My sister and I take security very seriously. Well I do. I’m a City girl. Marcia lives upstate where I assume there are no robbers.
Twice she got out of a taxi here in the land of the Mafia and left her purse in the cab.
If I didn’t pick it up with my stuff and sweetly ask her if she was sure she didn’t want this, dangling her pocketbook with my lips pursed, she’d be in big trouble.
Anyway with my urging we both bought small purses to hold our passports and money that I wear under my sweater but Marcia wears out in the open (Why do I even try?)
This morning we almost missed breakfast because we couldn’t find the key to our room.
I made it real clear to Marcia that without it we;d have to haul all our valuables down to the dining room.
It turns out that I should have looked where I left it, in the lock outside the door.
Marcia said not a word of recrimination. At first I thought I heard her say “nice going stupid” but I’m sure I’m wrong.She’s way too sweet for that.

Since my finances were decimated by my “better” half running off to a lifetime of happiness, my travel souvenirs have changed from jewels to refrigerator magnets. I was trying to buy one in this little shop across from the Duomo in Orvieto but I was told that the guy had no change.
The thing was 4 euros and I had a 5.
How could a store that only sells crap to suckers not have enough change to get the deed done?
I walked out disappointed but cheered myself up by saying I’d just have to be satisfied with the magnet I got in Rome that has the Pope giving a thumbs up.
Then it was off to Florence. We were lucky to get a cab driver who was kind enough to take us from the Duomo to our hotel to pick up our luggage and then to the train, about a 15 minute drive for only fifty bucks. May that prick come to New York and try explaining to a New York cab driver in broken english that he wants to see the Statue of Liberty. I’m thinkin’ we’ll be about even then.
The rest of the trip went okay. I think the woman who sold the tickets at the train station got annoyed with my almost perfect italiano. I”m pretty sure she called me a whore.
Isn’t a putana a whore in italian?
Ah I’ve been called worse.