Fiasco in Firenze

If you think driving a motor home in downtown Atlanta, Georgia is difficult, try driving it in central Florence, Italy. Unimaginable, right? The streets so narrow we had to pull in our mirrors in order to not hit the signs and people, and even then, pedestrians had to put themselves flat up against the wall so as not to get taken out by our gigantic vehicle. The tightness of the streets made our caravan feel like a caricature. Our nose was ten times bigger and our hips were bumping the corners. The closer we got to the central market, the tinier the streets got. Dad's determination to get us parked as close to the market as possible resulted in many shocked and astonished faces from the locals. Pulling up to a stop light, dad spontanealously jumped out of the vehicle and asked the taxi driver in front of us to take us to a parking spot. Although dad's Italian didn't improve, his horn usage got more and more frequent. However, it did serve the purpose of getting people out of our way as we followed the taxi to an underground parking that we didn't even fit in. Taking his five euro fare, he left us to figure out what to do next. Deciding it would be easier to find a park by foot, I jumped out to look. Dad's wish of a close parking spot was granted when, with a mixture of French, Italian, and hand gestures, I persuaded a local to move to a smaller spot so we could occupy the only area large enough for our motor home. We were parked as close as we could get to the market, a mere twenty steps from the first stall.