In the morning, I went shopping in chinatown for this and that. A new shoulder bag, mainly, and sriracha sauce which, for some odd reason, you absolutely cannot find here. A quick trip to the perfumaria to buy a year's supply of lipsticks-- can't get either the brand or the shade I like here-- and I was off to meet Elvis and our Italian friend S. for lunch.

We went to Elvis' favorite lunchtime restaurant, near the place he used to work. I had pizza again, and it was good, despite the fact that Elvis and I had to wait 45 minutes to get them. Each member of a party of ten ordered pizzas just before we did, immediately snowing the pizza guys under, and it took a while for them to catch up. So we watched S. eat his pasta, then his secondo (mixed cold meat with a side order of beans), then we chatted for a while, then S. watch Elvis and I eat our pizzas. Luckily, they were worth the wait.

Since we left Milan, S. has both gotten married and had a son (well, his wife did the actual childbearing), so we had a lot of catching up to do. We missed S. and B.'s wedding-- we just weren't able to get back-- and we still feel bad about it, although I guess it couldn't be helped. They're doing well, though, and I'm very happy for them.

After that, we stopped by the pub where I used to meet Elvis and assorted friends after work. It was about 2:30 by the time we got there, so most of the lunch crowd was gone and we were able to have a beer and talk to the landlord and to our friend Mehmet. Mehmet's finally got his work permit and is moving to another country to be with his girlfriend. Go Memhet! I'm so happy for him, and for his girlfriend, too. As the landlord pointed out, Mehmet is intelligent, educated, and clever. He's also a hard worker and a genuinely nice guy. I wish him all the best.

The pub closes around three, and reopens in the evening. When we got to the bar to pay, we saw landlord pouring a jewel-like green liquid into five shot glasses-- one for each of us, plus another friend of his who was still there.

Absinthe. Three in the afternoon, and he wants us to drink absinthe.

The landlord collects bottles of liquor, and he has an entire shelf of bottles that aren't on the menu-- or even for sale. He was always a big one for having us try a new type of whisky, or whatever was his latest acquisition. I thought about the last time I had absinthe. The only time, actually, and it wasn't a good thing at all. On the other hand, the situation was entirely different. I was sober, for one thing, the absinthe wasn't mixed with any other liquor, and it wasn't being set on fire. Also, it would have been rude to refuse.

So we drank our absinthe whilst Elvis regaled everybody with the story of my absinthe experience. Elvis made a face that screamed "I can't believe the flavor!" (and not in a good way), hugs and kisses all around, and we were out the door and heading for the tram stop.

"Dilettante," said Elvis, "I can't feel my lips."

Neither could I. But I liked it though. It tasted of anise, like raki or ouzo. Or Pernod, of course, which is essentially absinthe without the fun stuff.

We took the tram back downtown. What next? Why, another drink, of course! We went to Caffé Guido. Guido was there this time, making a big fuss over us, which was kind of nice. I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but they always call Elvis, "Mr. Elvis!". (Yes, complete with exclamation point.) Me, on the other hand, they call "My Lady!" I like to think of it as a compliment-- perhaps I am impossibly elegant and ethereal and, well, regal. In reality, I know it's probably because they can't remember my actual name, and it's been so long that they can't think of me as anything else. Ah, well. At least they remember who I am, if not what I'm called.

We stayed for about two drinks, and then we did some more shopping. (Books! I got books!) Then we went for dinner at our second favorite restaurant. This is a little neighborhood type of place, where we always get the spicy pasta. It's called spaghetti alla giuseppe, because that's the way Giuseppe likes it, and it's not on the menu.

It's also to die for, although it's best if everybody at the table orders it, or at least your lover. We're talking a shitload of garlic here. Then we were off to the Mardi Gras (dumping our purchases at the hotel on the way), where we ran into more people we knew, and Elvis ended up playing pool with some little gay guy and totally ignoring me, and somehow it was 3:30 am and we're eating panini with Tommy and Enzo at an outdoor food van near Garibaldi Station. Aside from hunger, our trip to the imbiss was connected, in some way, to a pair of Scandinavian models, one of whom was a bitch and a half. I think Tommy was fleeing. Either that, or topping up his energy levels.

The panini, by the way, were excellent, as was the "floor show". A unique feature of this particular location is the ability to watch the transvestite prostitutes stop for a snack, complete with micro-mini-skirts, fishnet stockings and size twelve stilettos. The one in the Dolly Parton wig, in particular, managed to work up a big appetite, somehow or other. I was tempted to ask, but managed to restrain myself.

Not surprisingly, we slept a bit later than intended on Saturday morning. I dashed off to Rua Sarpi to shop before the stores closed for lunch, and Elvis went to Stazione Garibaldi to catch the train to Triuggio. He intended to go to the Canali manufacturer store to buy some suits, but the next train there wasn't until 4:15. Instead of coming back downtown to meet me for lunch, he decided to walk to a nearby McD*n*ld's. He might have done things differently had the McD's in question actually been nearby, instead of a forty-five minute walk.

I, meanwhile, had finished my shopping: Four pair of boots, gorgeous and sexy and pointy-toed, yet with calçada friendly heels, on sale for 60 Euros each, purchased in a mere 20 minutes shopping time. You do NOT get in my way when I'm Power Boot Shopping: just watch, and learn.

(And, yes, I did need those boots. Most of mine I can't wear, because it's impossible to wear stiletto heels and remain upright on the damn calçada sidewalks around here. The few pairs I have that I can wear either (a) I refuse to wear because I don't want to wreck them; (b) have been wrecked by my wearing them on the calçada; (c) hurt my feet (boots that I bought here, in an attempt to save my nice Italian ones); or, (d) have sprung leaks (not good, given the amount of rain we get here.) Also, Elvis: I threw three pair out already this week, and there are two more earmarked to join them. At the very least. Also, they're not all black.)

And now, I've managed to digress my way out of time for this evening.