Pisa, anyone?

The Leaning Tower of Pisa isn't easy to see when your eyes are glued to side and rear mirrors in a desperate attempt to avoid collision with the motor-scooter riders who cut in from left and right. We had picked up our hire car - a wide, high, left-hand drive Lancia - moments before, and now here we were, tired after leaving home in Wales 6 hours earlier, at 5:00 a.m., weaving through the Italian traffic. We circled the Campo dei Miracolo - clockwise and anti-clockwise - drove past it and around it, but failed to close in. Faith barked desperate directions; Mel just barked. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, we were driving OUT of the city. Never mind, the tower would have to wait; we were on our way towards Arezzo, at last, to pick up the girls .... weren't we? Well, no, we were on our way towards Lucca, north instead of east! I won't share the scene that followed. Enough to say that we eventually glimpsed the tower from the city's ring-road, and began to talk to each other once more soon after we found the road to Florence and, by extrapolation, Arezzo. before all of this peregrinatory drama, though, we had arrived safely in Pisa International Airport, walked smartly off the plane and out into the terminal, because, for once we were travelling with cabin baggage only. We needed coffee, and so, while Faith found a table in the morning sun, Mel went off in search of sustenance. Buying coffee and pastries was a curious experience. I eventually deduced that you couldn't buy your wares from the pastry counter and the coffee bar, but had to go across the hall to the confectionery stand. There you place your order, paid and received a receipt. Taking this back across the hall, you jostled the other voyagers, waving the receipt, and, when you got to the front, placed your order. I swear that I walked between the two counters five times, memorising my order in Italian. At least I tried, unlike the woman in front of me who said to the classy young girl serving her, "No dear, I don't want tomato, Jessica doesn't like it. No, No. You don't understand, no tomato, please take it out. What? No. No tomato." She eventually bleated, "Oh never mind, leave it in, I'll give it to my husband." But by that time the girl had pointedly dropped the panini and turned away, to serve another customer.
We sat in the sunshine, munching our pastries and sipping our coffee, while the varied inhabitants of the airport milled around us. Many were overseas travellers like ourselves, but there was a good smattering of Italians, too, because the terrace opened out onto the town as well as in to the airport. We looked and listened; yes, the Italians were every bit as stylish and as voluble as we'd thought they'd be. The airport is a small one, with grassy waiting areas and "art", and many people were enjoying a mid-morning break.
By the time we drove into Arezzo, I'd begun to get the feel of the car and, parked safely behind the railway station, we left it to mee tup with the girls, who'd arrived in Italy the week before, to do some travelling on their own. We stood on a piazza and phoned them up. "We can see you"" they said and, in a few minutes, there they were, three seasoned voyagers by now, coming to meet us. We stayed long enough to buy some lunch and to talk about their visit to Florence. They'd even managed to buy a very nostalgic souvenir - a little bottle-stopper with a Pinocchio head on it. Very tacky, you might say, but Pinocchio had played an important in our earlier travels together, often protesting loudly from the luggage, or from the car boot, if he was neglected. It was good to see him, and he, too, was happy to be home ... he told us so!