Last days

I spent my last few days in Florence going to school (I am now the proud owner of an Italian diploma recognised by the Italian ministry of education!), visiting around (as you do), and going out at night and talking about life and philosophy and sex with Mexicana and Austrian Goth. Most interesting.

Mostly, Italian guys were at the center of our conversations. My main problem with them is that they tend to be metrosexuals on the edge of gay looking (everyone knows I'm generalising here, ok?), but at the same time incredible machist dickheads. Seriously, what do they think they're going to get from standing at street corners and shouting at everything wearing a skirt: Ciao! Bella! Bellissima! Ho detto ciao!
I've never seen that technique succeeding. Never. So why do they keep doing it?
And it would be fine if it had happened once or twice, but twenty times a day, seriously?
By the third week, Austrian Goth and I had set up a routine which consisted in kneeling in front of the Italian offencer in a prayer mimic and telling him in his language: Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for telling me I'm beautiful. I feel so flattered to be worth of your attention. You really made my day, thank you!
Fat chance, mainly, they didn't get sarcasm. And my knees are still bruised. But we still got a few good laughs from their puzzled faces.


That last week was good. But, truth to be told, it felt a bit weird being there without Arrogant German. I forbid myself to think about it too much and G-the-M's outing sort of kept my mind busy.

By the end of my stay, I couldn't wait to be back in London. We spent our last Friday night at an outside bar next to the river and said our goodbyes after a few hours of dancing.
Good luck with your life and take care. Maybe we'll see eachother in a few decades.

This is not helping to keep my cynicism levels relatively low. Each time, something was screaming in my head: people come and people go, and what's the fucking point of everything with them in between?
Enough.

I came back to my Florence flat, packed, and headed to the aiport way before the sun rose on Saturday morning.
The journey back to London was a nightmare. Bus delays, train delays, flight delays. You name it. Even in Stansted the suitcases were delayed and the passengers had to wait for them a good hour and a half after we landed.

But exhaustion, annoyance, irritation, nostalgy, and all those unpleasant feelings flew away as soon as I set foot in London. Home. Sweet polluted home! It felt so fucking good...