Junkyard Image #2 (Week Four)

The Lion's Fountain, a pub in Firenze. The travel guide describes it as more English than Italian with local bands and drunk streets--so we go. Our excuse: good Guinness--but I almost wanted, needed Americans. I don't know why I was so happy to sharpie our names onto the ceiling. An open spot, between Nebraska and Miami--the entire bar an overseas collegiate smorgasbord. The girls dressed like the South, versed in old money and sororities slang. I'm in my tourist hoodie and jeans--but the bar rats, the locals, still recognize me. A man at the bar grabs my ass like it was his. He didn't care for my name because we're all called American girl to him. I just wanted my money from the bar tender. An Australian blonde. She never gave back my 10 euro change. Even she mistakes me for one of them. The man soured and spit Italian frustrations at me when I responded with a hard no. That translates, I know.