Wake up late.
Eat a long, leisurely lunch at a surprisingly decent all you can eat Asian fusion restaurant with a friend.
Ride along the Arno River until the back path is lost to grass and stones.
Fix a bike for a cute Venetian girl waiting near a closed bike shop. Get treated to a coffee and gelato by the same cute girl. Former flatmate sabotages the situation during the email exchange when she tells the other girl that if she wants to contact her, just contact you:
"Abito sotto lui." ("I live under him," as if I were a sex addict or some form of totalitarian regime)
"No," you retort, "il suo apartamento รจ sotto il mio voleva dire." ("No, her apartment is under mine she means.")
Cute girl regards you both askance.
Your friend explains, "Ma siamo sempre insieme." ("That is we are always together.")
Another ride, this time through le Cascine, a large, beautiful park full of families, prostitutes, and thieves.
Discover a statue of George Washington. Yell, "First in war! First in peace! First in the hearts of his countrymen!"
Discover a horse racing track and a shooting range with cheap rates.
Flying through the park on your bike, wipe out harder than you have ever wiped out in your life, sliding on your side five yards through the gravel with the bike still under you, dust billowing into the air and a crowd of amazed spectators running to your aide. Spring up, announce to all that you are okay, get back on your bike, and ride off covered in dust and blood.
Shower, remove sharp gravel from your flayed left arm, and apply bandages to it.
Go out for Notte Blu and listen to a duet of classical pianists playing Mozart and Brahms in la Loggia dei Lanzi in Piazza Signoria.
Get to bed early.
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