Freaking out in Firenze!

Tall, Fair and Handsome wasn’t a man of mystery.  He was a man in mourning. You try going out to dinner, even in a three star Michelin restaurant, after someone tells you they just cremated their loved one and see if you can eat, let alone swallow.  A lump forms in my throat as I visualize how he scattered her ashes in the Arno River.  The sadness I felt was palpable.



View from Borgo San Jacopo Restaurant



Once we arrived at the restaurant, there was only one thing I could do: excuse myself and dash off to the ladies room to compose myself.  If this were a Hollywood movie, I would splash cold water all over my face.  Naturally my make-up would remain in tact;  however, in real life my mascara would run down my cheeks making me look either like a prize fighter with half circles of darkness under my eyes or a depressed raccoon.  Either way, it wasn’t the look I was going for.

With everything I do, there’s always a little glitch.  Some sort of problem I encounter.  I call it the plight of the pickle-since I always seem to get myself into one.

The maitre d' escorted me to an elevator that would take me to the top floor where the restroom was located and gave me explicit directions on how to operate the elevator.  Gosh, do I look like a moron? I wondered.  It’s only an elevator.  How much trouble could I get into?  So, I listened patiently with a placid look on my perfectly rouged face, wanting to take a fast time-out from TFH’s reality.   My emotions were shrouded in his sorrow.  The ‘fight or flight’ instinct made me want to take wing and put myself into a new environment immediately even if it was only the bathroom.

I needed to be alone and pronto to process all that he told me.  First, he started out as a jewel thief being chased by the FBI and Interpol and now he was a sentimental man who followed out the wishes of his dying wife.  It was a lot to absorb.

Meanwhile, the Maitre d' repeatedly said that I needed to push and hold down the “up” button until I arrived on the top floor.  “Do not remove your finger,” he cautioned.  Kid stuff, I thought.

The elevator stopped moving, so I removed my finger, but the door didn’t open.  So, I put my finger back on the red button.  Nothing:  Zip, Ziltch, Nada. Nyet. That door would not open.

I’m stuck in an elevator, having flashbacks about the little fiascos I had in my hotel room trying to turn on the light and operate the knobs and faucets in the bathtub and sink. And now~the elevator fiasco.

Here we go again.

I pushed the door to open it.  It wouldn’t budge.  I used all the might that a girl with Olive Oil arms has to no avail.   Seconds turned into minutes.  And I panicked.  Voices from my throat began softly…after all, I was in a three star Michelin restaurant.  I didn’t want to seem less than classy. 

“Help,” I called out gently.

No one answered.

“Help,” I repeated, but a little louder.  Still no response.

“Help! Is anyone there?”

And then a familiar voice.

“Seems I can’t leave you alone for one minute.”

TFH!  To the rescue. 

He slid the door open and stood in front of me, grinning.  Mind you, I said slid.  I have never seen a  pocket-elevator door until now.  Especially one that had to be opened, prodded, and glided by hand.

I ran into his arms, appreciative of being rescued first from the train and now from the elevator.  We laughed spontaneously at my amusing situation. 

No more tears.  No more cloud of darkness hovering over our evening.  He waited for me to freshen up in the ladies room.  I suppose he didn’t trust me to be alone in there, either.  Knowing my luck, the door in the bathroom stall would probably have jammed, leaving me in yet another pickle.

It’s amazing how a little comic relief goes a long way; it came at the right moment, and so did he.