The Saga of the Matzah

So, now in possession of matzah, I made a resolution: every picture containing me for the rest of my stay in Italy would include a fragment of matzot as well. I am proud to say I held true to my word. Never mind that Passover ended at sundown on Tuesday the 26nd, I believe.

Repping Quidditch alongside Perseus.

What I didn't mention about Venice: I stepped in dog poop, with my left foot. If you've been following along with this blog (or French culture) closely enough, you'll know that that's not a good thing, whereas a right foot sopped in merde is a sure sign that Lady Luck loves you.

And so my good fortune from Cagliari turned. In Venice, on Good Friday (night), we apparently missed a riparian procession.

Florence's River, the Arne, on the other hand, had nothing but beautiful reflections on it.

Il Duomo - Where are the fireworks?

But that was just from lack of information. We knew that on Easter Sunday, there were going to be fireworks outside the magnificent Il Duomo in Firenze, and we had no intentions to miss them. So when we arrived in town at four in the afternoon, we headed straight to our hostel, and I made sure to inquire as to the exact time of Scoppio Del Carro (Explosion of the Cart). It was that morning. Who'd have guessed that fireworks were in the morning? Jarring, and all the more disappointing to have missed such a novel experience.

I blame the poop.

Well, we still had to make the best of being in this horrible land called Italy, so we dragged ourselves from awful majestic site to terrible wonderful vista. We climbed laboriously to the dazzling Piazza Michaelangelo, where from an agonizing perch we had an excruciating view of Florence, back-dropped with the painfully pulchritudinous Tuscan countryside and mountains. O, woe is me!

The beauty burns.

We stumbled through the daze of ennui from building to building, and, after ages, arrived at Il Duomo. We suffered to be thunderstruck by its extravagance and ornature. We barely tolerated that every museum became free Tuesday evening, as it was the last Tuesday of the month (April 26). Thus we were obligated to see all the sites without spending a centime, from the Medici Cappela to the Medici family's luxurious former residences to Michaelangelo's titanic, awe-inspiring, unique, elegant David (sorry, no pictures allowed).

Massive interior of Il Duomo

But obviously, even if our Tuesday night could have been conceived as wonderful, marvelous, superb, incredible, or any other superlative adjective, it only served to illuminate the inadequacy of our Monday night. For that evening, we merely listened to opera professionals perform the highlights of famous Italian operas. The lady wasn't fat enough, so I couldn't tell when the performance was over. How inconsiderate.

Kim, backed by Ponte Vecchio, the only to survive WWII, at night

We also endured delicious Italian food: cinghiale, or wild boar, comes to mind, although I also managed to find Florentine tripe and - trippe - and ribolitta, a traditional (and delectable, I mean detestable) heavy Florentine soup that dates back to the Middle Ages. It was a welcome change from the tasty pesca - sea food - and fragolino - strawberry wine - of Venezia.

Cinghiale, in stone form, eating matzah

On the other hand, to my unrefined tongue, Chianti tastes incredibly similar to cough syrup.

I got there just in time.

Pisa

So obviously, we were fed up with Florence by Wednesday, and without delay boarded a train to Pisa.
Pisa was no more than excuse to stretch our legs. We disembarked from the train, walked to see the tower, saw the tower, walked around the tower, and having fulfilled our touristy obligations, walked back to the train station and reembarked.



And I suppose it didn't really matter what train we took, since all roads lead to our next destination.