On Top of the World (Company Aside).

There are too many Americans here. I am considering adopting a British accent. Or pretending to be a deaf mute. I remain aloof, trying not to become engaged. This has the downside of increasing my tendency to ease drop and the contents of what I hear can be just as infuriating as the inane small talk and false friendliness exhibited by my fellow countrymen abroad. Which is the lesser of two evils?

As an aside, your hero has gotten over himself. (He is after all, somewhat emotionally impaired.) Happy days are here again. Having spent a strong day at the Uffizzi I am literally on top of the world or, more specifically, on the upper-most table (reachable by a steel staircase) on the upper-most deck of the rooftop bar at the Grand Hotel Baglioni. It is the same view as that from the Duomo, except that it INCLUDES the Duomo. Goddammed incredible. I am quaffing a bottle of 2001 Sergio Barale. It is delicious.

I never fully appreciated how beautiful the women painted by Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi (Sandro Botticelli) truly are. Today, I did. There is strength there. There is something unique to each face. A poised elegance.

For "little barrell’s" sake, I sure hope he slept with his models. It would be a crime not to have done so.

Maybe I'm just hard up.

"So, how long y’all staying?" asks a questionable character in pressed khakis and a multicolored short sleeve shirt emblazoned in several places with East Lake Golf Club. He is 28-year-old Brant Buford, newly-wed. Spilling his Budweiser dangerously close to my suede Guccis he is determined to make friends.

It seems that Brant is in a bit of a pickle. He is on his Honeymoon and his wife is unhappy. See, she thought Florence was going to be this magical city, full of beauty and wonder. (“It is,” I offered to no avail or significant response.) There is apparently “too much hussle and bussle” for young Honey Buford. (No Joke. Candy would be delighted to make such an acquaintance. Candy. Sigh.) One eye closed, taking a swig of the Barali I ask what Brant means. It seems the couple is from Charlotte and finds the pace of whizzing scooters, pushy foot traffic and narrow streets too much to swallow. Or at least Honey does. Brant grew up in Atlanta, so he knows ALL about big cities. (Ahem.)

Being a dutiful groom, Signori Buford is going to rent a car and drive his bride over to some two-star he secured in Pesaro in Le Marche which is supposed to be more quiet and near beaches where Honey can work on her tan. She is getting terrible lines wearing the “church approved” clothing required for site-seers in Florence. And so, off to the Adriatic, Brant needs someone to take their room. They’re booked through the weekend. He’s hoping my reservation has expired and he can sell me the use of his space. “You know…on the cheap”.

"And…where is Mrs. Buford?" I ask looking around for a blonde with odd tan lines. (She HAS to be blonde, don’t you think?) Apparently, she’s in bed, moping. I wave down to the waiter to order un altro bottiglia. Brant sort of looks at me stupidly. Like am I going to offer him a glass or what. Christ on a cracker.

I amaze myself by saying "You should go fetch Honey. Then the three of us can have a drink. I can't help you with your room, but I guess I can toast your marriage". The goddamn thing sure as hell won't last. Futhermore, If I have to put up with nitwits, at least old Chas can try to find someone young and female to speak with. However stupid.

Honey, as it turns out is no Rhodes Scholar. But she's incredibly sweet and wearing very few clothes. She's also a horrible flirt. She's all of 21 years old and worked as Brant's secretary at the Law Firm at which he is an associate. Lawyers. There are more of them than there are tourists over here. Jesus.

I actually enjoyed my time speaking with these two fellow citizens. They were politely engrossed with my stories, or at least too polite to fully demonstrate their boredom. Of course, I sanitized the accounts a fair amount, removing anything exceptionally illicit that might upset company so straight and narrow, church going, whatever, that they practically squeaked when they nodded thier heads. (Don't ask me what that means, because I don't know.)

If I were a few years younger and a few drinks more intoxicated, I would have had a go at cuckholding young Mr. Buford. I would probably be able to rationalize it too. Helping speed along the inevitable. I suspect that church-going aside, Honey would be susceptible. At least with another joke or two and another bottle or three.

Of course, those years are long behind me. It is better to do nothing than evil. Whatever that means. I think it means I'm trying. I bid good night to my Red State amigos and wished them many blonde babies and a fat 401K and as many SUVs as they can drive.

So...my self restraint intact...I tumbled downstairs to the lower bar to hit on the two Australian girls I met waiting to use the bathroom. Surely, my faculties would be more kindly applied in their direction. Of one thing I am certain: I will be less embarrassed in the morning if they turn me down than if I were thrown off of the tallest hotel this side of the Arno at the hands of an irrate Brant Buford. Poor sot.

Buona notte.