My second time in Florence with too much Chianti

Even after a few years and despite my ability to forget everything (except bad things and beautiful people), I still remember my first time in Florence. And to my surprise, it wasn’t a cultural, intellectual experience. To Florence defense, I was partying the night before (probably for the whole week, long live Erasmus bender!) and my head felt like an ass being fucked by a huge dick without the lube. It was an Erasmus weekend trip and the bus ride from Turin made my nausea worse.

When we finally got to the city I wanted to marvel at the rich Medici art collections and masterpieces by Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Machiavelli, but fun fact – when you’re young you’re stupid and partying and acting like a retard is what you usually do. So, after way too much walking and listening to our guide I couldn’t bare the thought of entering yet another church and I sat on the stairs looking at some teenagers making out.

Piazza della Signoria
Piazza della Signoria
Piazza della Signoria
Piazza della Signoria
Piazza della Signoria
Piazza della Signoria
Piazza della Signoria
Piazza della Signoria

My friends wanted to kiss some Fiorentino badly (like I know why it was such a long conversation) so we went out, but the Saturday night in Florence wasn’t special either. We wandered in the city center in search of a club or a pub with actual people inside, but everything was deserted. When we finally found some place it was crawling with creeps and we decided to just go to sleep. No kisses and sweet talks in the birthplace of the Renaissance for those chicks!

At least the next day was better. We sat on the wall above the river drinking cheap beer and eating melting chocolate in the 30 degrees heat. And just when I was admiring the Florence beauty we had to go back to our Erasmus student colorful reality.

Ponte Vecchio
Ponte Vecchio
View from Ponte Vecchio
View from Ponte Vecchio

I have lived in Italy for a while and had a chance to travel and discover many amazing places, but that visit in Florence always made me think that there was something missing in my image of Italian essence. When a friend of mine moved there I knew I had to go back and see Firenze with my grown-up (snort) eyes.

I was relieved that this time was different, I guess I did achieve some level of maturity. Besides, after months of stress, sickness and rehabilitation I needed a gateway in my idealized Italy.

A lot of girls from my Italian studies couldn’t resist the Italian “romantic” tactics so they moved to Italy hoping for a better life. But they found themselves working in the hotels, restaurants and as babysitters or they got married and had kids. It’s not what they wanted after graduation, but they are just Polish girls, after all. Pretty, easy and not fit for better jobs.

I’m sexually attracted to beautiful people, what can I say, I’m that shallow (and don’t pretend like you are better). Maybe there will come a day when someone will move that complicated mind of mine because my heart has lost its way to love a long time ago.

One night stands are no secret concept to me, but it rarely happens that I want to spread my legs for a guy I just saw. I ‘m not a fan of Italians either as their sloppy, mammone and ciao bella behavior only piss me off. But because of my weakness for beauty, I often end up with them anyway. And the dark, handsome Ryanair flight attendant on a plane to Bologna made me so horny I considered dragging him to this tiny, stinky bathroom and fuck him mercilessly. Unfortunately, the flight was too short for a much-needed fun (I bet when I’m flying to the US for 8 hours there will be only “meh” guys, too ugly for me to kill the boredom), and when I had this enlightening idea of giving him my number when we land, he went to a different exit, saying goodbye to old hags and families. Just my luck! But no worries, as I knew there would be plenty of hot fish in the Italian sea to catch.

At the bus station, I was welcomed by a traveler who got robbed and was trying to collect money for the train to Consulate in Milan. Poor guy, everyone was looking away as if he was a hobo, pretending they didn’t know English. I was skeptical in the beginning, but he seemed really freaked out, he even gave me his passport to prove his ID, so I showed him my human side and gave him a few euro’s (and they say I’m cold and cruel, scoff). If it was only an act he should get a part in a drama movie.

The second greeting was “get your ass to the car, princess, I can’t park in here!” from my friend who had to pick me up and then manage to bring us home alive. If you’ve ever been on the Italian street, you know what I mean.

The mix of Italian and Polish hospitality made my belly full of lasagne, Chianti and chocolate cream (forget poisonous Nutella, unless you’re very poor and hungry. The huge jar goes now for only a few euros). There was also something for my hungry mind as well.

View from my friends appartment
View from my friends appartment
View of Fiesole from my friends appartment
View of Fiesole from my friends appartment
View of Fiesole from my friends appartment
View of Fiesole from my friends appartment

As I was standing on the Piazzale Michelangelo I looked down at Florence covered in the lights of the night and I realized I’m only a small piece of the universe. If I disappear nothing will change. No one will know. And yet if every star refuses to shine the sky will become a dark hole above us.

Piazzale Michelangelo
Piazzale Michelangelo
Piazzale Michelangelo
Piazzale Michelangelo

My second time in Florence, a whole week, wandering around, Tinder’ing (but not waking up to “Jesus, where the hell am I?!”), getting fat: the best gelato il Procopio, Spritz in a literary restaurant Giubbe Rosse, pizza, wine, schiacciata Dell’Antico Vinaio eaten on the curb (the best street food in town, there are 2 lines, don’t waste your time standing in the longer one as those are the same places), typical Tuscan pasta I pici toscani and some more wine.

Italian street
Italian street
Flowers on the Italian street
Flowers on the Italian street
Piazza Santa Maria Novella
Piazza Santa Maria Novella
Spritz in Giubbe Rosse
Spritz in Giubbe Rosse
Literary cafe' Giubbe Rosse
Literary cafe’ Giubbe Rosse
Literary cafe' Giubbe Rosse
Literary cafe’ Giubbe Rosse
Literary cafe' Giubbe Rosse
Literary cafe’ Giubbe Rosse

Most of the must see checked: Ponte Vecchio, Piazza della Signoria, della Repubblica, Santa Croce, Santa Maria Novella, churches, Galleria Uffizi, Fiesole (the small town near Florence, just take the bus nr 7 and in 20 minutes or so you can admire the city from the hill).


All this goodness and I still couldn’t get the ticket to Cupola del Brunelleschi! I went to the tourism office on the first day and it was already sold out for the whole week because of the Easter and bazillions of tourists attacking tiny Florence. Seriously, they were on every corner with their cameras, short pants, flip flops and goofy faces (we get it, the monuments, history, art, it’s all breathtaking, now can you let me pass on my old ugly as hell bike to get home from work?!). On Easter Monday I had a small panic attack when I went to centro storico and Uffizi.  I was born and always lived in big cities so I’m used to the crowd, but “oh my, tourists invasion, help!”


I didn’t try bistecca alla fiorentina either.

So I have some bad news, my friends from Florence, this petite rebel of an innocent baby face gotta visit you again! I promise I’ll bring by Polish kiełbasa, bread, and vodka! Until next time.

“Breaking the Circle”

My eyes darken when I see my new lover. Fresh prey.
My body doesn’t really react in a sexual way.
It’s the devil inside me that celebrates next conquest.
We exchange meaningless sweet words.
His hungry gaze penetrates my breasts and ass.
Another drink and laughter.
And then another one.
Sometimes I get very drunk or high.
And then I don’t feel him between my legs.
I don’t see his sweating face.
I don’t hear his moans and questions if I came.
I can’t stay sober when I cheat on you.
I’m such a coward that I can’t even face this inner monster.
It consumes me, it takes away my dignity.
It makes me do horrible things.
It hurts you, the only one who ever loved me.
Who knows what I really am.
No. It’s not the monster. It’s me. I am the whore.
I dig my nails into your soft flesh until it bleeds.
I am the one pushing you away, feasting on your kindness.
I blame those hard punches of my past for my infidelity.
Those cruel hands. Those hateful words.
I try not to, I really do.
I try to be a better person.
But how can I if I am just nobody?
You know why I leave. Yet you stay. You’re there when I’m back.
With your sorrow and cry and resentment and wrath.
If I’m broken because of my pain what’s your excuse?
Why do you keep letting me treat you like a stray dog?
Don’t you have any respect for yourself?
What the fuck is wrong with you?
And just when I think I have my own slave for life you break the circle.
You shut the door with a grimace of relief.
You can’t look at me anymore.
See, you’re finally free!
My inner innocent girl is happy for you.
But the monster inside kicks and laughs at me.
I’m left alone.
I dress up and go hunting.

Memoir, November 8th

“I don’t want to think
I don’t want to be
I am slowly disappearing
Out there
within the shadows
in the darkness?”

I don’t know why do I even bother doing this shit. Keep trying. To get out of bed in the morning. To keep this fake smile stuck to my face. To think that I can finally make it. How many times did I try? I can’t even count it. And the point is I failed every single time. And I have everything that a successful person should. Beauty, talent, intelligence, strength. And yet it’s not enough. It never was. Time goes by, I get older and I lose hope that I could change my life. That I could be… no, not happy. That’s an overstatement. Let’s keep it real. But at least feel better, you know? Like not miserable all the time.

Shit, it sounds so pathetic when I read it. But I figured that instead of feeling sorry for myself in the silence of cold walls I can write it here. I even had this stupid idea to try it as a therapy. I for sure need one. But I was never brave enough to face my demons. To talk about those terrible, sad shadows of the past.

I kept a journal when I was 12 until 17, I think. And I started it again a few years back when there was a global motherfucking crisis and I was unemployed just like many other graduates. I remember I had to go the unemployment office and I felt like a trash. Like the worst loser ever. I was young, educated, capable of things, I knew few languages and I ended up in the same place as hobo’s and drunks. I survived. Yet again. Such a winner, congrats!

I don’t know if keeping a journal back then helped me. Maybe a little. Because the loneliness I experienced at that time wasn’t just a sad concept. It was a breathing creature. It was so palpable, real and alive that it became my only friend. There was no one else.

How I decided to self -publish my first book and didn’t freak out

Okay, maybe just a little bit. Or a bit more. Oh man, who am I kidding, sure I’m freaking out! The whole process is very stressful and time consuming. It hits you hard especially when you’re working full time, stuck in a job with no perspectives and shitty salary. When you’re struggling with minor (I call it functional nowadays) depression and those ugly thoughts like “what’s the point, I won’t succeed anyway.” And why the hell would I? My whole life I’ve been trying to get better. To become “someone” because being nothing to other people pissed me off too much to let it go. To save myself from the hole. To learn how to smile and appreciate those small things (which btw are surprisingly hard to find). I could go on forever. Yeah, so much for my non bitching attempt to describe what’s going on in my life. Congrats, Asper, you’re becoming a female version of Bojack Horseman, only much younger and hotter!

But back to the topic. Wait, what was I saying? Hm, I suspect there’s something wrong with my mind, it’s very distracted. As you can see! Anyway, yes about the book. Why I decided to follow that path of self-publishing full of fuckedupness and grey hair? It was actually a moment. Call it epiphany. I got sick of agents replying that while they liked my novel it wasn’t for them. Ergo they didn’t have the balls to sell it. Because my book is neither a prince in shiny armor galloping on his stallion to save an innocent, beautiful girl. Nor a hobo shitting hinself in a bus, nor a crazy guy chasing you down the street. It may be the combination of two. I mean that it’s a mixture of ugliness of abuse, addictions and depression with a simple beauty of friendship and love. It’s not an easy go cheesy read. But it’s brave and honest. I’m not sure why the agents didn’t risk to accept it? I’ll find out very soon.. 

I’m trying not to overthink it, but I put my heart, soul and tears to write it and if I fail it’ll hurt. 

On the other hand I have survived so many failures that I should end up fine anyway. Like a cat landing on its 4 feet. Now 3-legged and broken, but still a fighter.

Good thing that I’m a thinking beast and I’m in a state of ccreating. I already have ideas for my next books, hurray! As Todd likes to say “Question mark”.


​I hear noises of the crowded streets

Honking from the bruised cars 

of the sweaty horny dogs 

for whom I’m just a good bone

follows me around

Southern heat leaves my body sore

As I walk many miles

Looking at the splendor of 

diverse cultures 

and their rich marks 

in every part of the city

Looking at the saints statues 

lurking in dark corners

giving the poor people hope and strength

to carry on

Inhaling sweet scent of Italian food

tasting gelato con brioche

As I reach Quattro Canti

I stand tall

In the middle of Sicilian mess

without you

My little star

on my imaginary blue sky

Free horses

I dreamed about wild horses

running in some cold place

Not in circles

Not from me

Not from you

But running up that hill

fast without hesitation

As if there was no other world

than their inner one

As if it was only that moment

that mattered

I dreamed



Does Punk dream about freedom? Find out by reading my first novel “Train to the Edge of the Moon” available on Amazon this Halloween!

In a train

Coming back from ordinary job

a day like any other

dark circles under my angry eyes

empty soul sitting in a train

Yet my mind escapes the clutches of reality

creating different colorful images


Writer, Poet, Misfit, Seeker, Travel Blogger

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