Italy -Day 1 memories

3 planes brought us to Rome. We wandered to the train station, where it occurred to me my friend had been stabbed last year. This actually doesn't say as much about the sketchiness of the area as it does the mouthiness of my friend, but still, the thought crossed my mind... We had 3 hours to kill, so we left luggage and more exhausted travel companions in search of Italian Beer. We found it easily enough, and made our way giddily back through the tunnels of the train station to the platform where our friends waited. In classic American style, we proceeded to enjoy our tasty adult beverages with gusto and bravado, there in the open platform. The station workers wandered by, chattering to each other in Italian - I'm not sure whether they were rolling their eyes at our brazenness, or eyeing my multicolored hair (it's Easter! My pink-and-purple coiff isn't rebellious, it's festive...) but either way, they made several purposeful orbits around our haggard crew and went on their way without engaging us. We kept drinking. Once on the train, we disembarked again in Arezzo, charged with buying a couple of days worth of groceries for the rest of the group. With only 45 minutes to do so, we raced across the square to the supermercado! I adore going grocery shopping in foreign countries- the different arrangements, sizes, groupings and packaging of familiar goods fascinates me. Here, you can only buy tomatoes in shrink-wrapped packages of 6. The myriad varieties of prosciutto are overwhelming, and the pasta..... Oh, the pasta! However, there were only three varieties of cereal. There's a cartoonish, dreamlike quality about foreign supermarkets. Thankfully the money is a little cartoonish as well, so I have no idea what it all cost. After racing back across to the train station, we shuffled across 4 train platforms and hauled everyone's 50lb bags up the narrow stairs onto the train, we settled into a few seats and waited for the train to depart. And waited... And waited. And a lovely Italian woman leaned over to us and said in a nice accent: "You do know that this train doesn't go to Bucine, don't you?" We all did a double-take of eachother as our brains slowly but collectively registered the sign outside this train that said "7:20" and then the sign outside the next train that said "7:05" and then our watches that said "7:03"... and bolted for the door. We scrambled to unload all of our exhausted bodies, 50lb bags and copious amounts of expensive Italian cartoon groceries and re-load all of the above onto the next train over. We flopped into new seats just as the train doors closed. And so here I am: sitting in the foyer of an 18th century, 5-story 'villa' (mansion by any american standards). These three tall doors open into a cool Tuscan breeze heavy with old grapes, crumbling brick, fresh bread and laughter. I sit on this couch, thinking: it really, truly doesn't get any better than this.