After lunch at Café’ Caracol, during
which Myrna complained at length about traveling all the way to
Italy and having to eat at Taco Bell when she wanted some good old
Eyetalian pizza, Karl couldn’t get the image of the statue out of
his mind. He knew what his right hand fantasy relief would be when
he was in his hotel room that night. He felt himself responding to
the thought.
The bus rolled to a stop under the canopy of
the Hotel Londra, returning from a tour of Florence’s
Historical Center. As Karl’s group left the bus, he could hear a
buzz of conversation from almost everyone they encountered on their
way into the lobby.
Since Karl could not understand much, if any,
Italian, he didn’t pay particular attention to what was being said,
merely noting that everyone seemed extr
