Pillow talk. I used to take my pillow with me everywhere I had at least an overnight stay. It has been a requirement ever since I slipped a disc in my neck, whilst being a tad over-zealous with my weight training, over 20 years ago. Then, – I’m sure as a re-action to my obsession with filling-in those hotel ‘any improvements you would like to see’ cards - things changed. Now there are choices of pillow and if you are very lucky you will have a ‘pillow menu’. Oh joy!
So, pillow-less, husband and I flew over to Rome, boarded a Eurostar train and started our holiday one and a half hours later in Florence. We had booked the four-starred Lungano Hotel in the Oltrarno West district, known for its suburb position on the river Arno and views of the, rather rickety-looking, Ponte Vecchio. (See below) 
A room at the front gave us all that, plus the sight of the soon to be visited Duomo, a mere stones-throw away. The room was small, but smartly-dressed, in navy and white and the bed was lovely and comfy. All looked good so far. “Must try the pillows,” I shouted excitedly. Splosh! It felt like I had jumped in the pool at the deep end, my head had sunk and I was surrounded by pillow. “Oh blast”, I mumbled, with a face full of feathers, “we’ll go to reception on the way out and get it changed.”
At said reception, a slight altercation ensued after a negative reply from a smartly dressed, but distracted, Italian man; suffice to say, there was no choice. Who needs a good-nights sleep anyway?
This might have had a bearing on the next three days as we didn’t really enjoy Florence. A small café, across from the hotel, looked inviting for breakfast, but two coffees, two fruit salads and two pastries was more expensive than the hotels breakfast feast; it didn’t look inviting a second time. We were also not happy with the way restaurants automatically charge for cover and bread, it made eating out very expensive. In fact, we thought everything was over-priced.
It is worth the trip though, to see ‘David’, and Palazzo Pitti. David, of course, is Michelangelo’s famous creation, 4 metres of muscular marble, a fine figure of a man, especially (ladies) from behind. The Palazzo Pitti is very grand with plenty to see as it houses seven museums; but as my neck was aching by the time we had got to the 4th museum, we strolled around the large, but unimaginative, Boboli gardens. A stamina-testing hill beckons, and if you manage to get your breath back at the top, the Florentine panorama that greets you will take it away again.
The city itself, perfectly preserved, is laid out before you in all it’s glory, – not a modern building in sight – rolling emerald-green fields merge with rows and rows of olive trees; posh palazzos stand alone, with colour-washed pastel exteriors, and white wooden shutters, their long, winding, driveways lined with perfectly-shaped columnar Cypress trees; the Tuscan hills seem to hug the city protectively. Husband and I didn’t say a word,.....we just looked.
Three days in Florence being more than enough for us, and feeling even more tired than when we arrived – no thanks to the Lungarno’s pillow policy – we had just a 5 minute ride to the station in our bright-yellow taxi, which was a shame. The driver - who sounded more English than we did - decided to serenade us in Italian. How nice.
We were heading off to Rome, in search of a good nights sleep.
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