There's something about standing at the cafe bars here. There's a pang of excitement as I eat an Italian pastry while being served by a real Italian baristo and not a West Hollywood queen with an attitude who does not seem to grasp the fact, that yes, he is a Starbucks "baristo" who did not get that call back.
The local trains to Pisa run every half hour and they are a far cry from their lush Eurostar counterparts. With few air conditioned compartments, the trains have average seats that are a bit hard on your behind. Since the locomotives are the main connector to Pisa’s airport, a large amount of people hauling their oversized luggage into the space above your head can be annoying. The heat was oppressive, but as soon as the train began to move, the open windows allowed some form of air circulation.
Sitting across from us was the most beautiful Italian girl I’ve seen on the trip. Chocolate brown hair flowing past her shoulders, flawless tan skin and dressed, not like a putana, but classy with just a hint of Mediterranean sexuality, she wore the most fabulous sandals with Roman gladiator straps that went up her calves. I smiled and she said in a rich Italian accent, ”You like?”
“Si, si, molto bene,” I laughed. With a big white grin, she drew down her oversized pink sunglasses from the top of her head and went to sleep.
In all, the trip to Pisa was less than 50 minutes (it clocked in at 49) and, armed with Rick Steve’s Italy and his self guided walking tour to the tower, we began our trek to see one of the sights I’ve always wanted to experience. How wonderful that I could see it for the first time with my mom.
Grabbing some aqua minerale to stay hydrated, it was an easy route to follow. I highly recommend Steves’ book for anyone planning a European tour. Stopping in the middle of Ponte di Mezzo over the Arno River bridge, I read the facts of the site to my mother. After the somewhat cooling breeze, we continued on, crossing the street at a crosswalk where the cars stopped at a light. Even if it was not there, this is no Rome and we could have walked without mortal injury to the other side.
Hunger was back like it had been gone for years, and taking Rick’s advice in the book, stopped into Panetteria Antiche Tradizioni for lunch. Rosemarie has decided that she is no fan of prosciuto, so I took most of her sandwich and gave her a large portion of my salami pizza. Though lacking in the overflowing oil from the pizzeria on Wednesday, the pie still had a nice amount of olive oil to satisfy me.
Lunch was a welcome break from the heat. We paid (without a tip) and not more than ten seconds later, as we rounded a corner - there was our destination against a clear blue sky.
“Just gorgeous,” my mother said at which I agreed. It’s the strangest thing to see how the tower actually does lean. You see it in pictures, but to be standing in front of it and automatically tilt your head as you stare at it is one of the great experiences of your life. Looking at the people milling about at its peak, there was no way we wanted to join them as there are 294 titling stairs to the top. Joining all the other tourists posing as if they were holding up the bell tower, I succeeded in a poor attempt at posing Rosemarie in the same stance.
We took a walk around the Field of Miracles, taking a look at the tower from every angle. At its base, the lean is extremely pronounced and you wonder how the different builders didn’t know it would not stay straight from the very beginning.
Hot and craving something cool, we took a seat at an overpriced and tacky gelato shop before making the walk back to Pisa Centrale for the trip back to Florence. This time, the train stopped in additional local stops, adding thirty minutes to our trip. I didn’t mind, though, as I instantly fell asleep. I woke up unsure if I would even make it back to Dei Mori without curling up on the heated sidewalk for a nap.
Once we got back and walked up the 47 steps to our home away from home, we unloaded our requisite tourist purchases and settled in for a few hours. We thought we’d only get a light snack and call it a night, which of course, did not happen. We’ve had great luck wandering the streets looking for places to dine and tonight was no exception. Right near the post office and not far from La Posta, which still remains one of our favorite restaurants, we took a seat at the end of a row of tables situated on the street.
There is nothing - nothing - like enjoying a meal outside, under a starry sky with a warm breeze blowing as the lights flicker and seem to dance to the sounds of Italian echoing through the air. Getting only a half a bottle of vino rosso, I was surprised when my mother decided to have a glass. It seems she’s acquiring a taste for the drink with dinner these nights. I might have to order more than one bottle from now on.
As we ate, we watched the characters walking by us.
“Do they really need to dress like that?” my mother asked as the umpteenth woman walked by with shorts riding up her sometimes not so small behind and stilettos precariously finding their footing on the stone sidewalks. We both thought the elderly couple holding hands were adorable and remain flabbergasted at the Italian woman who parked her tiny fiat on the corner, leaving her young children and tiny dog in the back seat as she ran from place to place on some indiscernible errands.
Turning to the task at hand, I opted to forgo the antipasto and it’s a good thing, too as, when I get to dessert, you’ll understand why. Rosemarie began with something that we have not had since we arrived: spaghetti with basil and tomato. Piled high on the plate in a perfectly coned construction, the noodles, as every pasta this week, were perfectly al dente. For me, the ravioli with butter and sage were not only covered in butter and sage, but literally drowning in butter and sage. The pasta could have used my fork as a diving board and splashed my face with the liquid and I would have been happy. Clogged arteries be damned - I soaked up every last bit of that butter with our bread.
And then, because we were compelled to, we ended with tiramisu. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Obviously not made earlier in the day, this version overtook La Posta’s due to the drizzled chocolate liberally added to the entire plate. With the ladyfingers soaked just enough to not be labeled soggy, we stuck our utensils in the middle of it and devoured every last bite. There was nothing to soak up the excess chocolate but our fingers, and although it was tempting, this lady’s fingers scrapped the plate with the fork.
After all of that, for once, we felt full, so we took a short stroll around the piazzas amidst the bustling Saturday night traffic. My mother had yet to see The Duomo illuminated at night, so we walked up the cobblestone street to the busy destination.
I would have stayed out even later, but the clubs here open at midnight, which means no one would show up until at least 1:30 in the morning and not even start talking to you until 2 a.m. The only one in the place when it opens would be the silly American, a label I do not wish to be bestowed upon my graying and curly head. Since we are leaving for Venice in the morning, I opted to get a good night’s sleep.
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