A busy bar is a good bar, she says.
Let's stop in here for a drink of something.
I'm reluctant, but it's so cold out, I can't say no.
Her: Uno punch caldo al rum.
Me: What did you just order?
Her: A hot punch with rum.
Me: Yeah, I'll have that too.
The palace we just walked through made me sleepy. It was all baroque this and fresco that.
Let's go see a church, she says.
My eyes roll.
What, you don't like the culture?
Me: I love the culture.
The day ends, or feels like it's ending quickly because the sun sets so early.
Me: Isn't it dinner time soon?
The punches arrive - bright orange and piping hot with a cookie on the side.
I sit and watch the ladies with their hats, drinking coffees at the bar as I let the punch cool down a bit. Their black leather boots hitting the marble floor with a clip clop clip clop sound. There's a lot of laughter, the clanking of coffee cups being stacked, the pop of a prosecco bottled being opened.
Me: I love the bar.
Her: I know - if only they had frescoes