When the plane landed, it was mass confusion on the runway.  I hadn’t anticipated the volume of tourists that hit the slopes that time of the year, and for a few seconds I wanted to bolt from my seat and hide… there were dozens of people waiting for cars, waiting for luggage, and some looked like they were waiting to get a life.  I only needed a car, and waited patiently in the car rental office for almost two hours.  Before I go any further, let me describe to you my first impressions of Italy.  Essentially, they follow no rules… at least, no rules that are written down anywhere.  Not that it would have mattered, since I can’t read or speak Italian anyway.  People wander here and there, to and fro, and have no respect for concepts like “lines” or “personal space”.  As I sat on the scratchy, hard plastic bench, I saw people walk right past me and up to the desk, without waiting their turn.  Of course, these were the Italians, and maybe some Germans.  French, too.  The Americans were the ones sitting on the benches, rubbing their noses and bouncing their knees, with frantic, pie-eyed expressions of hopeful ignorance pasted on their rosy faces.  After sitting around for awhile looking and feeling a little pathetic, I did as they do and jumped right in.  This would have worked out nicely, had they spoken English.

            “Sono spiacente, io non li capisco.”, the elderly man behind the desk said, empathetically, with a slight leerish tone in his voice.  I’m pretty sure I caught him trying to look down my blouse, but I was already feeling paranoid anyway so I didn’t dwell on it.

            I flipped through my translator guide, and after a few fumbled attempts, explained that I was a tourist from dal unito Dichiara.  This was all he needed to know, apparently.  “Ahhhhh…. Presidente George Bush!”, he sneered and snatched away my passport.  As I stood there, ashamed of my own nationality, I could feel the eyes of the eight other Americani, sitting on their little plastic benches and glaring at me in anger and accusation, as if I were their ambassador and had somehow let them down.  After taking an absurdly long time to look up my information in the car rental records (I had agreed to pay for the car rental so it was reserved under my name – this proved to be an amazing stroke of luck, one of only two I would experience during my vacation), he gave me some documents to sign and tossed me a set of keys.  Now I had a car, and could maybe find my way to the cabin… but it was growing quite dark by this time, and my sense of direction and map-reading was overcame by wicked jet lag.  

            As I was leaving the airport lobby, I picked up a brochure featuring information on a local inn that seemed rather tourist-friendly… it wasn’t very expensive, and best of all, it wasn’t too far away.  I was quite relieved to discover that the employees of the hotel were much friendlier and accommodating than the car rental clerk, and I had no problem with communication as they spoke a small amount of English, as their brochure implied.  After securing a room, I called Joy to let her know that I was very much alive, but she didn’t seem so excited on the phone. 

            “How’s Jason’s mom doing?  Have they released her yet?”

            She hesitated on the phone for a moment… she was big on hesitations.  “Well, you know she’s diabetic, right?”

            I was sitting on the bed, fumbling with my shoes and balancing the phone to my ear.  “Um, no, I didn’t know that.  Is she okay?”

            “Yeah, but they want to keep her for a couple more days to run some tests.  She hasn’t been taking her medication the way she should, and they want to make sure it didn’t have an effect on her heart… they think maybe the insulin might have triggered this last episode, so they want to check it out before they release her.  And Jason doesn’t want to leave until she’s home.”.  More hesitation.  “I’m so sorry… I talked you into going with us, and now you’re stuck out there alone.  Are you having any fun?  Did you find the cabin?”

            To be honest, I didn’t actually hear anything she said after the first couple of sentences.  When I realized that I would be left here alone for at least a couple more days… which amounted to almost half the vacation, including today… I started to feel a little sick, and my ears were ringing.  She could sense my tension, and tried to soothe my nerves by giving me some information on the town and some places to go, but I wasn’t listening.  I wished Jason and his mother the best of health and hung up, but deep down I was pissed… really pissed.  I knew it was wrong, I knew it was cruel, but I just couldn’t help it.  There was definitely a sense of tragedy and terror looming inside me… I just wasn’t in touch with it yet.  So, I did what any American woman would do when faced with a personal crisis with nowhere to turn… I got a cup of coffee.

            The lobby of the hotel also served as a local café, and after I was seated I realized that it must have been about dinner time for the locals… the place was packed with people who were definitely not American.  I stood out from the crowd with my sensible American laptop (which I carried around with me almost everywhere) and my sensible American boots, but I didn’t care.  All I needed was some coffee, a chance to work on my stories, and a sound night’s sleep.  After finding a seat, one of the waitresses – a very friendly, middle-aged woman named Simona who spoke surprisingly decent English, a little better than the others – took my order, then came back a few minutes later.  “You look sad… why do you look sad?”, she asked me.  I was used to this response from strangers whenever I went out alone.  There seems to be a pervasive sense of universal pity for a woman who is alone in a public place, and it’s actually very sweet but I’m usually happier when I’m lost in my thoughts.  Since she seemed so concerned, I told her a bit about Joy and Jason and how they weren’t going to be here for a couple of days.

            “I know it’s probably not a good idea to be telling a stranger this…”, I said, and for a moment she looked somewhat insulted at the thought of being seen this way, “but I’m all alone here.  I don’t know anyone, and I don’t speak any Italian.  There’s a cabin about 15 miles from here, but I can’t find my way there at night.  So I’m a little nervous right now.”.

            “What is… ‘miles’?  Is that for… what is it?  Distance?  Maybe like kilos?”

            For some reason, it struck me funny that, after confessing to her that I’m a stranger in a strange land, she was only concerned with the meaning of the word “mile”.  Simona brought my coffee (which, incidentally, blew Starbucks out of the water), and by that time I was in a more light-hearted mood and felt more like writing than I had in a month or two.

            I was doggedly pounding out the last lines of a chapter when I heard buoyant laughter enter the café… four men, wearing heavy black uniforms with beautiful details – gold braiding on their cuffs, stylish buttons.  Leave it to the Italians to make any uniform a work of art.  But one of the men in particular could have made just about any clothing look like a work of art.  He made me feel horribly self-conscious just sitting there looking at him, and he didn’t even realize it as he sauntered in with the others.

            He was taller than the others, and broad-shouldered… his uniform emphasized his upper body and long lanky legs.  When he walked, it was relaxed but purposeful at the same time, and he removed his hat as he sat down to reveal sandy brown hair, receding but still full and soft.  His face was calm but strong, and it was difficult to read his emotions, unlike the others with him who were gesticulating and wildly animated – no doubt, this was not the first café or bar they’ve visited tonight.  The others were a bit tipsy and could be heard over the crowd, but the tall one just leaned back in his chair and observed them with bemusement.  There was so much of him that I wanted to take in – his cheekbones, his full lower lip, his large graceful hands – but I couldn’t get past his eyes.  They were simply remarkable… steel blue, heavy-lidded, piercing and dangerous.  I felt a hot flush of embarrassment when I realized that I was gawking at him openly, and hoped that nobody noticed.

            Unfortunately, I must not be very good at hiding my feelings, because Simona picked up on it immediately.  “Soooo… you are looking!  Ha!  I catch you!”, she squealed jubilantly, making me jump in my seat.  She had been standing behind me the whole time talking to another customer, and I wanted to crawl under the floorboards, but she nudged me and smiled an impish grin that started to put me at ease.  “Nicolas is very handsome, eh?  And he is not all Italian, maybe a little of Austria or Germany.  His eyes are very blue, but he will love you like Italian man, that’s true!”.  The very thought of this made me think some wicked thoughts.  I didn’t want to find out how she knew this, and when she continued I was afraid I would, but she was merciful.  “He is a shy one, very shy.  So you like him, eh?  I should tell him you are an American who needs a friend?”.  Her mirthful tone and smile was one of a woman who lived for matchmaking, and as tempting as it was to play along, my Type A side got the best of me. 

            “No, Simona.  That’s very sweet of you, but I really think that would be too embarrassing for me.  Besides, I doubt I’m his type.”.

            The same puzzled expression crossed her face as when I referred to distance as “miles”.  “What does this mean… ‘type’?  It means like tipo, but not for work?  At a desk?  Explain.”

            As much as I wanted to explain to Simona how I felt, I just couldn’t stop looking at him as he sat with his friends.  Another waitress was taking their order, and he really did seem rather shy compared to the others… but then again, just about anyone seems shy around these people, who live for finding lovers for strangers and arguing over dinner.  But, you know, the more I was around them, the more comfortable I became.  Especially Simona, who was so nice and sisterly to me.  She wanted to know why I didn’t think he would like me?

            “I’m afraid that he… wouldn’t think I’m attractive.  I’ve never had much luck with men, and I don’t want to be turned down.”.  I struggled to explain myself in such a way that made sense without being condescending, but Simone understood everything I said very well, maybe even better than me.

            “You are too afraid, I think.  Other men were fools, and now you will be fool too?  Look at you… you are a beautiful woman… and you should know this, every day.  Donna bella.  Now no man will tell you this until you tell yourself, ‘donna bella’.”.  She turned to walk away, but not before she patted me on the shoulder.  “So I leave you now, and you come back tomorrow, yes?”.