I decide to tough out Siena. I eat. 

I find an osteria on a sloping, between-building street and I order pasta and rabbit and wine. About the rabbit. My grandmother makes it. I don’t know. And I definitely went through a high-school-and-college sort of phase where I was like, ew. Bunnies. But some fundamental thing in my life seems to have shifted, because now I’m like. I eat cows. So.
It is actually splendid. Very pomodoro. Super tender. Almost as good as my grandmother’s which is saying something. 
On the train from Siena, I see remarkable Italy. Crumbling castles and cities on hills and acquaducts and vineyard after vineyard after vineyard. Enough to write a hundred fairy tales, so that’s what I did to pass the time. Or I at least wrote one. A piece of one. 
And then Rome. Which is exciting when you’re still on the platform, screaming, gilded, honking. I am in love already and scared to death, which is how life should always be.  
Remind me to tell you about how I hate backpacks. And money belts. Not for you, necessarily. I’m sure they’re great for you. But they’re not great for me. 
I just saw the Trevi Fountain. I forgot to throw in a coin. 

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