Chronicles On My Trip VI: I Really Lose It In Florence

Yeah, it's been almost two years since my sister's wedding in Tuscany.  I am sorry, but I realized there is at least one other thing I want to say, and I might as well get around to it now.

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I don't know what triggered my outburst/meltdown that afternoon on our last day at Florence, my parents and I.  But when I'm with my folks basically cheek-to-jowl for several days, yelling at that was bound to happen.  Maybe it was My Fucking Father nagging at me to not eat that leftover pastry on our trip from Milan.  Maybe it was him (or was it Mother?) berating me for the way I was eating something at breakfast that morning.  But my subconscious had it up to here listening to them, and being around them.

The final straw was when we were moving down our luggage to the lobby.  We were going to be picked up that day, but first we wanted to take in the cathedral and maybe some lunch.  (By the way, we were maybe half a mile away from these grand, historic, popular attractions.  If you have never been to Florence, go.)  As a parting gift, the guy at the counter (great guy, we had great service our two days there) gave us a calendar of Florence sites.

Parents have kids so they have people they can push around.  Totally mean that.  No, I don't think everybody who has children does that.  I say it because I know that my parents had us for that reason.  It was totally in effect in this situation.  My folks said the equivalent of, "Aw!  Thank you!" then turned to me and went, "OK, put this with our luggage."

That was the first thing that set me off.  What, you're closer -- can't you do it yourself?  And besides, we had  some sightseeing to do.  So I took this small calendar and just tossed it onto the top of one of our bags, because who cares, it's going to be safe there.

And then, in unison, kind of like you'd hear in a comedy, they both went, "Put it in inside the bag!"  And I lost it, I just lost it.  I had something in my hand, not the calendar, and in rage I just threw that on the bag before I ripped open the closest luggage and stuffed the fucking calendar in there.  And because I "lost face" in public in front of strangers, both My Fucking Father and My Fucking Mother (never used the phrase "My Fucking Mother" before, but here it is appropriate) got angry, like they never have in front of polite strangers before.

What they said I don't remember, but our fight continued well after I put the calendar up both their fucking asses in a bag and as we headed downstairs.  For the first time ever, I thought I was standing up for myself: "All you ever do is nag, nag, nag!!!" I bellowed at both of them.  The only thing I remember from either of them is My Fucking Father saying, "Once we get home, you're moving out -- and you'll be homeless!!!"  Which ... is true.  But at least I wouldn't have My Fucking Father telling me what to do.

I walked ahead of the both of them -- partly due to spite, partly to fear -- as I heard My Fucking Father just complain and complain about my supposed insubordination.  Good thing we were going to a public place, the beautiful, famed Duomo.  They won't yell at me there.  They didn't; the next time I decided I would speak with them was when I told them I wanted to take a tour before we had to meet back at the hotel.  They spoke to me like I didn't have a meltdown just an hour before.  That's fine, whatever.

So I spent my time visiting the Duomo and the adjacent Campanile and Baptistery staying the hell away from them.  And I could've been a brat and went back to the hotel without them, but I did.

For the rest of the day we acted like nothing happened.  We waited in the lobby -- calendar safely tucked in the luggage -- until we saw my brother bounding up the stairs.  Neither I nor they told him about the fight.

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My brother picked us up in a taxi pre-arranged by my sister and brother-in-law.  Don't remember how long the ride was from Florence to Tuscany, I just know that the ride was quiet, and I was thankful.

We had time only to stash our bags in our rooms before dinner began.  And for an antisocial guy like me, I was truly happy to see family I hadn't seen in years, as well as meet new people.  There was a seating arrangement, and I was sat next to my sister's friends from work.  And every single person there was awesome.

By the way, my folks were sitting in an entirely different table, where my older relatives sat.  Again, we didn't talk about how they belittled me; not only was this not the right venue to air out our issues, we were completely enjoying our company and the first night of the destination wedding.

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We haven't brought that moment up since.  Sure, we've psychologically, passive-aggressively used the memory of that when we've gone after each other, but we haven't talked about that specifically.