Four sketches from Florence

One
I am standing near the Duomo in the centre of the city. An extremely rotund woman approaches me (This reminds me of a t-shirt I recently saw sported by a rather corpulent man. The following slogan was emblazoned across its front: I beat anorexia). She has long, lank dark hair and, visible under her top, pendulous breasts hang like sacks of flour. There are two things I want to say to her. A) Wear a bra B) Failing that, for the love of God, do not wear clingy, diaphanous t-shirts.

She is holding a plastic cup. She points it in my direction. She wants my money. Here, as with her choice of apparel, we differ. I do not want to give her my money. She addresses me in a language I do not understand. In my own language, I demur. She'd like to give me an opportunity to reconsider. She continues to talk, in staccato bursts. Again, I say 'no'. Her speech continues, rapid-fire. I look away, hoping this will discourage her. She keeps talking. What the fuck is she saying? Am I being treated to a disquisition on the gothic architectural style of the cathedral behind me? No? Is she holding forth on the poignant, elegaic qualities of the last Johnny Cash album? Recommending restaurants for my stay in Florence? Trying to explain how Dublin threw away a seven point lead against Mayo the previous day?

Still she talks. 'I'm not giving you any money,' I say. And that's my final offer. I am irritated by her continued presence now. She makes the sign of the cross. Three times. So, what, I'm possessed now or something? She issues a renewed plea for my money, more lugubrious than before, as if my failing to drop a euro in her cup will precipitate a nervous breakdown.

She changes tactics. Mercifully, for a moment, she stops talking. Then, suddenly, she thrusts her cup into my chest, giving me a start. 'Fuck off,' I say.

She blesses herself again and leaves.

Two
My girlfriend and I are standing outside a restaurant called 'Harry's'. She is reading the menu. It is mid-afternoon and the restaurant is closed. Inside, visible through the window, an elderly, white-haired Italian man, possibly the owner, is performing some duties behind the bar. He sees us outside. Or rather, he sees my girlfriend. For ten seconds he stares at her (count to ten; this is a long time to stare at a person).

He looks at me. He makes a gesture of lascivious approval. He has been openly checking my girlfriend out and now he is making me complicit in his lechery. I am stunned. He's about eighty! It's astonishingly shameless. It's hilarious.

He comes to the door and opens it. He informs us that the restaurant is closed. Then he says, to both of us, "I look, not for business, just for the eyes". Harry's? Yeah, Dirty Harry's.

Three
It is the opening evening of a medical conference. A reception has been laid on for the attending medics in a kind of courtyard inside the fortress complex where the conference is being held. Many of the doctors have not attended the opening lecture and are loitering in the balmy evening air as the catering staff ready the wine and finger food that will be served. The medics, scattered about the courtyard in little clusters, eye the food and drink hungrily. A few approach the catering staff and enquire if they may partake of the repast before them. No, they may not.

For around half an hour, the food and drink sits tantalisingly on the long tables that have been set up. The doctors cast longing glances towards the tables, initially furtive, then increasingly open. So do my girlfriend and I. On several occasions, a renegade GP breaks from her or his party and makes for the tables. Hopes rise among the other medics. They are like hungry lions trapped in a cage and surrounded by wildebeest. Every time, the intrepid doctor is rebuffed by the implacable phalanx of catering staff watching over the food and booze.

Then, someone, somwhere gives a signal that the stuff may be consumed. All hell breaks loose. It is like the start of a marathon.

Four
Sergio is the owner of the hotel we are staying in. He is the most avuncular hotelier I have come across. He is so avuncular you almost expect him to slip a tenner in your pocket when no one's looking. He speaks English quite well, with one rather endearing idiosyncrasy. He addresses his male, English-speaking guests as 'Mister'.

'Good morning, Mister. Would you like a capuccino?'
'How was your meal this evening, Mister?'
'Please Mister, let me take your bag.'

I wonder how many years Sergio has been addressing his presumably amused guests as 'Mister', thinking it is a polite form of address in English, as it is in other languages. Clearly, no one has informed him to the contrary. And I'm glad.