Well, it isn't from any trains when Domenico was actually riding them since even First Class doesn't have Internet access.
(Dom's Q to Trenitalia: Perche' no? Costa abbastanza prendere il treno, eh! This translates as, roughly, "So why not? Train travel is fucking expensive in Italy!" OK, that's my translation, but the cost of trains vs. planes in that country astonishes me...how come much planes are so much cheaper? And, you know, since they're both habitually late.)
Allora. Dom wrote this brief message after arriving at Florence on Sunday eve:
I almost cry when the train got to Italy. I mean to Veneto, because it started to look like real Italy then. No offence to Merano!
OK, maybe a little because the lady of the agriturismo in Merano was a real bitch. I had to leave one day early to get to Firenze for special business and chat with some people. She act all huffy and sad at same time, It's Sunday and I need my family time unlike you unlove shitfaces, it seem like that and I wasn't not the only one to feel that. And no I got no discount or money back. OK I reserve 3 nights but, also OK, I had to change my travel plan. This Meran bitch have to act like she the victim? Fuck her! I don't know how to say in her language that makes me sick but, altrettanto!
The train was slow -- a lot of slow bullshit before Bologna, who knows why -- and a huge fat man with a bad disposition sit next to me all the way until I get off at Florence. I think he was the one farting so much too.
I was so glad to get to a place where wireless Internet was available. I loved walking around the city of Firenze even though there was almost nothing open except a few bar and late restaurants. There are times when you wish you was at New York, the City That Never Sleep. I used to like Florence Ok but now it seems so much the better. It is in Italy. Real Italy. What the hell, if there wasn't no Florence there wouldn't be no Italy. I like the wine here. No superTuscan make me feel giddy [a word I taught him, because Italians always use the use "entusiasta" for damn near everything.] But I love the Sangiovese in purezza and the vinsanto and the best olive oils in the world.
Plus, Terry, when the Tuscan people say "closed" (like a store or restaurant) they are pronouncing "hughes" like your name. It's funny because I feel like you're over my shoulder pushing me to make a good long report!
The only one bad thing at Florence to tonight was at ripoff restaurant in Piazza della Repubblica, Donnini, which always get into guide (why? it is like a diner, except in Firenze) they have house wine that cost way too much Ruffino, OK but sofisticato, fool with (extra sugar, wood chip, I don't know and don't give a shit), but at least it is wine and not some beer that they try making into wine and cognac up in Alto Adige. You should not even ask...
Well, Terry, tell your reader that it is very late, almost 2 am, so after a long train voyage by a mean fat man, I am tired and want to go to sleep. Sorry for the predica corta -- the short talking -- but this young man is exhausted.
My new hero is Mario Pojer, vignaiolo of Pojer & Sandri.
Tomorrow I go to Tuscany to contact Terry's friends, he loved but I need to time to accept. Or them to me. Not sure. Too late, after 2 am, I am wondering who will do laundry because I have no more underpants and can't get to my mother house at Rome so soon.
Huh? Is Dom doing translations for Italian wine web sites?
I have to say...well, I'll save my snottier observations for another post. For now let's just say that, according to the private comments and pictures given me by Dom, too many Italian wine journalists look and sound like James Lipton. They have bad haircuts, considering how little hair they have, and they talk endlessly about their idiotic opinions in a way that makes "what is your favorite swear word?" seem almost intelligent. (For which the intelligent response would be, "Your name, asshole!" But today's film and theatre stars are like most Italian wine producers, too polite to say what they really think: "Shut up and let me do my business, gas bag!")
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