We left Florence under a full moon at 4 am. The old grizzled night watchman at our hotel made us a cappucino in his white cotton undershirt as we sat on our suitcases in the dark lobby waiting for the cab to the airport. It was the best I have ever tasted.
I'm ending this series with a collection of photos because pictures say a thousand words which is very convenient for us writer types when we run out.
A few final thoughts:
I need an espresso machine. Badly. I don't think I can look a Farm Boy grind in the face ever again.
In the bread department, the French beat the Italians every time.
To do true Tuscan cuisine, I need to find and kill me a cinghiale. These are the ugly brown piggish things with big shoulders and tusks that live in the hills. I saw one on the highway. They make a fine stew. If anyone knows where one is, gimme a shout.
My husband of 26 years is still the best travelling companion in the world. He is not available for rental.
I could seriously fall for a pilot. If I didn't have the husband of 26 years that is. Anyone who can put a magnificent and fully loaded jet onto the ground without a whisper, taxi gently into his berth and then say in his best Pope John Paul voice "All Rise" does it for me.
