Deepest apologies for the recent lack of correspondence. I momentarily lost the ability to think.

Florence
You will recall that at the end of the last thrilling episode, our hero was about to escape Austria but had two spare days up his sleeve before his rendezvous in Provence. The story continues�EMy original criteria for choosing a stopover in Italy was simple: on the train line from Innsbruck to Nice, in order to reduce the time I spent gazing stupidly out the window at alp after alp after alp, and listening to my music that bit too loud to try to block out some annoying conversation between two emotionally-stunted poms. ("Don't take my picture, don't take my picture." "Okay, I won't take your picture." SNAP "You took my picture!!" Happily, though, this overly functional method of destination selection was beaten out of my be some fellow hostellers before I booked my ticket to Genoa, and I made tracks to the fair city of Florence (Firenze to those of us in the know).

The art history lecture begins
Well, my poor wee New World brain was once more overloaded with the history confronting me at every turn. If Vienna is littered with statues, then Florence can only be the nude-stone-old-guy capital of the world. I had no time to waste in Florence, and so at sparrow's fart I found myself lined outside the Galleria dell'Accademia, which houses Michelangelo's David and his four unfinished slaves. David was absolutely incredible. I walked around it at least six times, not making a sound. At about five metres tall, it is quite impressive any way you look at it, but it's on the closer examination that you begin to understand why this is the statue that everyone still talks about: the curls in his hair, to start, but also the veins visible in the lowered right hand, while the raised left hand showing only tendons, as though the statue'sblood, like the model's, has run down to the lower hand.

I also found what is apparently some big secret amongst we in the global art circles. Michelangelo would carve out the only some of the statue at the start, enough to give the direction to the work. After that he left a significant part of the hacking and chiseling to an apprentice. The eventual owner of the statue would come and view the work in progress, and so that the apprentice could recognize each statue's owner, Michelangelo would carve the owner's profile into the back of the marble block. Because this profile would be removed as one of the last steps in the process they don't remain in any statues, except for one of the unfinished slaves. So, there I was, feeling like a bit of a twit, clambering around each statue, craning to see the back of the block of marble. But I eventually found it, as clear as day. I can now tell you that the intended owner of the third slave on the left had a big nose and curly hair. Not a bad find, especially since I heard about it six months ago in another hostel in Japan!

After that culture-a-ramic experience, I trotted happily off to the Ufizzi Gallery, which houses the motherlode of Italian Renaissance art. I'll spare you my copious notes from this gallery, but I will tell you that (1) there was much excitement on my behalf, (2) I was in there for nearly four hours, and (3) I think I got my 6.50 euro worth.

End of art history lecture, still on Florence
Florence was a nice contrast to Vienna, which was the last major city that I had been in. In Austria, you can actually hear the other pedestrians tut their tongues at you if you step onto even an empty road while the red man is flashing. But here, even while the little green man is inviting you onto the crossing, cars don't so much stop for you as swerve around you. The Ring in Vienna is a graceful, tree-lined boulevard that forms an orderly center in the spiderweb of streets that spread out from it. You can get your bearings pretty quickly: if you hit Neubeugasse, you've gone too far east; if you can see the golden cabbage, you're near Karlsplatz, and so on. But if a spider spun the streets of Florence, it was a drunk one that died of hunger. It did, however, leave a wonderful set of pedestrian-only piazzas that are now populated with originals and replicas of famous statues that got me almost as excited as I was in the Ufizzi. The pedestrian-only nature of the piazzas is fairly provisional from what I can see. Cars, motorbikes (the cute European kind), taxis and even the occasional bus, all seem to merge with pedestrians at their leisure.

So then one day traveling with cool Americans #3 and 4 (Ned and Megan to their parents) to the old rural town of Siena. Much beauty, much old stuff, and the best damn pasta I've ever eaten. Actually, all of the food in Italy was fantastic. But then again, I was in Tuscany after all. If the food isn't good there, what hope do we have?

After two action-packed days in Italy, I board my overnight train to France a weary but happy backpacker. The train ride was really boring for most of the time, but I did depart the train having collected a -- um -- certain kind of bruise on my neck. I tell you, I caught trains for three years in Melbourne, and not once did anything really memorable happen. I get on one single train in Italy, and I get a pash. She didn't even speak English. I like Europe.

France in five words or less
Where are the damn berets? or perhaps
Bring on the baguettes!

The rest
Caught up with old housemate Ingrid and her Dutch lover Patrick in Avignon and traveled through Provence and Burgundy with them. Am now staying in their place in Amsterdam. Very good to be out of hostels for a while. Am going to Berlin tomorrow, on way back to intended Eastern-European circuit beginning with Prague. Will keep you posted. Over.