuclear sized mosquito living in my hotel room right now and it only seems to fly around to buzz the tower at night when I am trying to sleep, so I am tired, which is possibly the real reason why I think everyone is a moron today. And since there aren’t any pews in the Cathedrale (which I think is really quite strange, unless all of the parishioners enjoy a little kumbaya action on Sunday mornings), I can’t just sit down and pray my pissyness away. Maybe I just need a Snickers, along with this guy……
I decide to keep moving and climbed the 414-steps to the top of the Bell Tower. Again, I can thank living in Colorado for the fact that I was skipping up the last flight, giddy to see the city from the top. I also wanted to air out, as running up 414-steps will make a girl glisten just a tad. I took my obligatory Japanese tourist photos, ran down the stairs, and into an old man on the way – oops – and left for a pile of gelato (my daily 3pm treat). I go to the same place everyday – Antica Gelataria Fiorentina because their gelato is bitchin’. And they play Meatloaf on the radio (I won’t do that).
I returned to my hotel to take a nap before dinner, and do a bit of homework. At about 8pm, I went back out for a tasty dish of mussels and wine and some old guy named George. I was enjoying my dinner, quietly reading my book, when he asked if he could join me. Thankful to have someone who would finish the mountain of mussels that I had ordered, I agreed. He sat down and snarfed the rest of the mussels while we discussed how the Chinese will own Italy soon since they have purchased so much of the country’s debt. I told him they already own America for the same reason but they are happy to let us run our country as a democracy still, to which he was relieved. When the meal was finished, he asked the server to split the bill – which was fine with me, no getting any ideas, George. The waiter split the bill right down the middle – why? Because we both had half of the mussels and we each had a glass of red wine.
And this a-hole starts complaining to me that he shouldn’t pay for half of the mussels? Really? You ate half of the mussels – so I am pretty sure you can pay for half of the mussels. Furthermore, since you asked if you could join me for dinner, the gentlemanly thing to do would be to pay for ALL of the mussels. Whatever, I told him he was paying for half and that was that. Then he had the nerve to ask me if he would walk me to my hotel after, to which I said no and then he tried to kiss me! What is with Italian Men?! You tell me they aren’t stupid? They are stupid. Go sit in the corner with other bad monkeys.
And now, I think my rant is done. The End.