Several shops advertise hand made shoes. Ah...Italian shoes. To me they rival the pâtisseries of France -- each one a little sweeter than the next. The clothing -- the kind you can only wear once since each one is unforgettable. The housewares -- too clever and contemporary for their own good. The linens -- luxurious and fine. Here is where the wealthier Italians come for their Summer holiday with their families, use bikes as their main mode of transportation and don't for a second, forget they are there to see be seen in their finest Italian fashions.

In observation of the Italian culture, particularly compared to the French, of which I am fascinated, their anarchistic lifestyle, contrary to the French sense of order, is at every turn. Cars, motorbikes and bicycles seem to ride in every which way regardless of street direction and without care for the others. Mothers allow their children to ride standing on the front of their motorbikes as if no danger could possibly beget them. One woman had two children propped on the back of her bike while another rode on the front -- on the highway nonetheless. Cars pull out on to the highway and people cross the streets without looking, assuming whoever is there will stop or go around them. It's shocking from our cultural perspective that they can be so "laisser-faire" to the danger. Yet, it all seems to work, in rhythm.

Another observation that couldn't help but catch my attention are the different body types the Italians have compared to the French, who are mostly gaunt and waifish. There is no question that Italian men are among the most handsome in the world. Young and old alike are like proud peacocks -- well built, well groomed, with strong bone structure, dark thick wavy hair and are not afraid to show off their Italian Stallion bodies with tight clothing. 

The women on the other hand are more the victims of the Italian carbohydrate diet and become Reuben-esque from an early age. Worried about my own weight gain while indulging on pasta and "gelati," I began to feel like a runway model in comparison, so continued to eat without reserve, while feeling guilty in typical American style. Italian women don't seem to care -- they still gladly show off their bulging cleavages and Bibendum (the Michelin man) shapes while donning their lowest cut tops, sexiest rhinestone stiletto heels and often too-heavy eye make-up -- all in the name of catching a husband or making their friends jealous...and here I was feeling self-conscious about my few extra pounds. Silly me.

The marble mining town famous for the whitest of stone in the world, Carrara, was not far away -- up a winding narrow road dotted with marble souvenir shops and distributors. We decided to see it for ourselves, this place where one is warned to wear suntan lotion for fear of burning from the sun's reflection off the white stone. Along the road you can pick up souvenir bits of the marble that attracted sculptors such as Michelangelo and Henry Moore. The sidewalks of the town at the bottom of the mountain are paved with the white marble and statuary can be purchased at retailers in Carrara and neighboring Massa. For the first time I understood the significance of the marble statuary that adorned the homes and front lawns of Italian descent friends I grew up with in New Orleans. 

We took three days to enjoy and explore the Versilia Coast, each afternoon languishing on a different beach. Two chairs and an umbrella can set you back as much as 30€ for the day. Cabanas are available for changing clothing -- all provided by the snack bar or restaurant that has rights on that particular small stretch of beach. The beaches are wide and the system doesn't allow you to get too close to the water without either paying dearly or having an "in" with the proprietors. These are family beaches with lots of kids and very little toplessness, so common on other European beaches. I decided, for a "lizard" like myself, that these were the kinds of beaches I could avoid next time around and leave them to the families for which they were meant. Give me, instead, the tiny intimate coves and clear waters of islands such as Corsica or Ibiza.

Onward and inland, we took a slow trek to Florence along the smaller national roads stopping in Lucca for a brief visit through the old walled city. Parking in these ancient enclaves is reserved for residents in the spaces marked with yellow lines and a few precious spots marked in blue for paying short-termers. The 130 foot high "Torre dei Guinigi" (tower) in Lucca that has a forest of ancient oak trees on top can be visited for a small entry fee.

An old covered market nearby is sparsely filled with a few leftover merchants. The main things to take home from Lucca are olive oil and dried "porcini" mushrooms, which are sold in numerous little boutiques all over town. It's a pretty little city that hasn't changed much since the Middle Ages -- the postman still delivers mail from door to door on a bike riding down the narrow streets trying not to hit the tourists and a few remaining residents.

Lunch was a rather bizarre adventure in Prato, only a few kilometers from Florence, where we found a deserted city center, except for a disproportionately large number of Africans selling imported goods. One lone man in long pants and long sleeves in the sweltering heat was walking in the middle of the street circling the city aimlessly with a glassy-eyed expression on his face. One restaurant on the main square was open, with one server, one chef and one other couple dining on pasta and salads. It was surrealistic to say the least, including the "Penne al Bacco," a quill-shaped pasta cooked in red wine that was the color of a deep, dark eggplant, but it was one of the best pastas we had eaten during the entire vacation.

Half way into our trip, eating pasta at every meal, I'd be lying if I didn't admit to being grossly disappointed by the overall quality of our meals. We've learned that most restaurants make a habit of salting the boiling water in which the pasta is cooked, thereby making every pasta dish too salty to our tastes. A couple of times, the pasta was actually too "al dente" (however, in France it is forever overcooked and mushy). The prices on the whole were reasonable and we never spent much more than 25€ a person, even in the better restaurants in the bigger cities.

I used to think one couldn't eat badly in Italy, but that opinion has changed, now that I've had too many years of experience cooking myself and regularly dining in France. It is still also true, that besides Italian cuisine in Italy, there is little else. Occasionally you can find Chinese restaurants and I spotted one Mexican restaurant and one or two Indian restaurants in Rome. In France, the Chinese and Japanese have sprouted sushi bars and Asian take-outs on just about every block. Italy hasn't caught on -- perhaps they simply don't have the same immigration France does.

One of the things the Italians do brilliantly is the simplest -- an "insalata verde" or "insalata mista" -- just fresh greens, plain, served with oil, vinegar, salt and pepper, that you dress and prepare yourself. Another is, of course, the "gelati," -- ice cream in every imaginable flavor piled high like Marge Simpson hair, each in a stainless steel bin, waiting to be layered into a cone in the shape of rose petals. It is divine...and on every corner. Yet, another reason for those extra kilos I've carried home.

I've been to Florence several times in the past and each time found it to be my least favorite of all Italian cities. Everyone thinks I'm nuts since it rivals Rome from the point of view of art and architecture, but for whatever reason, it's never passed the "so-what" test for me. This trip I purposely put it on the itinerary, with a reservation for two (at the high price of 36€) at the Uffizi Gallery, to which there has always been too long an entry line, and the hopes that maybe this visit would be different.

We arrived in blinding rain, and without knowing where we were headed in the slightest, miraculously ended up parking only a few steps from our hotel. Parking the car in a lot set us back 24€ per day, but doing anything different would have been sheer idiocy. Luckily, Florence is a small city, easily maneuverable on foot. Once we settled into adequate accommodations not far from the Merkado Centrale, we ventured out into the wet streets to get the lay of the land, particularly passing through the shopping Mecca I remembered Florence to be.

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