Florence*. Florence, Italy, also known as the last leg of my four months of travelling. Now, some of you might be scratching your head and thinking “We’re in Florence now? How did we get to Florence?” If you are so scratching, I offer you some calamine lotion and then the link to this post, which details my rather interesting middle-aged-men-slumber-party-then-quite-erm-friendly-gelato-shouting**-Ronaldo-encounter-arrival in Italy.
Now that everyone’s on board in regards to how the Paris Glimpses become Florence Glimpses…
Oh, and I did try to get a better shot of this dog, but secretly paparazzi-stalking someone’s pet is harder than you may think, particularly in a very crowded shop.
* Excuse me a minute while I scramble onto my opinionated high horse. Ah, that’s better. Okay. I’m going to keep calling Florence, well, Florence, because I assume most of my readers are English speakers. However, Florence’s actual name is Firenze, just as Rome is actually Roma. I cannot for the life of me understand why, as English speakers, we’ve corrupted the Italian names to suit our own purposes, and yet I realise that it’s not only English speakers that transmogrify place names (teehee, I just said “transmogrify”). In French, for example, Australia is l’Australie, and Japan is Japon. So I guess this kind of place-name-changing is universal, and yet it doesn’t sit comfortably with me. I can’t help thinking we should call places by the names given them by their inhabitants. What do y’all think?
** I recently discovered that “shouting” is an Australian term not necessarily understood beyond our shores. So Today’s Language Lesson is that “to shout [someone] [something]” means to pay for it. At the pub, for example, people often take it in turns to “shout” a round of drinks, or one might “shout” a friend coffee and cake at afternoon tea. And now I’ll take off my teacher’s hat and dismount my horse.