I indulge in a week of touring historical landmark’s, absorbing Renaissance art, strolling (today I actually twirled) the cobble-stone streets.  As well as standing in awe of magnificent churches and giving in to my own Achilles’ heel: admiring, and or drooling, over handsome Italian men.

Styled to perfection in Armani jackets, brightly coloured sweaters, designer shoes, and my personal favourite, the exquisite wool scarf that envelopes their cologne scented neck’s.  As this is MY little fantasy world, in addition, they pick flowers for me in meadows.  Open car doors because I love that. Are endlessly entertained by my detailed and somewhat rambling stories, whilst skillfully massaging my tired feet.  Until I actually go on a date with one, this romanticized myth of the perfect Italian man stands unchallenged.

Today however for the second time in two days, I meet the opposite of my ideal man.  He is the stereotypical Italian male who EVERYONE warned me to be on the lookout for.  Local Florentine’s despise these pirañas who give respectable Italians a bad name.  Often found loitering in popular tourist areas preying on single women.  I experienced run-ins with creeps like him on my previous trip to Florence in 2008.  Fortunately, I now have a casual ease in these surroundings and I’m spared the humiliation of their ridiculous one-liners.  This schmuck is an unimaginable cliche in white patent leather shoes, Rockin-Republic jeans, slicked back hair, and oversized gold jewelry.

Obviously not him but you get the picture…

My first encounter with signore Casanova was yesterday while sitting on the steps of the Duomo reading & people-watching.  I noticed a man riding a bike, but not just any bike.  This one had a motor and fanny-pack… my initial reaction was, you have got to be kidding me!!

Florence is built in a valley and is relatively flat.  Even frail 85 year old women ride bikes in their Sunday dresses and designer heels.  Casanova noticed me staring at him, mistook it for attraction, and swaggered over, John Wayne style.  He sat next to me and launched into an over rehearsed pick-up routine.  “Ciao bella, where are you from?” when I refused to respond he continued,  “Would you like a personal tour of Florence, or a glass of wine?”  As it was mid-morning, I reacted to his offer with sarcasm.  “You drink wine at 10 in the morning do you?”  He laughed, and without missing a beat attempted to woo me by complimenting me on my sense of humour.  I held my hand haltingly between us, ceasing his pathetic advances, and responded with a “NO.. grazie“.  Dropping my fingers slightly toward my palm, I shooed him out of my personal space, then lowered my head and continued reading.  After what seemed like a minute of him staring blankly at the side of my head, he slithered away leaving a trail of slime on the marble steps.

My preferred location on the steps of the Duomo

Now today out of the corner of my eye I see a motorized bike weaving in and out of the stream of tourist before me.  Recognizing him from yesterday, I avoid the possibility of eye contact by turning my attention to the book in my lap.  After several petrol-guzzling passes he parks his “sissy-bike” ten feet to my left and makes his way up the steps that line the front of the Duomo.

My spidey-senses are alerted to his juvenile pacing behind me.  I wrongly assume he is attempting to hit on the woman to my left, and because of my  no-nonsense “shut-down” yesterday I assume he is self-conscious.  He sits to my right several feet away, then slowly inches his way closer to me.  Lowering my head even further, I allow my hair to tumble around my face creating a false veil of privacy.  To no avail, as within a minute he is sitting less than five inches from me.  He sighs heavy and speaks to no one in particular, “What a beautiful day!”  I continue reading and turn my back to him slightly, feeling the need for a shower.  He leans forward with a overly-whitened grin and a “Ciao bella, where are you from?”  He ignores the obvious bewilderment on my face and plows ahead like a cretin “Would you like a personal tour of Florence, and afterward I’ll buy you an espresso?”

OH MY GOD!!!  With astonishment I ask him if he remembers me from yesterday, same place, same time, same tattered pick-up line.  He moves his head rhythmically like a bobble-head-doll and answers me with a confused “And you said NO??”        Aaaarrrgggghhhh!!!

next week: I GET OUT OF THE CAB – part 1

About Italian Living

I'm an interior decorator from Canada. I own a design firm. I have three grown daughters who are confidant women living busy lives. I love my family my friends and my life, however, something is missing. December 3rd, my eyes open at 3:33 a.m. It's time to fulfill my lifelong dream of living in Italy..... I rent my house, pack my bags, say a final farewell to all the people I love most in this world and hop on a plane January 13th.... alone. This is my story...
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to CIAO BELLA

  1. Barbara says:

    And here I thought Italian men would all be like Marcello (Under the Tuscan Sun)…. NOT!!


    • Hi Barbara,

      Oh how I wish they were… I won’t complain though. I spent many hours on the steps of the Duomo watching them cycle, walk, stroll or simply float by!!! 🙂
      Thanks for you comments.


  2. Jack McLin says:

    Nice going Gal,

    At least you can say about the guy is that he has good taste in women.

    Love your really interesting articles. Well done.



    • Thanks Uncle Jack,

      I don’t think he had any taste, but I’ll take that as a compliment. Fortunately they are few and far between.

      Sounds like you had a good time last weekend with the family. Wish I could have been there.

      Hope you are all well, thanks for the comments, they are appreciated. Nice to hear…


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s