I think you know me. I am the girl next door. I have a recycled boyfriend and a job on which I hope to make a good living some day. Since high school I've lost about twenty pounds, or even more... Because the bastards are dragging around only feathery-fainted looking women, or a modern society collateral-product called a "female". Now, I consider myself a good looking female. To the carbs and curves, I said goodbye a long time ago. Cutting fat drastically has been the plan lately, but I still don't know. I might need some energy for those long hours and often working weekends... So to tell, I really had a life until recently.
   The idea occurred to me during last Thanksgiving. Every single family creature brought its offspring. Every, except me and cousin Danny, but he was gay. Consequently, he and his boyfriend will adopt one, sooner or later. That case is easy, but what about me?
----------------------
   "Listen to this, Sweden offers 96 weeks paid maternity leave, Denmark, Italy, Finland up to 50, 47, 44 and so on. In Norway, new mothers receive a full wage (a 100 % wage!), while on leave. In the U.K. 26 weeks are paid... Even the Eastern European countries offer generous benefits and extended family leaves... Huh, how about that..." The coworkers were reading the newspaper almost at the same time.
--------- ----------------
   The next two days I enjoyed London. Although, it was very clear to me that I would never retire from singlehood. In the Tower of London, the tour guide said, "You'll probably get out alive, ha, ha, ha..."
   "Ha, ha, ha, 'Britons', I'll never understand their sense of humor. I know about many who never got out of here, but what has that got to do with me? I am not Henry the VIII's second wife. As a matter of fact I am nobody's wife. It means safe, very safe. In short, the White Tower, Green Tower, home of the English crown jewels, a symbol of 1,000 years of Britain's royal history and some beheaded more or less famous heads. Okay, done, seen.
----------------------------------------
   "My personal opinion. Okay... Hmm... Women could extend their reproductive lives, so they would not need to take time off just to have children. A family could be rescheduled for middle-age so the career and the employer wouldn't suffer at all. And, hmm, personally, I already prospective myself chattering among middle-aged girlfriends... which denture-adhesive or which diaper-rash cream is the best. You know what, buying baby-diapers and dependables at the same time maybe is not such a bad idea, after all.------As far as I am concerned, I am not sure if I would like any doctoring done on me. Especially not a pregnancy in my early fifties or even sixties. Here, I vote for hatching babies in incubators. If science is able to create many things, including a live human being, why shouldn't we just pick up our newly born at the appointed time?--- Now, seriously... Instead of that freezing-resistant baby I would rather have some healthy natural-done almost organic children at a decent age."
------------------------------------------------
   I don't know how that smart and weird Brit keeps me by his side. They are strange people, as I thought, but I seem to have gotten used to it. So I shall not bother you anymore. No need to explain how his fingers found my neck and waist, or how his kisses tasted differently. What do I mean by different? Well, they were somewhat sweet and orangy. The flavor of my favorite chocolate, you remember, the English one. I almost forgot about that taste because I don't eat chocolate anymore. My before-boyfriends usually tasted as mouthwash.

  
   We all like fairy tales, about love or sex, left to our personal preferences. But, once upon my reality there was me and a divorce-likely boyfriend. Me and my job. Job. Job. Boyfriend, and mostly me and me. So, I hit the road, the sky if you mind the details. And here we go, France so deeply in love with itself. Charming.
   On Parisian "Plateau Beaubourg", I am eating 'crêpe cognac'. The colourful "Fountain by Tinguely" is splashing with pleasantness on this hot summery afternoon.
   "Excusez moi mademoiselle, I believe you have my crêpes and I have yours..."
   "Now that is charming," I think. A waitress has given my plate to exactly the right person. Excellent. The smart girl.
   French chords continue to slide down his lips, but I do not listen. I am busy measuring him. Good size. A very good size. And while he is talking to me some people have already taken his table. So now, what kind of person I would be not to offer the man a chair. I am a well-bred girl, you know.
-----------------------------------------------------
   The next morning, I stopped by the 'Café de la Comédie' near the Louvre. No, I wouldn't meet with Mona Lisa, some other time maybe. That day I had different plans in mind. I stopped to treat myself with 'Omlette Paysanne' for breakfast, first. 'Garçon' even smiled. They speak English now everywhere, but this one didn't save on smile. Though, for my taste, he talked too much.
   "Ooh, curious Italians. Why do they always want to know everything?" the waiter, 'garçon', asked me referring to the Italian group. The Italians had asked him so many questions before they stormed the Louvre.
   "I don't know," I replied. "It must be something in their nature. By the way, one curious Italian discovered the whole new continent."
   "If you ask me, that one especially didn't have to be so curious," the French waiter said with a smile.
   What I really like about the French, they do not pretend.
------------------------------------------------
   "But they hate Americans!"
   "No, they don't. They do not hate anybody. They just love themselves too much."
----------------------------------------------------------------  
   "The first thing I am going to conquer today is what else but the Eiffel Tower," I think.
   The military theory says, no fortress is taken over easily. It has been proven so many times. When I get there, an army of hundreds, maybe more, I have always been really bad at math, has already sieged the base of the Tower. Charming. I'll wait for an elevator, at least a couple of hours, not leaving the line. Hmm. Or I can try to climb up the stairs. Hmm.Too high and too full of holes; 15,000 pieces of metal weigh altogether 7,000 tons. If I climb only to the first level, it would be a 187 foot-view through the holes.
----------------------------------------------------------------  
   The man is embarrassingly polite and well-mannered. I heard about the ones that hold a door, a chair, that hold everything for you. I just didn't know where to find those guys. Oh, no, no. I didn't go searching for a romance, definitely not. What a stupid person I would be to believe in soap love stories.
   The kisses continue their voyage -------- They won't make any stops. I feel heaviness of my own --------

                              
                                   Z U R I C H

 
   Could you imagine your single-self in the middle of cold, polite, family crowded and above all indifferent Switzerland...? Yeah, that is exactly the case here. It's July. I better put my sweater on.
   Switzerland - a sustained pee-pee country. This is how I see it. You pay every time you have to go and with my frequency it is going to cost me. I can try to hold it. That way a couple of Swiss francs could be spared, not much. Speaking of which, how about now... But the Zurich "Bahnhof" (railroad station), two francs, out of the question.
   You guess right, I am in Zurich, the place with the world's largest number of public fountains (around 1,300), with the largest church clockface in Europe (8.7 meters in diameter), the most Nobel Prize winners and I should add the cleanest bathrooms... Or maybe the last one applies to all of Switzerland. But, as I already said, it is a costly undertaking. I really do not understand why that pee-pee business is such a big deal in Europe. In Paris, for example, I was given the code-number which was on my receipt, to break into the Parisian McDonald's bathroom. Pay first and then do the rest. Okay, I have already learned the rule.
--------------------------------------
   "No," said the guy calmly again, "of course I am not an American. I don't yell, I don't bark at the people around, I am not selfish, nervous or frustrated, I am not in a hurry... So, do I look like an American to you? No, thanks, I am Italian. "
---------------------------------------------
   "Really. This is all typically American. You guys meet, go to bed and you are divorced before you even know it. That's what is wrong."
   "Oh, yeah! And the rest of you... You are romantic, you don't want sex, don't tell!!! If you hate Americans why..."
   "I don't hate Americans..."
   "Yes, you do. You said it in the gallery."
   "No, I didn't. I said that I was different, there was nothing about love or hate."
   "But you think everything about us, Americans, is wrong." I was angry.
   "No, I think you guys have some potential, just work on it."
   "Oh, oh, look who's talking. You think you are funny, don't you?"
   "I don't think this is funny. What I am saying is, too much pressure, slow down people. You are killing yourselves."
-----------------------------------------------
   A very tiny long brush drew a line ---------------- It moved slowly ------ -------- The brush painted small spirals -----, then a stream of a hot breath helped the paint to dry out.

                                    
                       BARCELONA

   
   "Djobi, djoba," guitars and castanets are puffing. Ramblas, the most beautiful street in Catalonia, is tensing in ecstasy under the Spanish rhythm calling for love. Gypsies, getting carried away by their own dreams, play more and more. It is a call into a hug, a wish for staying in someone's embrace forever. A wobbling crowd follows a dancer with the unified motion. Her skirts are fluttering in the Mediterranean wind, red heels tapping on the pavement. The moon squints, even the sea rises, throwing some waves over the dock, to see better. The music is passionate and coarse, blissful and blue, at the very same time. But he has never comprehended poetic stupidities of hers.
   "Didn't you write it all down? Street in ecstasy, moon squints... Nonsense."
----------------------------------------------------------
   The unique church, "Sagrada Familia", whose facade looked as if boiling over and melting down the edifice; apartment-buildings with jaw-balconies; constructions set in bizarre shapes; all masterpieces of Antonio Gaudi... She continued sight-seeing alone the next day. The famous architect affixed the surrealistic seal over the city's face, making it the unusual artistic place for living. The guy really had some strange ideas--- a concept of building that emanated a stone mountain with open caverns on the facade, such as the building called "Casa Milá", hooded monsters and other odd ornaments, the facade in waves that visualized a movement of the building, an expression of pure vitality... He certainly made the difference. When Gaudi died in 1926, hit by a tram, the trams were punished. They stopped forever.
------------------------------
   "What is on the fourth floor, a bordello?" she asked. "I've never seen anybody entering a home through a restaurant."
   "No, on the fourth are apartments. On the fifth hotel, and there are apartments again," he answered calmly.
   "What do you mean by hotel?"
   "I mean, you buy a floor and turn it into hotel-rooms."
   "In the middle of an apartment building!"
   "Why not? You can find it everywhere, in Italy, France, here..."
-------------------------------------
   "What kind of chairs are these?" she asked anything, just to cover up her embarrassment.
   "They are the replicas of the ones designed by Antonio Gaudi. Stylistically they belong to the concept of nature or pure vitality. The mold for the chair was made... Oh I know my English is not good, but I'll try... The mold was made like this - one of the workers sat naked into a clay to maintain as natural shape as possible. Have a seat, please."
   "Thanks, I think. I'd rather stand."
---------------------------------------
   "Happiness is in prediction, expectation, attraction, desire and triumph," he's laughing. "In your culture, people meet and make love. In mine, they first try to attract each other, to induce avidity, to inflame passion."
-------------------------------------------------
   --------------- how to cross each other's legs - "It's tango". After awhile, she almost started to manage all those holding hands and taking turns. The woman did her best not to do anything stupid, but the dress didn't. That one was waving disobediently.

                              ULM

   
   "Well, by some stupid mistake, the sky has overturned a cargo of 'halfdone' snow. Still unloading and unloading right on me. This is what I am doing. On your advice I took a cheaper apartment out of town. Now, here I am at "Bahnhof", the railroad and bus station, waiting in a German-style orderly line along with, at least one hundred people to put my a** in a taxi. Buses are not driving for the rest of the day due to icy roads. Taxi drivers still are, but only the more courageous ones. Even those will stop driving when my turn comes. Who is crazy enough to skid into some hilly villages no one has ever heard of...? What, you don't remember what the village is called!? You don't? Fu***** nowhere, that's what it is called, fu***** nowhere. Or more precise - Cow fu***** nowhere. Cow 'Kuh' something, remember, you took me there. No, I am not angry, why should I be? What to breathe in deeply? Ice particles? Yes, the air is healthy up there, it is. In fall they were watering fields with real liquid shit. Nothing fake here. Do you have any idea how healthy that smelled? Do you?"
---------------------------------------
   As a matter of fact, her first impression when she arrived in the city of Ulm was that she got lost, strayed directly into a fairy tale. All the pictures from her sleepy childhood depicted by her mother's soft, dear voice were here. All but the prince. That one hasn't appeared yet. But they are known to be late. Sometimes they only run briefly across the story, just to keep the legend alive. Happy endings are reinvented by mothers. She mused sarcastically. She hoped, fantasized of some well-known place, maybe even Paris. It didn't happen. For her that was Ulm, a small town in Germany, no one ever heard of. The birthplace of Albert Einstein, the father of relativity. Right, a damn important thing in any young woman's life!
----------------------------------------------
   "I think we all need it from time to time, that special sense of importance. It is a male thing, we like to be someone's hero. Yet, with these days' girls, who can be a knight? They handle everything by themselves. I think definitely something is wrong with that picture. Every girl dreams about her own prince, but crosses swords not even giving him a chance to dismount from his horse. But personally, yes, I enjoyed the role. And all of a sudden I am not needed anymore." He said.
-------------------------------------------------
   The girl did not take her angora-gloves off. She read his dreams... Angora-piles titillated. Winter was a nice thing, after all.
--------------------------------------------------
   Many more sorts of things he opens his mouth to say, but he swallows. And he is swallowing for a couple of seconds, and then for a couple of more, separating the gulps slowly. The stream uncovers and then again splashes over ----------------------

                                       A T H E N S

   August, Athens at noon. The line of cars is waiting for a not-working traffic light. When that one, miraculously, goes into operation again, a man from the car ahead steps out to quarrel with a driver in the next line. His vehicle, askance and open-doored, has cost three more green lights. Finally, he moves. The rented "Fiat" has no air-conditioning. It smells of gasoline. For who knows how long, he has been cruising through the same streets trying to find a free parking lot. From everywhere flashing neon signs leer at him "Full". Even the idea of a cold drink has been foolish. There, in downtown Athens, simply has been no chance to stop, not for a moment.
---------------------------
   "Well, what happened, hmm. It was like this - I was driving circles all over downtown trying to find a parking lot. I don't know for how long exactly, but long enough to need a WC..."
   "WC!!!"
   "Yes, that is what it says on public restrooms, bathrooms if you do not count Greek letters."
   "Okay, okay. What damn business did you have in downtown, anyway? I told you to turn into Vasilissis Sophias Avenue at the junction of Vasilissis Sophias and Vasileos Konstandinou right after the Hilton Hotel, and then..."
   "Yes, you told me. But, you didn't tell me that the arrows pointed, not to left or right but up and down. And you didn't tell me that traffic signs were in Greek."
   "There are some in English, too. But not every one. You could recognize..."
   "I couldn't. A downarrow took me somewhere beneath an overpass. By the English sign I was exchanging mimics and artistic motions at maximum speed," he grimaced and stuck out the middle finger, "with drivers who showed me that they would let me in the exit lane like this," he continues to wave the stuck-out finger. "Although, I did notice some numbers "3" upside down (alluding to the Greek letters). That could have been what I was looking for, but too late. The Greeks would have rather sacrificed me alive to their Gods than let me in that lane. So, I found myself on the "Acropolis". There was an empty parking lot, for the first time."
   "And you found the WC, finally."
   "Found it yes, but I didn't use it."
   "How come?"
   "Simply... The lady at the door didn't let me in because of two 'drachmas'. First, they fleeced me to the skin, at the parking lot. I explained I didn't plan to stay for a couple of days, just an hour or so, but unsuccessfully. The price was the price. There, I coughed up a great deal of my cash. Then, running fast I went up the stairs, let's say, some hundreds of them. Fortunately, the WC wasn't at the very top but somewhere in the middle. When I got there it turned out I was short of money, precisely two drachmas short. The lady said, 'I am sorry.' You can just imagine how sorry I was!!!"

                                     F L O R E N C E

   
   "Va bene!" He will be going out with that freak tonight and "Arrivederci". Never again.The man has still been surprised... His father made him do such a thing? Instead, he was supposed to see his girlfriend. "Those curves of hers... Oh, no..." He dares not to think of it anymore...
   Villa Bocanneli already appears down the hillside, bordered by spindle-shaped cypresses. The elegant Mediterranean trees draw a path to the foothills pushing their way through the golden vineyard. At the bottom of the scenery the Arno is sliding. The river has washed away all the sins of the ancient family for centuries. His father is a good friend of the old Bocanneli's. To marry off their bachelorette, or I'd rather say the aged bachelor-girl, they must first persuade her to go out. So, that bow-wow needs to be pushed into some "lucky-guy's" arms, but how? No one has seen her for years.I remember her as a girl, fatted and spectacled, he thinks furiously. How could I forget such a beauty? And now, I am the lucky one. I have to introduce the heiress of the dilapidated Bocanneli estate to high society. Lucky me. It won't be easy. Besides her 'fascinating beauty', he laughs, everyone already knows about the financial trouble. How to survive this evening, that miscreation of a woman is gonna bug me? Let's try an intelligent conversation, it usually works. I hope she learned something at those Swiss-schools.
   He takes a deep breath and approaches the door. But the man must confess his curiosity, at least to himself, How ugly is the girl who spends summers here and never socializes?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------   
   "Unfortunately, mostly nude males are on this square. Is that what you are trying to say? This is the 'Piazza Della Signoria', also called 'the loveliest piazza' in Italy. Where do you think it obtained its epithet from? Florence is packed with naked bodies, including sculptures and painted acts. What's wrong about that...? It only means, in old times people were more natural and less prone to social forms," and she continued with staring at muscular Neptune.
   That made him nervous. He was thinking about the 'body of this world', a pretty average one, he was obliged to drag around. And he pushed her along.
   A cappuccino on the middle of the 'Ponte Vecchio' would be easier, he thought and was right.

                               V I E N N A

   
   The snowy smell was in the air. Sticky Pannonian fog awakened. The Danube River sluggishly endured its trip through the Plain. Lazy and drowsy twilight was dragging itself along the cornfields. Here and there a cornstalk would rustle. A lonely "szállás" frightened everyone with a straw roof and a ghostly well-winch. Everyone but Her. From time to time a huge tree cut into the bareness of tidy harvested fields. Winter was coming.
   A woman was approaching the place of their, now regular, rendezvous. Beam-shadows touched outlines of the "Péchy Szállás". She could almost feel the heat of the furnace, the old-fashioned bulky feather-quilt and hear the crackling of dewy logs that brought woody-winter smell into the room. She loved romantic shadows-dancing on the walls choreographed by an antique gas-lamp whose gleams waltzed over poppy-flowers painted saucer-hangings and embroideries.
   "All right dear, I know a very good shrink I can recommend..." This she got when she tried to depict that place to friends and family back home.
   "No, no listen to this. I am just inspired by Hungarian classics. Have you ever read...?" She tried again.
   "Okay, okay whatever. He is not quite a psychoanalyst, but I am convinced he could fix your problem and doesn't charge a fortune like others..."
   Once she tried to explain to them what the "szállás" was, but gave up and just put everything in her notebook. - A "szállás" is -------------------------------------------------------------------------   
   She met him the same day she met this country. She was tasting her first "goulash" and the world-famous "Hortobágy pancakes" at some inn in the Hortobágy area, north-east of Budapest. The terrace-inn with geraniums looked over the "Nine-holed Bridge" and the "Hungarian Puszta" (the lowland of vast untouched nature with gray cattle, herdsmen, shepherds, the racka sheep with twisted horns and live folk-presentations). She was watching a "Csikós's" bravura, a herdsman here was called csikós. He bridled six horses at the same time mostly standing between two, then jumping on other two all while galloping. The csikós was wearing something that could look like skirt-pants, white and very, very wide, mid-calf length; the fluttery-white shirt; the unbuttoned red braided vest; the black hat and black boots. In the middle of a bite of the juicy pancake, known as "Palascinta" here, basted with ground meat, sour cream and a lot of Hungarian red peppers, the gentleman was introduced to her. The new colleague, hmm...
   -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------   
   In fact, the whole thing seriously started from some "Csárda". The Gypsies' violins were scrapping the night. 'Tokay' was slipping over 'Sekelji goulash' and 'Hungarian roasted goose'. A briskly folk rhythm set ablaze everyone's soul. His hands were on her hips while teaching her "Czardas", the Hungarian folk dance. It was a perfect excuse to -------
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------    
   And now, being twisted around that man's muscular frame, she forgot the feeling of distrust in her own body which had slowly and perfidiously changed shape. For the first time after many years, she thought - I am not a teenage girl anymore so what? It is not that bad yet.

                              M Y K O N O S

   
   The woman grazed only a bit of her destiny and managed to escape, thank God! Still horrified, she is drinking unusual black coffee with grounds on the bottom. A sea has the color of indigo. That is the part of the day when the sun yawns for the first time and looks like it needs coffee too. Nearby, a man has darned a fishnet. Bare-wooden tables as if taken out of some wretched loft. Glaring roofless white houses pushed down to the shore. In the hilly background jut out, here and there, the same-shaped ones. Just a bold terra cotta among them. Turquoise jalousies, yet folded, tiny balconies and verandas empty. A whole place asleep.
   Her father charmed by this picture bought a house in which no one came for years. Actually, he bought it for his wife, who was Greek. He had many more, women and houses. The first thought last night was "Mykonos", far away from paparazzi, far away from false friends and fake love. She cut, dyed her hair and here she is, ready to settle her account with destiny. Just time, more time she needs to think it over.
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   "Do you want anything else?" a waiter approaches.
   Helplessly she rummages through her purse realizing that she has no wallet. The woman has never been so embarrassed, not in her whole life. All the bills were simply put on the account or somewhere, she didn't bother...
   The guy has been waiting persistently. How to explain to him that she possesses a lot of money...
   "May I bring it later?" she asks already pale enough.
   "Look lady, so many tourists are passing by. Did I make myself clear...?"
   "I can leave my watch!" It's worth a fortune.
   He looks at it suspiciously, "I got used to it. They offer me their junk almost every day. If you are not able to..."
   "It's okay. This is enough for my coffee too," an unknown man hands a couple of drachmas.
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   Oh my Goodness, the guy assumes I am a prostitute!
---------------------------------------------------
   The quarter of "Venice" was situated on the south side of the island's capital Mykonos. An enclave of old houses built by Venetians between the thirteenth and fourteenth century, the period Mykonos was directly dependent on Venice, the real Italian one. During that period the islands Tenos and Mykonos were ceded to the Ghisi family from Venice. Of course, what would Venetians know but build the whole place on the water. It turned out to come in handy in those old days, though. Captains had direct access to the sea through their wooden balconies. And so, from one of these balconies she looked at the Aegean Sea, nowadays a very Greek one, washing planks under her feet.
   I can jump down right from this balcony and no one will ever know what happened to me. No one would even want to know. But I am here to gather all of willpower and strength I possible can, not to sink. My disappearance would satisfy a lot of wishes. I shall not give them that satisfaction. I'll fight.

                                     V E N I C E

   
   "Hold on, hold on. Wait a second sweetheart and listen to me." The athletic-looking woman sat down. "Okay let's say I can postpone my honeymoon for five or ten minutes. I am afraid my dear, you will not be able to find a job, neither here nor anywhere along the French or Italian Riviera."
   "Why not? I think I can obtain that student-work permit or whatever it is. I have just graduated from college and we are allowed to..."
   While the brunette was talking this adventurous-looking woman was measuring her from head to toe:
   "No, not appropriate measures. You have more than required, of everything."
   Both girls gave her a puzzled look.
   "You guys apparently do not know about the new regulation," the woman continued. "We have a slangy name for it - 'the ugly wives decree'. The last couple of years, precisely from the downfall of communism, an army of East European beauties has occupied the Riviera, French and Italian coast. In the beginning, that was profitable, so no one complained. They worked usually as maids, house aids for the elderly and stuff like that. But then, it turned out some of them worked way too conscientiously. Now we have many new, young, well-busted and well-bottomed lady-proprietors, here. When the phenomenon started to acquire a little bit large scale, the city fathers, of course not only locally but in many places along the Riviera, decided to take measures and place under protection of law those abandoned, embittered spouses. Anyhow, the situation now is - only ugly, flat and completely buttoned up women can find a job."
   "There is a law against my b****, are you kidding me?"
   "No, bebe I am serious. You are too legally restricted, as far as I can tell."
---------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------   
   "Out, before I call the carabiniere," but he still didn't look angry.
   "Carabiniere, police you mean! And I thought you, Italians, were nice to women. What happened to you people? Even pigeons here are fed and protected by the state..."
   "No, no. You stay. I am not done with you yet." It was directed to the brunette disguised as a male-gondolier. "Only you are out of here." He pointed his finger at the blonde.
  "And what about you? May I see your license and photo-i.d., please."
  The other girl anxiously searched through her gondolier-money-belt. If I just could recall the name of that permit, she thought. It would at least sound convincing. I'm sure it has some 'giorno' in it, but what. The man didn't give up. He waited patiently. She hoped to keep him busy with that first permit long enough to forget to ask for the gondola license. 'Permettere', it is a permit, but no, that's not it. This has something like 'dg', 'degorno'...
  "Here is my, hmm, degiorno, digiorno, bon... no..."
   "Bongiorno to yourself. Good day it is. But I still need to see your photo-i.d..."
   The man inspected her passport and permits, "This seems to be a different name to me."
   "No, no, hmm, it is not different, just misspelled. See, if you take these two out and add one more letter here, and, see, here. It happens all the time, ha, ha..." But that synthetic smile lasted only for the length of those two ha, ha.
   "Aha, I see..." said the man, sort of delayed and seriously.
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   "First to the 'quartarolo', please."
   A catch, she thought. I won't bite this one. At least I read the tourist guide. 'Quartarolo' was the old name for the wooden bridge with a drawbridge section. It was named after a coin which had to be paid as a toll to cross it. A new stone bridge replaced it in the sixteenth century, now the famous Rialto Bridge.
   "Now, pass 'the Queen of Cyprus Palazzo'."