Ciao from Italy.

I'm sitting in a little converted coatroom off the lobby of our hotel in Florence, using an old pizza-box HP with a suitably European keyboard (it took some work to find the @ sign). I left Boston on Friday evening (and boy, do I have a story about that) and already I'm speaking like a European. I greet everyone in Italian, I call the elevator a "lift," and I will never call this city Florence again, as its name is Firenze. One might say I'm adapting well to Italy.

I have fallen in love with Firenze. The streets make no sense whatsoever, everyone rides Vespas, the concept of driving lanes is, uh, very fluid, and yet somehow, it all works. It's anarchy, but relatively peaceful anarchy; I've seen plenty of people on bicycles riding in heavy traffic, apparently unruffled by the occasional brush of a side-view mirror against their sleeves. People here simply need less personal space, which gives the city an intimacy not found in the United States.

We've cheered on runners in the Firenze marathon, wandered through the enormous Sunday flea market, checked out the Duomo and the Ponte Vecchio, watched a couple of rowers ready their shell on the bank of the Arno River, and had the best meals of our lives in little trattorias free of typical tourists. I kept pointing out little architectural details to my parents; the buildings here show hundreds of years of use and love. (My mother hugged me yesterday and said, "I knew you would love Italy!") I'm ready to move in. But already we have to move on.

Tomorrow morning, we leave for Sienna in a car driven by someone who allegedly speaks English. We'll overnight there, then travel by rail to Rome. More adventures await, probably of the punching-Eurotrash-thieves variety (crime is far worse in Rome than in friendly Firenze). I'll try to check in from Siena and/or Rome (Roma!). But in the meanwhile, will someone check on how long Cricket would have to be in quarantine to move to Firenze with me?

Buona notte, my friends.