Florentine Friday night

Saturday, 9th of August, 3pm

I woke up half an hour ago, as dehydrated as if I had been running across the Sahara.
Two liters of Italian coffee and a cold shower later, I am still trying to work out exactly what's going on.

Yesterday, after class and the visit of the Capella dei Medici, I went to the Germans/Austrians' flat in central Florence for Trinks.

Of course, Arrogant German was there, and the two of us spent hours on end arguing about international politics in Italienglish. Clearly, the boy has brains.
And there's no better foreplay for me than a witty challenging conversation.
Add to this a deep voice and a perfect body, and I am smitten.
I was smitten.

When the temperature eventually went under 30 degrees, the seven of us grabbed a handful of Heineken and went to sit down on the benches of the Piazza Santa Croce.
I wish I could do that more often in London; sit outside with a drink and a couple of fags without shivering after three minutes, but, from what I heard from the Usual Suspects, it is not bound to happen anytime soon in (now cold and rainy) London.
That is, unless there is some serious acceleration in the global warming process. I can't wait.

Heinekens downed, we decided to follow the young dressed-up crowd to a so-called "club" close by.
God. It was terrific. And not in a good way; stupidly trashed Amrican tourists profusely sweating on five years old commercial music.
Little precision at the risk of sounding like a pure snob: I am NOT a tourist, but would rather call myself a traveller, and I'd much prefer hand in local places with locals than having to bear the
"OHMYGOD! And then, Brandon pulled his pants down in the middle of the street, and ohmygod we were all so stoned after that joint and it was soooooo funny!
-Oh my actual God! I can't believe it! It must have been amaaaaazing!"
type of conversation in the smoking area.

After five minutes of this, I was seriously considering suicide. So was the rest of the rest the -mainly geeky- group.
Even after filling our stomachs up with Sambuca in a failed attempt to get in the mood. One after the other, everyone made his way home, leaving only Arrogant German and I, clearly still there because of eachother.
So much for playing it cool.

I eventually shared my desperation with the bouncer who sent us to that other club across town. Florentine night public transports being unreliable at the best, virtually inexistant at the worst, the two of us started that forty minutes long walk along the Arno river.
Maybe it was the undeniable romanticism of the situation, but something switched in Arrogant German, and he went into full courtship mode, insisting in offering his arm for the whole way, and helping me whenever we had to triumph over a couple of steps.
I have to admit I found it embarrasingly nice.

We arrived at the club at three, only to be told it would be closing at four. We agreed not to pay the thriteen euros for such a short time, and spent the remaining hour salsa dancing on the car park.

Bring on the cheesiness! Hmm... I loved it!
By this point I was dying for him to push me against the wall and take me there and then.
Maybe i'm not such a lady after all.
Oh wait, I think I knew that already.

Unfortuanately, the dancing stayed what it was, only dancing.
At four, he offered his arm again and we started the long way back.
Half way, in between the Ponte Vecchio and the Ponte alle Grazie, we sat on the low wall, feet hanging above the water, and resumed the our conversation about European cultural differences (pure hotness if you ask me!) before moving to more personal subjects.

That's when he dropped the bomb:
"You know I'm only twenty and...
-WHAT? Erm, I mean, I thought you were older but who cares anyway!"

Me and my big, huge, enourmous, woolly mammoth sized mouth.
On the other end you couldn't blame my surprise; he doesn't look a day younger than twenty five, and certainly doesn't behave like a piss-head teenager.
I guess it wouldn't have mattered if my reaction had beem a bit more, erm, suttle.

But my inability to shut the fuck up probably discouraged him, and, even if we stayed there talking until seven, long after the sun rose, absolutely nothing more than hands holding happened.

Maybe I am just a seriously retarded romantic, but I am very curious to see what Monday morning will have in store for us.