In my last entry, I forgot to mention two events that happened between returning to Florence and seeing the Killers. First, Gemma and I saw a grocery store very soon after getting off the bus, so we stopped in to see if we should get dinner. Unfortunately, since we had no kitchen, we wouldn’t be able to cook anything. However, the family that ran the store had already seen us, and offered to make us fresh paninis. We couldn’t say no, because they were so nice. So, we picked out the bread, meat, cheese, and tomatoes that we wanted and they put together the largest sandwiches I have ever seen. Each one was a half a loaf of break cut in half for the top and bottom. They were so big that we had to take off the tops to eat the paninis. I ended up eating my top slice for breakfast the next day.
While we were finding a place to eat, though, guess who we saw? The theramin player! We decided to sit and watch her play while eating. The concert was pretty good, but not astounding; I mainly wanted to see what it sounded like.
While we are on the topic of stories that I haven’t written about, the first day in Florence with Gemma, the flute player to whom I had ealier given money was walking around and said I. I guess they really do appreciate it when you stop to listen.
For dessert, we stopped at a pastry shop in the main square where I found my first cannolo in Italy. Here, connoli are Sicilian (which is why I hadn’t seen many), and very different than in the US. Instead of chocolate chips, they use bits of fruit, generally orange. It was absolutely fantastic. Almost incomparable to the ones in Boston, though, because of the difference in ingredients. Apparently, when Italians came to the US, the fruit was not as readily available, so they needed to find a substitute.
Finally, here’s one that Jay (if he reads this) will appreciate. Our first day in Ireland, we were driving through Galway, completely, absolutely lost. No streets had signs that we could see, so we had no way to orient ourselves on the map. While stopped at a light, out of nowhere, a little old Irishman walked up to the car and knocks on my window. As I roll it down, he asks, “Where’s the dead center of Galway?” Dad and I look at each other and laugh, then say, “We have NO idea.” The old man smirks just a little and responds, “The Cemetary!” Then, he turned and walked away. Perhaps he was a leprechaun.
