Europe Explained (Florence, Italy)

Ripped off, again. 

Lil bro just had to get another gelato.

Not his fault though. 

I didn’t say no to excessive sugar either, even though it’s only 1:13 P.M.

“17 Euros,” the dark-skinned Italian woman says.

I already took a couple bites of the mint ice cream, otherwise I would have handed it back. 

“17?” my brother asks, going back into his pocket because evidently 10 Euros isn’t enough for two small ice cream cones. 

I look over at the sign on the wall and it says a cone is only 5 Euros.

I could fight, but I don’t.

7 Euros isn’t going to ruin my day.

“Well, I feel violated,” I say as we amble away from the gelato stand.

Situations like these honestly ruin the travel experience, although they do make for good stories. 

I once paid $40 for bed sheets in China when the local price was $6.

Almost got fleeced nearly $50 at an exchange station at the airport in Beijing, but I followed Karen’s advice and stood patiently while the woman on the other end glared at me before eventually succumbing and returning my money. 

As I write this, predictability sounds heavenly. 

Back home, I know what time volleyball is going to be on Thursday, and all my meals are meticulously planned out. 

I’m delusional though, because as soon as I’m back there, I’ll want to be back here, maneuvering the malaise of the unknown until the sun goes down and it feels like I’ve exhausted myself emotionally and physically.

It comes from a place of angst, this type of waffling (man, a waffle sounds good right now; a solid changeup from linguine). 

As much as I mentally prepare for things to go left, when they do, I still spend a couple hours ruminating until I go outside and then nothing feels like a big deal anymore. 

The power of exercise is that strong. 

“Let’s check out this park,” lil bro says after the gelato debacle, so we head to the park, find out it costs 10 Euro per breathing soul to enter, leave, come back, and then are inundated with more statues where the artist leaves no detail to the imagination. 

High art?

Maybe. 

I certainly can’t appreciate it. 

Much as I would love to be distinguished and cultured, it still looks like a chiseled piece of rock. 

I would rather read the book and learn the backstory.

“Lunch?” Lil bro asks, but it’s already 2:41 P.M.

Hangry, and also carrying around a 5-pound piece of bread with Jelly Beans inside (which we will later throw away BTW), we leave the city center and head to the outskirts of the city where the buildings could use a makeover and there literally isn’t a restaurant not named McDonald’s in the vicinity. 

Hotel breakfast is fire though. 

Lil bro and I head to the grocery store, hold up the line while the cashier runs to get a tag for his zucchini. 

“Didn’t you weight it?” I ask. 

“Couldn’t find the number to get the sticker,” bruh reveals, so now seven equally hangry Italians are glaring our direction. 

We exit the mall and pass by the Old Wild West, where we ate steaks yesterday.

I’m pissed off at lil bro for dragging me around the grocery store, but because there is always a lesson to be gleaned, I take a deep breath, and then it hits me:

When I’m married, I’ll probably be spending a lot of time in shopping malls and grocery stores buying way too many things and needlessly spending extra money. 

So, I better get used to this. QS