Stefano, mi amico Roma

I’ve decided to go Florence a week early. Maybe it had something to do with Stefano, my Roman amico. He is handsome, in a carpenter sort of way, which of course he is. For those of you who don’t know, carpenters hate architects. They basically think we are assholes. Actually, I do too sometimes. He is 47, thin, and married with one child. He sports curly grey hair, dark eyes, and bad teeth.

I was heading home to phone Mike when he called my name from half a block away. After he ran, I mean ran, over to me, he suggested some ice cream. I declined and he pushed, as Italians seem to do. He grabbed the money and my arm. We went for coffee.

Apparently, he has been to Denver, when he was 21. He told me a somewhat inappropriate story that I can’t repeat in print so if anyone really wants to know, email me. Needless to say, after he finished the story, I said “Now you know, Stefano, that American girls don’t like that kind of proposition.”

Despite the rather off color story, he was nice, and he showed me his carpentry studio. During our discussion, he realized that he had accidently overbooked the apartment for Thursday night. I said, “No problem, I’ll just head to Florence early.” He said “No, no bella, you stay in Roma. I have another apartment for you. I’ll show it to you at 8PM tonight. You like, it’s bigger.”

Stefano indeed comes knocking at 8PM, which is surprising in itself, and we go to see the new apartment. It turns out that the new, bigger, and better apartment is actually owned by a friend of his who asked Stefano to watch it for her while she is out of town. The place is a total mess, dishes in the sink, underwear on the floor and a humidifier in the shower. He asks me not to touch or move anything while I stay because his friend doesn’t know I'm staying there. My reaction is automatic Midwestern. I don’t want to be any trouble so fine. (I should say that the Midwestern response could have gone either way. I don’t want to be any trouble, or I will not accommodate this despicable request. In times of distress, I tend towards the former, which is one of my least favorite qualities about myself. I get into so many pickles because of my desire not to embarrass someone or cause any trouble.)

I go back to my room for one last night in clean, above board living and have dinner at Ripa 12. I got the Parma ham and buffalo mozzarella antipasti and it was glorious. The ham melted in my mouth, like the Toro (fatty tuna) of cured meats.

The next morning I tell Stefano that I can’t sleep in this poor girl’s disgusting apartment, and I’m leaving for Florence today (Thursday). Surprisingly, he immediately gives me back my money and offers me two free nights in Rome on my way home. He buys me breakfast, standard Italian including cappuccino and cornetto (an Italian croissant), and gives me a ride to Termini station. Now I’m on my way to Florence with no hotel and a suitcase that weighs about 60 lbs.