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The Travel Test: Your First Vacation
Traveling to Italy tests the tenacity of the author's relationship.
by Kendall Morgan
“Here” ended up being the Una Hotel Vittoria on the Via Pisana. Bright, shiny, and oh-so-postmodern, it was just the thing to get me out of my navigating funk. A giant floral mosaic spiraled through the lobby, echoed by a huge plush red couch in the bar. Our room was like a sexy little stage set, with tiny, dimmable twinkling lights surrounding the bed, and, behind a wall of translucent glass, a huge tile shower—a lavish, overgrown fish tank for exhibitionists. Best of all, when we walked in off the street, we paid much less than the going rate, due to vacancies.
As far as I was concerned, this was the coolest place in town. But we were in Florence, after all, so bright and early the next morning we queued up to see the most famous penis in the world, on Michelangelo’s David.
If Venice is a courtesan turned semi-respectable countess, Florence is a prim dowager who supports the arts and goes to bed early, so marble nudes are about it for racy fun. Unless, of course, your favorite deadly sin is gluttony. Everyone I know who’s been to Florence has told me to dine at Il Latini on the Via Palchetti.
Picture Studio 54 in its heyday, and you’ll have a sense of the effort and enthusiasm required to get into this rustic Tuscan ristorante. The waitstaff plied us with complimentary glasses of wine while we waited in the alley outside and tried to keep other sneaky tourists from cutting in line. Finally, a bunch of business-tripping Gucci executives swept us in with their party, and we were seated for one of the most lavish meals of my life.
It’s family style, so we got a giant jug of red wine to share with our new favorite strangers. Then came the antipasti of local liver spread—the boyfriend dived in immediately—and bruschetta and cold cuts. Next came pasta with red or white sauce; a main dish of rabbit, chicken, or beef; and sparkling wine and biscotti to finish. It was a minor miracle we managed to drag our drunken, satiated selves across the cobblestone bridge to our hotel.
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1 Carlos // Jun 25, 2008 at 5:18 pm
Have anyone on this blog been to the Caribbean on an escorts resort in the DR? Or erotic vacations.
2 Little Italy // Feb 12, 2008 at 11:55 am
Love this. As a fellow writer who happens to be spending a year in Italy, I can vouch for the dear author’s authentic Italian experience. Brava. Now please send some of those love vibes back over the ocean, please…
3 Paris, City Of Fisticuffs? // Feb 12, 2008 at 9:58 am
[…] Isn’t arguing, debate anyways, in the French character? Like if you’re trying to invade Iraq aren’t they the first to say “au contraire, mon frer”? Sure, having a knock down, drag out at the Eiffel Tower is bad form, but would the French really be put off? “Ah, look at the Americans, with their Super Bowl and Dane Cook, how you say, adorable.” Well maybe they should rethink making things tough on us after bailing them out of WW2. Anyone? Dad? It’s weird, this is the first time that we’ve ever thought of National Lampoons: European Vacation and Ethan Hawke’s novella, The Hottest State, at the same time. There are parallels. This reminds us of one of our all-time favorite Tango articles about a little Euro vacation that goes in the wrong direction but ends up just right. […]
4 lola // Dec 1, 2006 at 12:39 pm
Great story! Felt like I was there with the writer and her “boyfriend.” I related to much of what happened as my “boyfriend” also took me to Rome last Feb. and it was without a doubt one of the best trips ever. It wasn’t the vacation…it was the experience of being with a wonderful person and learning more about him. I”m the artist and he is the doctor. What a combination! I”ll let you know when the wedding occurs —