Shouts in slurred English and "Ciao Bellas" bombarded my pulsing temples as I passed through the haggling crowds, denying one knock-off purse after another. My feet dragged behind as we rushed around yet another city corner bumping into one tourist crowd after another. The pointing signs were urging our tired bodies on, but all I wanted to do was lean against Porcellino's shiny snout and hope I would return to the birthplace of the Renaissance on a day my feet didn't hurt so badly. After passing Alessandro's gelato shop for the third time I sighed in relief as a small, damp tunnel welcomed me to Casa di Dante. Pearls of sweat fell from my rosey face on the cobblestones as the dank, dark archway transported me into Dante's purgatory.
Dante's grim statue greeted our exhausted party as we poured into the small courtyard housing the place where Dante once put pen to paper. The quiet courtyard caused my heart to sink into despair as we stood in front of the museum's operation hours. Six minutes too late, my dream slipped into the dark, dismal recesses of my mind. After allowing myself a moment to catch my breath, and to pout over my disappointment, I decided that a walk around the
outside of Dante's house was as memorable as
paying to walk
inside. My companions gave me quizzical looks as I began to mark my pilgrimage around the dead building, Dante's stone eyes following my every move.
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