Stay on Target.

Its raining in Rome again. I can hear the splatter of raindrops hitting the street below through the thin, uninsulated panes of my windows amidst the sputtering of little cars and scooter motors. It's been like this a lot this week, and the temperature has dropped substantially. I'm back to scarves and jackets. Luckily for me, I left my (crappy 5 Euro) umbrella at the restaurant my Grandma and my Dad and I ate at yesterday. Oh well. It isn't like there aren't street vendors at every corner, in ever Metro stairwell, suddenly holding armfuls of umbrellas at the first sight of a raincloud. Only thirty seconds ago they were selling sunglasses.

The same vendors (I'm convinced there are only five of them and they've all learned to teleport) were in Florence today. No thanks, we already have a leopard print umbrella and a nice rain repellent jacket to get us through this drizzle. We can always duck into the Baptistry, or perhaps the Duomo, where the floors are "slick as snot," as my Grandma so eloquently put it, and the ceiling is bare and all the better for it. It is rumored between the three of us that Michaelangelo is somewhere in this church, but we can't find him, and we are in a hurry to get to the train station, so we head back into the rain, but not before listening to a choir sing an unannounced solemn hymn before being shooed away by the security guards. What a shame. It was so beautiful.

Earlier in the day we waited in line for over an hour to see Michaelangelo's David. I made a trip to McDonald's for sinful French fries and a fragola (strawberry) milkshake. It was crowded. The mess of people mingling between one another and pushing against me, plus the clamor of cars and motorcycles trying to drive through already over crowded streets was enough to make me grit my teeth in angst. But upon entering the room where the David is kept, all the stress was gone with my breath as I caught site of the one thing that will never cease to make me stop dead in my tracks. He stands above everyone, placed high upon his pedestal but never appearing abrasive or overbearing, as he is so gently composed. His stance is relaxed and his stare soft but concentrated (the iris of his eyes are in the shape of hearts). One can't help but notice the incredible detail found on the back of his hands and the tops of his feet (both of which are too big for the body). The slightest hint of veins can be seen among the bones and muscles, each softly shadowed in the marble by the glowing lights above him. He is so real, he seems to breathe. None of us really know what he is thinking, but we pretend to.

Dinner at the Wild Boar left us with full stomachs. Getting there was my favorite part, though, following Grandma, our tour guide for the day, with Dad by my side. "The target is moving!" he says playfully, "Stay on target...stay on target..." I respond. It's an inside joke we've developed in reference to Star Wars. We've got a lot of those, I've discovered. The streets of Florence are adorable, and I'd like to go back for a long weekend on my own, I think. Although, I'm not sure it's as enjoyable without loved ones. The bridge that crosses the river offers incredible views of the rolling hills in the distance and the brightly colored, Oh-So-Italian buildings, one right after the other. I'd like to sit on that bridge at sunrise and not be bothered by a single soul.

One giant purple scarf and an unbelievably high priced Belgian waffle with Nutella later, we're back on the train, all tired but laughing until we cry about old Seinfeld episodes we've all seen while the Italians around us no doubt wonder what there is to be so happy about. Eventually we all close our eyes and dose in and out of sleep, frequently woken up by the pressure change that leaves our ears plugged as we speed through tunnels. We are all yawning and I am complaining.
We part ways for the evening. We'll meet tomorrow and explore the ancient parts of Rome, many of which I've seen but will enjoy once again. I have the apartment to myself tonight and it's so quiet. I can hear the family above me shuffling, moving chairs, even sneezing. There seems to be a child in the building with one of those wooden toys that makes a train sound when you blow into it. It goes off every twenty minutes or so. So, I suppose that's what I'll fall asleep to tonight... the neighbors, the rain, and the memories I've got in my head of the day's events which I hope to keep with me forever.