Una Storia Molto Romantica

FLORENCE, Italy - When I travel, I tend to venture out on my own to get to know the place. I was sitting alone on the steps of La Piazza di Santa Croce watching the sun set before dinnertime, which in Italy happens around 9 p.m. or later. Behind me and to my right, a well-dressed man sat with a friend, smoking a cigarette. Though his eyes were covered by an oversized pair of designer sunglasses, I could see in my peripheral vision that his head turned to me every now and then. And every now and then I would turn my head and pretend to watch the happenings on the street corner in his direction.


He was about my height, thin, dirty blond hair and had a very light complexion. He was wearing a fitted white button-up shirt, a pair of designer jeans, and black sandals - very European, very attractive.

His friend got up and walked away into the street corner that I used to get a better view. After a few minutes, I got up and took a photo of the piazza and then moved up to the top step to sit down so that I was level with him. Just as he put out his cigarette, I turned to him and took a stab at my Italian, as well as my self-confidence.

Me: Mi scusi. Parla Inglese? (Excuse me. Do you speak English?)

Him: I speak only a little bit. Come, come. Sit.

He picked up the pack of cigarettes and the cell phone next to him so that I could move closer. I asked him if he knew where the Duomo was. The brilliance of that is that it’s probably the largest structure in Florence and something that really only an idiot can miss. He pointed to it from where we were sitting. You can see the top of the dome peaking out from above its surrounding buildings. He then started asking me questions about myself.

Him: “Where you are from?” “You are here staying in Firenze?”

I would reciprocate by responding and then asking him something in broken Italian. It was a struggle to get through the conversation, but he seemed quite amused with my Italian, and I found his English absolutely adorable.

When he ran out of English and I ran out of Italian, he finally asked me, “So do you like boy?” I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, so I threw the question back at him, to which he responded “Si.”

He asked me what I was doing tomorrow, and I told him about our class trip to Sienna and San Gimiano, from which I was to return in the evening. He offered me his phone number, but I hadn’t a pen or a piece of paper, nor did I have a phone myself. I pulled my camera out of my pocket. He then started scratching one of the stone steps with a set of keys, and by the time he was done, his phone number was on the step and he told me to take a picture of it.

“See you….domani,” he said, which meant tomorrow. As I walked away, I thought to myself how funny it would be if I beat all 20 girls in the program in finding an Italian boy. Not sure if he counts though, considering he's not originally Italian.