Foucault was having the time of his fuzzy life in the hotel gardens, and Cecil had been assured he wouldn't be eaten or anything, so he had headed out for the lights and bustle of Pisa. It was sort of fun, but he was somewhat hampered by the fact he still looked fourteen.

Not to mention the only Italian he knew were the names of some foods and a couple phrases Big Rico used when he was in a really bad mood. He had a feeling he probably shouldn't say those to anyone here.