Don’t get me wrong; we’re USED to noisy towns; I mean, we DO live in a rural agricultural town of 1600 people.
(Now. For you citified folk who are laughing at me right now, I challenge you to get a full night’s sleep in a farming town in July. Between the combines thundering by your bedroom window every half hour you’ll have the screeching of the feral tomcats breeding new little kitty-chow snacks for the packs of coyotes yipping just a block away. And if you’re lucky enough to visit wine country right before harvest you’ll be diving for cover (being city folk and all) when the fake-cannons start fake-shooting all the grape-ravishing birds.)
But enough of my loud home town. Ever since we insisted on being moved to the streetside room in that hotel in downtown Guadalajara back on ’04 so we could have a balcony, trouble has followed us when it comes to quiet rooms.
For, you see, we shouldn’t have second-guessed our Mexican hotelier. He didn’t even bother to warn us about the discotheque right under that balcony that would kick into high gear about 2 am and keep the walls thumping until 6; nor did he warn us about the roving bands of mariachi. He figured he’d let the gringos find out the hard way.
The curse followed us to Florence. After 3 blissful weeks in a tranquil mountain village, we’ve landed in a sleep deprivation tank called Central Florence. While we couldn’t possibly have chosen a better location for complete immersion in Italian art – we live 2 blocks from the Uffizi and only a few more to the Accademia (Michelangelo’s David), and we pass the Duomo daily on our errands – il Centro is also where all the study abroad kids live. And drink. Until 5 am.
Damn that balcony in Guadalajara.
P.S. Even so, we love this apartment!