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.

Her: Due!

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?

Her: No.

The punches arrive - bright orange and piping hot with a cookie on the side.

Me: Cookies!

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