A Three Hour Tour

My mother says that from the pictures she's seeing on Facebook, she thinks I may be losing weight. Whatever imaginary weight I may or may not have lost has been totally nullified by the meal I just had at La Giostra. It's 11:17 and the bill has just arrived with a total cost of 37 euros. 37 euros!! How did that happen!?!
La Giostra is nestled in this small side street off of one of the more major roads in Florence. Given to me as a "must" place by a very good friend of mine who's taste in food I respect, I decided to try it out. Friday night Sally and I had tried to walk in just as it had opened it's doors at 7pm without a reservation. "Full until 9pm, sorry." I knew that restaurants filled up on the weekend quickly, but there was no one there so I didn't understand the problem. Until tonight. 
I had made sure to call ahead this time, which seemed silly for one person (Sally had left Florence that morning for Naples) but I decided to play the safe route. "8pm. Solo. Si. See you then."
I get ready at my hotel, donning the best outfit I have. A turtleneck I had thrown in my suitcase at the last minute, thinking there was no way I was ever going to need it - yeah, right - a grey, soft mid thigh jacket-sweater, and a cream scarf. Everyone in Italy wears scarves, all the time. You can tell what is important to them by walking through the markets - belts, purses and scarves. Everything else, who cares. 
I grab my only pair of jeans and unlike my European counterpartrs who don amazingly beautiful boots of all heights and colors, I am forced to put on my Merrills shoes. The Merrills that have trounced through dog shit, pig shit, goat shit and rabbit shit. Oh yes, I feel fancy. 
In an attempt to offset my sub par foot wear, I put on mascara as well as the usual eye shadow and liner. I never put on mascara unless I'm tying to feel extra special or to look good for my date. Going out for dinner alone, you do all these things for yourself. The makeup, the straightened but still slightly wavy hair, the scarf adjusted just so to help me blend in rather than scream tourist who doesn't speak Italian. There is no one here to impress, no one to bat eyelashes at, no one to appreciate anything you have to offer other than you, yourself and you. Dressing up makes me feel a bit more human, a bit more like myself. 
I set off from the hotel with lots of time to spare just in case I get lost. I've walked around Florence quite a lot in the 31 hours I've been here and have a gotten a good lay of the land. Still, I feel better knowing there a complementary map folded up in my pocket. I overestimate how long it takes for me to walk there and arrive by 7:40. I walk around for a few minutes waiting until 7:45, hoping they will let me in a few minutes early. 
The 7:30 crowd has already been seated and I realize immediately that this would be listed in tour books as "an ideal romantic restaurant for couples, complete with candlelight." Well crap. Eating alone surrounded by couples. AWESOME. I could turn back now, I'm sure they wouldn't care. One more table to sit TWO people at rather than just one. But no, I'm going to stick this thing out. This food had better be amazing or my "very good friend" is going to get chewed out on the phone in the near future for sending me here. 
Seated in the back, there are several couples around me. I can tell that having a single eater sitting next to them is making an American couple well within ear shot uncomfortable. They know I can hear their every word and it isn't until their wine starts flowing that they start to talk more openly. For me though, and everyone else, the night starts out with a complementary glass of procsecco and a complementary plate of hors d'oeuvre, usually to be split between two people, but I get this all to myself. Alright, maybe I won't kill my friend quite yet, she's bought her self a little extra time.
I've gotten by with mostly Italian, but when it comes to ordering, I have no idea what to get. I ask the waiter in english for recommendations and he rattles things off quite quickly, but I hear one of them has something to do with a lot of cheese and the other is pear ravioli. Those both sound good to me.  And to drink? Well, actually, can I just have another glass of prosecco? I was in the Uffizi museum earlier today (not the one with the David, the other one with the Madonna) and had a glass of prosecco to celebrate myself, why stop now? 
The waiter seems to wave it off like it's not even an order, saying he'll take care of it. Not sure what that means until he comes back with a bottle that has been used to fill other diner's complementary glasses but still has a good two glasses left in it. He fills my flute to the brim and after inspecting the bottle, says something about there not being that much left and leaves the bottle on my table. Well alrighty then. 
After scarfing down my plate of complementary appetizers, the cheese plate I ordered has arrived. A bowl of cheese that isn't quite like mozzarella - it's light and creamery and slightly stringy - is the main event with sides of sliced grapefruit, walnuts, pine nuts, jam and honey, all to be made into different delectable combinations with the cheese. And delictable it is. Again, a plate to be shared between two people, I scarf it down myself. 
While I eat, I tune into the conversations around me. The two couples flanking me could not be more different. To my right, newlyweds who go from periods of long silence to talking about their GPAs and where he should go for his next degree. I hear them say A&M in Galveston, and my ears perk up. Then they discuss Univesity of Texas at Austin, but dismiss it saying it's all medical there - I'm guessing they've never been to Austin. I think about interjecting but that would be admitting that I had been listening in and it sounds like they have just forgotten that I am sitting there, so who knows what good stuff they may get to talking about. 
The other couple near by is the complete opposite. They chat away without a lull in their conversation. I can't help but think about the man on the bus to Amalfi giving his theory about couples that go through meals without speaking. This couple clearly had a lot to talk about. And, it turns out, it's their 40th wedding anniversary and they are traveling Europe celebrating his retirement. The discuss their daughter, the food, their neighbors - not that I'm listening or anything. 
All of this around me has me missing home. A daughter and her parents are seated to my diagonal right and I wonder what it would be like if my parents were here with me right now. I'm sure they would know what to think, but I wish they were here. Or my friends. All of the wine and cheese snobs would love this place. And with that I have come to a very clear realization that has been germinating in my head for days now. While this trip is a really interesting experience, it isn't a lot of FUN. There's no one to share things with and without someone else here, it's just not the same. I can't imagine the amazing time I would have had on this trip if I had a friend or a boyfriend to share it with. I don't regret the decision to take this trip, but I wouldn't do it again. So to pass the time I make a list of the things I miss most about being home. About being around the people who make my life fun, the ones that make me laugh. (see list below)
To lighten the mood more food has arrived. I'm pretty full, but I must give it the college try and press on though this lovely dish of ravioli, a dish that looks more like yellow pillows sent from heaven than pasta.  
At this point the prosecco is gone and I figure I'll have one glass of red before calling it a night. I grab the waiter's attention, but he assumes I just want more prosecco. Ok then, let the celebration continue. Again, he brings a bottle, fills up my glass and leaves the bottle. I swear, people take pity on you when you dine alone, which I am more than happy to take advantage of. 
Another waiter, the strangest of strange, has been milling about helping other tables when he turns his attention to me. In his late 30s with scruffy shoulder length brown hair, a pair of 80's white sunglasses tucked on the top of his head and more bracelets than I can count down both arms, he is not someone that you miss. You can hear him coming, jingling bracelets as soon as he leaves the kitchen. He asks me in Italian if I would like some cheers for my ravioli, which I say yes to and then he proceeds to babble to me in Italian. I put on my standard deer in headlights face that is typical for me when this happens (when you speak Italian to Italians, they assume you can understand their response) and tell him I only speak a little Italian. He switches easily over to English and says, "Are you ok princess, anything else I can get you?" Princess. Princess? In the US this would have irritated me to no end, but in Italy it seems somewhat endearing. I thank him but tell him no, I'm fine and proceed to carefully work my way through the plate in front of me. After a good 30 minutes of slowly eating with purpose, I finish the dish and take a look at my watch. 10pm. Eesh. I thought I would have been back at the hotel by now, but it's just turning to limencello time. I'll be home by 11, surely. The two tables with the couples have already turned over by this point which I find mildly amusing. How does a person eating by herself outlast a couple who could be savoring so much of what is around them? I still don't know the answer. 
The tables are replaced with two American women at one and two Italian women at another. No more couples thankfully. The table with the daughter and the parents have also turned over, replacing it with three young men who are now just siting down to eat. At 10:15. I don't get how this works, but apparently the restaurant will be seating people until midnight. I order my limencello to expedite the process - I mean, I have been here for over 2 hours already alone, it's time to wrap it up. The waiter brings the bottle of limencello and pours me a small standard glass. And what do you think he did with the bottle? Yup, he left it there. "Have as much as you like," he says. Are you insane? This stuff is 40 proof! But ok, don't mind if I do. I still have the prosecco bottle on my table as well as the water bottle. Between the three bottles, I look like a raging alcoholic. Sitting by myself with numerous bottles of various liquid. Lovely. 
I finish my glass and have a very small amount more. The waiter comes back around and fills my glass again. Oh good god people, what is it with Italians and trying to get me drunk?! He comes around a third time and I stop him from adding anymore and ask for the check. 
I start to do the numbers in my head. A glass of prosecco in the States would be $7 so that means about 5 euro and I had four, approximately. And then limencello. Another 5 or 6, at least. Two bottles of water at 2 euro each, the service charge of 3 euro and then the actual meal, 14 euro for the cheese dish and 18 euro for the ravioli. That's approximately 67 euro. Humph. That's not cheap, but it's 11:15 and I've been here for almost 3.5 hours, at a table by myself eating delicious food and drinking wonderful wine and spirits. And it's not like I'm doing this often in Italy, so I can indulge the the higher cost. A little wooden box with the check inside comes and there is the completely unexpected number of 37 euro. 
I pay the bill leaving a little extra to say thanks and attempt to breathe in my now very tight jeans. I feel like everyone is watching me getting up, watching the person who came to the restaurant eating alone. Why is she alone? And why would she come out in public? All of these irrational accusations go running through my head, but I know they are completely exaggerated and unrealistic. This is my obsession with being alone, not theirs.
I wrap myself in my coat, adjust my scarf to keep the cold from winding its way down my neck into my jacket and set off for the hotel. 11:30 and the town is just coming alive. Bars and gelatarias are packed, everyone is filling the streets for the start to a typical Saturday night in Florence. Me? I'm headed back to a queen bed in a room that barely fits it, to my iPad where Facebook will tell me about all of the goings-on in people's lives for the day and to knowing that tomorrow I will leave for Arezzo, home to my third and final host in Italy. My stay is coming into its final chapters and (unlike my previous more bold and steadfast Half n Half post) that is just fine with me.