(Note: The following post describes details from a previous trip, NOT a current trip.)
Monday, September 30.
Our morning and part of the afternoon is spent on the bus, watching the landscape of fog and rice fields morph into green fields and houses of every shape and size, nestled among hills and trees.
Also, we pass through many, many tunnels – particularly as we’re driven through the city of Genoa.
The wheels finally stop spinning when we reach Pisa. We’re given free time almost as soon as we’re off the bus, so we can grab lunch and take our obligatory pictures of the tower.
We then meet our guide, Roberto, who’s a long-time friend of Franco’s. He’s tall, tanned, bald, and the campiest guide we’ve had so far, which he uses as his secret weapon to keep us both entertained and engaged while spouting off historical facts.
Apparently Franco and Roberto have this cheesy comedy act going when it comes to tour groups. Before releasing us into Roberto’s care, Franco “informs” us that Pisans – and Roberto in particular – have a hate-on for Florence, and should Roberto ask where we’re headed after Pisa, to say “Rome”.
So, we play along and when we get the prompt and give our rehearsed answer, Roberto turns his head to one side and bellows, “FRANCO!”
Our walking tour begins with an overview of the Leaning Tower itself, whose restoration efforts to clean the tower’s marble and fix the interior staircase, were only completed a couple of summers ago.
(Click here to listen to a July 2011 PRI radio feature about the restoration – Roberto’s the tour guide interviewed, and there’s a slideshow.)
Finally, we head into the cathedral, where Roberto speaks of the architecture, and some of the features of the design, including the light fixtures near the front of the sanctuary (which, if I recall correctly, Roberto says is actually a tribute to Galileo).
The tour concludes, we leave Roberto and Pisa, and it’s back on the road for another couple of hours of scenery before reaching our hotel on Florence’s outskirts.
We’re dropped off, assigned our rooms and left to rest and freshen up for about 90 minutes before we leave for dinner. Mom and I are absolutely pooped. Compounding this exhaustion is the fact Mom’s now fighting a variation of the cold that’s been making the rounds on our tour bus. One of the younger travellers close my age – Jacomo, from Australia – has been knocked flat on his back with this thing for the past couple of days, and so his mum/travel companion, Theresa, has been looking after him.
In fact, we’re so lethargic that we end up being the last ones to board the bus for our dinner destination. (Oops.)
We lag behind the others, as Mom waits for me to snap a picture of the countryside, across the road from the restaurant.
So, when we do finally get inside the dining room and look for a place to sit, everyone’s taken their seats, except for one table.
Tonight, our dining companions are: Frances and Howard, a couple from Nova Scotia (I’m sure they’re in their late 70s or early 80s); Tim and Michelle, a really fun couple from Saint John; and an Indian couple, whom we later find out are from Windsor.
The last pair, we’ve been trying to avoid for the majority of the trip, because they come across as insufferable. He’s stone-faced about 90 per cent of the time, and she has this tendency to say things or give unsolicited advice that’s completely unwarranted and rude. And now, we are stuck with them at our table. Thank God for Tim and Michelle.
We (with the exception of Mom) start our evening with this blue-tinted wine (dubbed “smurf wine” by our group), then sample the other wines on our table – white, red, and a lovely strawberry-flavoured wine – which would eventually turn out to be a hit with the group. Even my mom (normally a teetotaler) has a few sips.
Mom and I have the filet mignon, and ask for it well-done (rather than the medium rare) – which renders it a tad chewy, but still okay.
Between these courses, I chat with Frances and Howard – who, as it turns out, are native Newfoundlanders, but currently live in Sackville, Nova Scotia, between their two kids and their families.
As the wine continues to flow, people loosen up and become livelier (or, in the case of our table-mates from Windsor, less miserable).
There’s also some entertainment, courtesy of a couple of instrumental musicians and a male singer – an older man with a balding head, but a voice that simply soars.
At one point, he singles out fellow traveller Jenna – one of a pair of young Americans – to dance with.
It’s quite the sight. At six feet tall, she towers over our resident crooner. This doesn’t faze him in the least – he just nestles his bald little head in her bosom like he’s ready to take a nap. It’s hilarious. (Later, we hear him mention that he had a wife who was tall, so he’s used to it.)
The musicians eventually change gears and crank out a few tunes the crowd’s more familiar with. Well, doesn’t THIS just get some of the Aussies out of their seats. They’re dancing like no one else’s watching.* Finally – some folks on this tour are letting loose.
This is actually a fun night, and no one can dispute it if they tried.
On the ride back to the hotel, the bus full of tipsy revellers turns into the “party bus” when Franco cranks some disco and ’80s tunes, while Pierluigi flashes the interior bus lights on and off for effect.
HOLLA. Now THIS is what the trip is supposed to be about!
Too bad we have another painfully early ahead of us, for our trip to Florence.
*Apologies for the blurry picture above, but I felt it best described what was happening.