Let’s follow Catherine as she walks by herself in Piazza Maggiore (think: architectural theme-park with a paved football field in the middle). Catherine is waiting for a friend by the fountain of Neptune, walking slowly and without particular direction, like a tourist, because she can’t remember if Federico said 8:30 or 9:30, and the phone number that Becca gave her is mysteriously eleven digits long.
“La-dee-dah,” says Catherine to herself. “I bet nothing interesting will happen to me today, ooh, I wonder what's happening at that end of the piazza!”
She strolls merrily along, passing Bolognesi walking in twos and threes with faces full of smiles from the warm, blue-sky afternoon. She thinks how happy she is to be in Italy and what a nice day she has had.
Suddenly, she makes the mistake of making eye contact with a passing Italian man. His eyes narrow slightly. His impeccable Italian shoes shift their purposeful striding towards her. She is done for.
“Ciao,” he immediately pipes up. When she says nothing, he repeats himself with a “Buona sera” and bows deeply (okay, it was more of a gallant nod plus flirty eyes).
Catherine freezes, an awkward thing to do mid-step, but she recovers. Great, she thinks, I’ve done it now. She breaks eye contact. She changes direction without saying anything. She has been told that if she strikes up a conversation, it might be interpreted as a come-on.
The Italian man follows. “Where are you headed?” he persists, smoothly cutting off one possible escape route.
Catherine attempts a polite, disinterested smile and ends up with a ridiculous look on her face. Her vocal cords contract into a useless lump. “I was just, I’m waiting for someone... (?) ...?”
Either her Italian is bad or she is speaking too quietly, because the man tips his head to the left with a polite “Scusa?” and plants himself in front of her.
“Waiting. Waiting for someone,” she stammers out, her Italian marginally clearer this time. She changes direction again, heading toward a tabaccheria/convenience store where she can escape.
“Well look,” he purrs in fluid Italian, coming effortlessly to her side, “We’re walking straight towards that bar over there—” (GOOD POINT THAT WAS A MISTAKE) “—why don’t we go in, and I’ll buy you a few drinks?”
“No, grazie…” She is feeling ridiculous by this point.
“We’ll only be a few minutes, so you can meet your friend.”
...I didn’t really want to use my new phrase Lasciami stare (Please leave me alone)—I think it’s rude to tell people to just go away—but at that point, I was glad that one of the boys at dinner the night before had taught it to us, because I didn’t know how else to get him off my tail. With the conversation safely ended, I scuttled back to the safety of the Fountain and didn't budge.
Lesson learnt: Look stern and purposeful when you walk alone across the piazza. Or glue warts on your nose.
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