I choose a hostel that's located quite a bit out of town to diminish the chances of it being full. Luckily it wasn't and, supposedly, the hostel we staid in is one of the most beautiful hostels in Europe. A pity there is no bar, a curfew at 12am and lights out five minutes later.
Still, Firenze, if not crowded, is wonderful. The difference with Pisa amazing, mostly of course because of the many tourists frequenting the city. Many Africans selling expensive bags and sunglasses on the streets, long queues of people waiting to see Michealangelo's David or the inside of the Cathedral, street artists. Yes, a thriving tourist city but well worth the visit.
We had to buy another bottle of that liquid gold and, in a distant part of the city, almost had our face smashed in by an angry Italian with a wrench. To Jim, it was a mystery why he came after us. To me, it was a surprise that Jim so easily forgot he had peed in the man's dustbin just minutes before. Korsakov truly had visited us.
In the evening, after getting back to the hostel and having to go to bed at 12, we first tried to chat up a number of Spanish girls with no luck. Then, still feeling like the evening had only just began, we started a late night party in one of the washrooms, together with guy from Portugal, Ricardo, and a Dutch guy, Sander.
For some strange reason, we were fooling Sander into being Indian (Jim) and Iranian (myself), although we occasionally tried to talk Dutch to Ricardo, standing right next to him. Of course we didn't try to talk Dutch to Sander, at first. Although even when we did he still didn't believe us.
Finishing the second bottle of whisky for the day was just a little bit too much for us to get through our Sunday with no harm. Traveling back to Pisa the next day and in Pisa itself, Jim and I basically did nothing else but sleep. In the train, on any of the benches, fields of Pisa, on the plain, in the car driving back to Rotterdam, etc.
Still, we had quite a bit of fun.