That next morning, I had somewhat forgotten about the sexy stranger, and after calling Joy again and being reassured that they still intended to meet me here, I packed my luggage and then went downstairs for breakfast.  The café was much quieter now, and after sitting down I realized that it was Sunday morning… most of the locals would be in church right now, praying for forgiveness for having fun the night before. 

            In Italy (and other parts of Europe, I later discovered), breakfast is very light.  Tea or coffee, some bread and butter, and that’s it.  No pancakes, omelettes or any of that other stuff… that was alright with me, since I didn’t have the stomach for anything heavy.  As I sipped my tea, I pored over the map to the cabin, and was feeling pretty confident that I could find my way there.  The town was laid out sensibly and since I was already on the main road, it didn’t appear that my drive would be a long one… but I was feeling a bit apprehensive about the stretch of road that wove through the mountains.  Simona said the roads were well-maintained, including the covered bridge crossing.

            “You will see its beauty… is a work of art.”, she enthused.

            “I’m sure it is, but is it safe?  Do other people drive over this bridge too?”, I asked her, not too concerned about the scenic view at this point.         

            She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly.  “I have been there many times… maybe you wait and go with your friends?  Stay here another day?  There is…”, she was cut off abruptly by one of the other waitresses, who said something to her in Italian, rather urgently.  Of course, to my American ears, everything in Italian sounded urgent.  Simona listened, then waved her away.  “Big snow coming soon… big one.  Like you say in American, ‘blizzard’?”, she informed me.  It was now about 9:00 a.m., and the skies were already getting dark.. the sun had risen not two hours earlier.  Snowflakes were still falling lazily, as they were the night before, but that meant nothing.  I paid for my meal and checked out of the motel, determined to find the cabin before it was too late.

            After picking up some groceries across the street and loading my rental car, I jumped in and laid the map on the passenger seat.  The roads were relatively clear and easy to drive on, but I soon discovered that Italians do not follow the ideals of defensive driving.  Essentially, if you’re behind the wheel, you’re fair game.  It’s your own fault for being there, and you’d better duck and swerve – and look good doing it – if you want to survive.  Even with the light traffic of a Sunday morning, I found my American sensibilities being pushed to their limits more than once as other cars refused to stop at intersections or red lights. 

At last, I reached the edge of town, I breathed a huge sigh of relief and straightened my hunched shoulders… and then I received one more smack on the ass from Lady Luck:  the engine died.  It gave no reason whatsoever – no ominous noises, no hesitation, no dummy lights on the panel.  Frantically, I strained my ears in the vain hope that it was just a very, very quiet piece of machinery, a masterpiece of European engineering… but, no.  It was nothing more than a car with a dead engine, and it could not have happened at a worse time.

I managed to maneuver it to the side of the road, parking it in front of a nondescript stone building.  Across the street was another café, and next to that a church… but nobody was around to help, not that anyone could have helped me anyway.  I lifted the hood and stared dumbly at the complex machinery staring right back at me.  Who was I kidding?  I knew next to nothing about cars, and couldn’t have fixed it even if I did, because I had no tools.  As I looked blankly at the engine, then at my gloved hands, and then at the ground, that huge sense of tragedy and terror that was swelling up slowly inside of me the night before had surfaced, and the timing couldn’t have been better.  Since I couldn’t think of anything more productive to do, I sat on the curb, which was half covered in ice and snow, and began to cry…. I wasn’t aware of my actions at that point.  I was a free-floating id of primitive emotion and I openly embraced it; I clung to it as if I had nothing else.   I didn’t have enough money to get another hotel room, and now I couldn’t get to the cabin… and I was still all alone.  The magnitude of my situation hit me square in the chest.

“State facendo bene?”, I heard a man’s voice say.  Just those few words that I didn’t understand were suddenly very soothing to me.

I quickly wiped the tears from my face and looked up… and of all the people who would be available to help me, it had to be him… the stranger from the café.  The shame I felt must have shown on my face (or maybe it was my mascara starting to run), because he smiled at me compassionately and offered his hand to help me up.  I noticed that he had big, tapering hands.  Even in his black leather gloves, I could feel their warmth, and looking into those eyes made me a little dizzy.  After I stood up, I looked again at the building, and finally noticed the engraving above the door.  Reparto Della Polizia.  “Police department!  You’re a police officer!  Oh, this is wonderful… can you help me?  My car… well, it’s not my car, it’s a rental… has broken down.  I don’t know what is wrong with it, but I have to get to my cabin before the blizzard hits.”. 

As I stammered and babbled on, I realized that his expression changed from benevolence to utter confusion.  He had no idea what I was saying to him… no clue whatsoever.  His gaze was blank and puzzled, and it was then that I realized that, not only had Lady Luck smacked me on the ass but she hit me right between the eyes with a brick as well. 

“Le mie scuse, non capisco l'inglese”, he said, apologetically as he broke my gaze awkwardly and rubbed his hands together.  As I tried to piece together what he had said using my translator guide, which had finally proven to be not completely worthless (he was sorry, but he didn’t speak English – those beautiful lips were enchanting to me even when stating the obvious), he started checking out the engine and examining different wires and parts.  Now that I was calming down a bit, I could feel my old self coming back, and with it a renewed appreciation for the unique thrill of checking out a handsome man… and this one offered many thrills.   He would bend over, carefully to avoid getting grease on his uniform, and I noticed that his pants were nicely tailored in the back, not baggy or straight-legged like an American man’s uniform.  Would it be in bad form for a tourist to pinch his ass?  When in Rome, after all… I thought, and started to giggle.  He didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice.  I even found great delight in catching peeks of his bare wrists as he stretched his arms to the back of the engine… he had thick dark hair on his arms, and it was strangely erotic to me, letting my mind play on the thought of hair growing other places on his body as well, places I couldn’t see and never would.

Apparently, his knowledge of cars was better than mine, because at length he held up a wire attached to the battery, its rubber coating cracked in three different places.  It was brittle and appeared to have been burned through.  “Il legare della batteria”, he said to me, slowly and loudly, without looking me in the eye.  He did seem a bit shy, and it contrasted with his looks and his build in such a charming way.  Surely someone like him would be married… with a couple of girlfriends on the side.  He was still wearing his gloves, so I couldn’t see a wedding ring.  So what if I didn’t understand a damn word he said to me?  He was fun to look at, and maybe he could fix the car as well.

He closed the hood and got on his two-way radio... after talking with someone for a couple of minutes, he turned to me.  “Accordo locativo?”, he said, gesturing to my car and making an open-and-close gesture with his hands.  After a few fumbled attempts, I realized that he wanted to see my rental agreement papers.  I fished them out of the glove compartment, and after looking them over, he shook his head, mildly disgusted.  “Manutenzione difettosa”, he said to me, which I’m sure is Italian for “Lady, you got screwed big time.”.  He turned to go back inside the police station and gestured for me to follow him. 

Inside, it was warm and cozy, if not stylish.  Stone walls, stone floor, and hard wooden benches.  What is it with Europeans and hard benches, anyway?  He dialed a number, and almost immediately began bickering with someone on the other line.  I distinctly heard the words “turista Americano”, “automobile locativo” and “camion di rimorchio” mentioned more than once throughout the conversation – and I was able to thumb through my guide fast enough to look them up.  A tow truck would be sent from the rental office, and they were being cited for palming off a car in need of serious maintenance to an unsuspecting tourist.  How nice.  Under better circumstances, I would have been cheering him on for his efforts, but I was more concerned with where I would be sleeping that night.  It was now almost noon., and the snow was falling frenetically.