Window choice came back to bite him

None of the guidebooks warned us about the mosquitoes.

Last month, to celebrate my wife’s birthday and the 50th anniversary of what could probably be described as our first date (we went for a walk and I bought her a Coke) something special was called for.

So I took her to Italy. Specifically, we went to Florence for a week, indulging ourselves in art museums, medieval architecture, pasta, pizza and Chianti.

We had done our homework in advance, but no one warned us about the mosquitoes.

Our arrival was on a Saturday afternoon, following a Friday mid-day departure from Dayton to Chicago, then on to Munich and finally to our destination.

I’d booked a room in a charming little hotel with a view of the duomo, the cathedral in Florence. It more than lived up to its billing on Expedia.

The price was great, and the view looked even better than it did on the internet.

When we took our bags up, the guy from the hotel opened the shutters to show us the view. Moments after he left, we opened the windows to let in some fresh air and breathe a bit of Italian atmosphere. It did not disappoint.

After a light dinner, still trying to adjust to jet lag, we conked out early. And since the room still seemed a little stuffy, we left the window open a bit.

And that was our mistake.

Florence, after all, is a river city. The Arno runs through it and sometimes floods the place. It also breeds mosquitoes.

Sometime after midnight, I heard a buzzing near my ear. I made an inept attempt at swatting something, but not long after, it buzzed again.

I’d like to think that if jet lag hadn’t been a factor I might have done something smarter. Instead, I just pulled the sheet over my head.

Trouble is, by then I was sleeping on my side and because the hotel pillow was flat as an Italian pancake I had my arm under the pillow. Only my right hand, from about the wrist down to the tips of my fingers, was exposed.

That was enough.

The bites didn’t show up right away. They took a day or so to make themselves known.

By then, we’d developed a morning ritual of killing mosquitoes, which were somehow getting in even though the windows were being kept closed.

When they finally surfaced, I thought I’d been stricken with a disease or had developed an allergy.

I glanced down at my right hand — the one that had been exposed to the bugs — and it was peppered with red bites.

My left hand was fine, and pulling the sheet over my head had provided protection.

But the right hand and wrist were a mess.

Back in the room, I counted: Thirty-three. That’s how many times I’d been dined upon in Florence that first night while conked out from jet lag.

So, if you go, if you want to celebrate something romantic and indulge a passion for Michelangelo and Donatello and Cellini and Raphael and all the rest, I can recommend a delightful little hotel with an amazing view.

But I can also recommend that you keep the window shut.