Dungeons, Dragons & Me? Oh, My!

There’s something romantic about castles. I always imagined living in one.  Maybe it’s the fairy tale notion of being a Queen in a castle.  I don’t really know.  But the thought appeals to me and makes my heart skip a beat when I think about it.

The word: castle conjures up so many fantasies and scenarios. When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with being in a castle:  to really see the castle, not just some tourist trap or landmark and explore its hidden treasures.

I’m a bit of a thrill-seeker, but not the kind that would bungee jump or climb Mount Everest.  Frankly, this girlie-girl loves her extremities, so frost bitten toes are not part of my thrill-seeking adventure.  How on earth would I ever wear my Choos sans pinky?

So when an opportunity to study abroad in Segovia, Spain presented itself, I said, “Sí, Sí Sí.   Sign me up!" Imagine me, with an explosive imagination, going to the land of kings and queens, gorgeous Spaniards, gypsies and home of Flamenco music.  My heart burst with unbridled enthusiasm. I was nineteen years old with a heart filled with the stuff romance novels are made. 

With a stuffed suitcase, I flew off to Spain and would soon be joined with my seven classmates and Spanish professor to study abroad.  Grammar and literature wasn’t all I had in mind.  Segovia, Spain has an impressive castle~El Alcázar.  And I had a fantasy to fulfill.

Even Disney loved the Alcázar and fashioned the theme park with one very similar.  Being in Segovia with the Alcázar was like putting a chocoholic in the middle of a Hershey’s factory.  I was up to the adventure and began plotting and planning, smacking my lips with the delicious thought of exploring this world-renowned fortress.

Naturally in my fantasy, there would be modern medicine, good dental care and penicillin…oh!  And central air and heat.  No point being in a romantic castle without proper amenities.  Let's not forget indoor plumbing, too.

Throughout my life, I always find myself in a pickle.  Sometimes it’s just happenstance.  Other times, I kind of…sort of… bring the relish on myself.  A friend lamented, “It isn’t easy being you,” after he witnessed me getting tickled by no fault of my own in the Marienplatz by a passerby, lead astray by dancing Tunisians and most recently, having been threatened to be kicked off a train in Palermo.

 Well, no one said that life would be easy, but I certainly have had some fun and <ahem> interesting adventures.  For some reason, crazy things just seem to happen to me.  I think I must take after my favorite Uncle Larry with the gorgeous, mischievous eyes who was the original wedding crasher back in the day.

Segovia, Spain…

The day started so innocently.  My friend and classmate, Susan, and I were touring the Alcázar castle.

I knew there had to be hidden passage ways and walls that when pushed in the right spot, would turn and voila! you’d end up in a different room with the wall immediately slamming shut, locking you into an entirely different part of the castle. A scary but exciting fantasy that I concocted since I was about twelve.

My imagination soared and I convinced Susan that we should plan on spending the night inside the castle sometime. We stood on top of the tower, overlooking the entire city of Segovia, deciding what we should bring for our secret rendezvous.

Since castles lack electricity, we needed candles, matches, and having a notoriously fast metabolism-food and lots of it.  We would dress warm and when all the tourists would leave one by one, we would hide behind something grand, remain silent and wait for the guards to lock up.

Feeling smug, we shook hands and planned our espionage for the coming weekend when the castle would be bustling with tourists and we could get lost in the crowd.  Perfect.

The sun was setting.  We were filled with naughty, mischievous thoughts.  I worried that if found, we could get deported. But at the time, it seemed worth the risk.  After all, we weren’t really criminals, just curious college girls…so, deportation seemed ludicrous. With the sun completely gone, we were cold.  Really cold and the only people remaining on top of the tower.

We went down the narrow, treacherous winding staircase trying to avoid hitting our heads or falling on the slippery stairs…all two hundred-thirty of them only to discover that the iron door was closed. And when I reached for the door knob, it was locked.  How could this be?  We raced back up the stairs, thinking we had overlooked another door leading back into the castle.  But, no.  There was only one door.  We hurried down the crazy stairs and began banging on the door, yelling, “Let us out.  Let us out!”

No one heard.  We were locked in the castle…well, actually the stairwell and as the temperature dropped, we panicked.  This was not quite the adventure I had in mind.  Susan found an opening between large stones.  She insisted that since we were already there, she could crawl through the space and see if that lead back into the castle.

I may be adventurous.  But, I’m not stupid. And I’m certainly not brave. There was no way I would follow after her. And besides, it was a small, dark crawl-space which to my overactive imagination had to be infested with all things creepy and crawly and perhaps an infestation of vermin.  Mice, snakes, rodents, oh my!  Forget the oh-my. This wasn’t Oz. It was simply:  Ugh. 

What happened to my fantasy of sitting on a velvet couch with candles, having some wine and cheese, deciding which walls to push?  All of this evaporated slowly as reality set in.  We were truly locked in.

Susan didn’t realize her size was a bit larger than the crawl space and her body only made its way to her curvaceous girly hips.  I pulled and tugged at her legs until she was completely out, dusty and dirty.  That girl really has guts, I thought.

“Now what do you want to do, Einstein,” she teased.

“Well, the only thing we can do.  Let’s go to the top of the tower and see if anyone is below and yell.”

And so we did.  The militia stood below in their dark uniforms, pointing and screaming at us, as a laughing crowd gathered. Embarrassment soon took a detour as relief filled my soul.  We were going to be rescued!

Four guards made their way up two hundred-thirty stairs and shook their heads at us.  We just shrugged and looked guilty.  What could we say?

The tallest asked us if we wanted to see the dungeon.

Since we were in the castle anyway, I thought, The dungeon!  How cool! Impulsively, I said, “¡Sí, Sí, Sí!” 

Knowing that the dungeon was off limits to tourists, I just had to see what it looked like and get the private tour. Susan and I followed the men to a room that had wrist and ankle cuffs attached to stone walls.  The dank room was dark and ominous.  Good sense kicked in. Like where was it moments ago?  Going down into a sound proof dungeon with four military men.  My parents had taught me better.  Why do I always get carried away with mystery and intrigue?

One man whisked Susan away, grabbing her arm.  My eyes shot wide open.  And my thumping heart could probably be heard all the way to Madrid.  I was scared.  And alone.  Except for three strong military men.

The men circled me and began touching my long Cher-like hair.  One told me what they had in mind.  And it certainly wasn’t dinner and a movie. So, I did what came naturally.  I cried like a baby. Loud and hard.

The men looked perplexed.  I screamed at them in Spanish,” How would you feel if strange men  made indecent remarks to your mothers or sisters?”

“¡Dios mio! Dios mio!  Lo siento mucho, señorita! Lo siento!”  And with many apologies later, they called to their friend who was in another room with Susan and told him we were leaving.

Susan and her military man returned, cheeks blazing. I rolled my eyes, speculating about her adventure and followed the other men out of the castle. They escorted us like gentlemen to the plaza as they continued to apologize profusely.

As we walked down the cobblestone pathway, I whispered to Susan, “Want to try again tomorrow night?”

The Kiss~

When Tall, Fair, Handsome and I said goodnight, he gave me a delicate kiss on the cheek.  The kiss was sweet, not brotherly, but not like before.  His eyes pooled with tears and he quickly turned away from me and walked back to his hotel room.  Perplexed, my eyes followed him until he was out of my line of vision. Not quite the ending I anticipated after spending a lovely day with him.  What could I have said that upset him?  Having a fast-forward flashback of our entire day, I couldn’t come up with an answer, but looked forward to seeing him the next day to apologize. For what I didn’t know…I just knew that I had to do something.

Although we had planned to have breakfast and go to the Museo Nazionale del Bargello the next morning, a message from TFH confirmed the opposite.   I’m not up to going to the museum.  Let’s have dinner at the hotel. Eight o’clock?

Well, that sure turned my smile upside down.  I hate hearing bad news before bedtime and tossed and turned all night long wondering what happened.  He was becoming a man of mystery… again. 

I woke early which was uncharacteristic of me, but knowing it was my last day in Firenze, I wanted to make the most of it.  I may not wear white sneakers and sweat pants when I travel, but the true give-away of being a world-class tourist is having technology wrapped around your neck. So, armed with a camera and camcorder, I skipped breakfast and went directly to the Bargello. Although I was weighted down and felt like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, I was determined to get in my share of photos to take home and savor.

The Palazzo del Bargello is a massive structure that has the appearance of a fortified fortress including cannons.  The courtyard is like an outdoor art museum with marble statues and walls covered with coats of arms in the loggia.

Inside the Museo Nazionale are Renaissance sculptures and other masterpieces.  Treasures I want to capture on film. When I travel, I always have a sense of urgency to record everything that touches my heart.  Who knows when I’ll return?  So, the need to fulfill my senses is great…and I get trigger happy.  The only good thing about being alone is that I’m not driving a companion insane as I stop and shoot, point and ooh and aah…Uh-oh! I missed that  and run back to snap some more.  Even the most patient of patient…let’s say Mother Teresa would probably give me a smack in the head and tell me to get on with it. 

True I can see all of these wonderful masterpieces in an art history book…but, I’m here.  And I’m determined.  And I’m a tourist for heaven’s sake!  That’s what I do sans ugly shoes and baggy pants.

When I returned from my outing, there was a package waiting for me.  I must admit, I'm a girl who loves surprises…especially presents.  I read the enclosed note:

 The time we have spent together is something I will always treasure.  My feelings for you frighten me and made me realize that I’m not ready to begin a relationship until I have closure from my loss.  Please forgive me if I mislead you.  My feelings for you are genuine, but I’m not ready to give my heart to you completely. I need to be alone to sort out my emotions. It’s been a roller coaster ride since I arrived in Italy…Who knew I would meet someone like you?

I found the brooch you admired a few days ago when we were shopping.  I hope you will remember me fondly when you wear it. When I’m ready to begin the next chapter in my life, will you still be available?  I know I can’t ask you to wait, but I can only hope.

I opened the box and found a lovely present.

Tall, Fair and Handsome came into my life serendipitously and just like his gift, he played a short, but sweet, cameo role in mine.

Shopping & Schvitzing in Firenze

Since Tall, Fair, Handsome and I started the day late, we began breakfast with lunch.

We found a restaurant called Finisterrae and opted to forget the people-watching and dine indoors where air conditioning was becoming a valuable commodity like the art in Tuscany.

I meandered through this enchanting restaurant as though it was a first-rate museum, enamored by the large parties, rooms filled with balloons, tourists who were laughing gregariously, clapping to Spanish music that was so loud I could feel the bass pounding in my heart.

It was an overdose to the senses.  I checked behind every nook and cranny, hoping to find a Flamenco dancer or two.  And if there was a gorgeous dark-haired, dark-eyed gypsy singer, TFH would have stiff competition.  Forget Michelangelo’s David.  Flamenco music and the gypsy men who sing behind the women dancing at lightning speed have always stirred something in my heart of hearts. 

Each room was bursting with old maps of Spain and South America on the walls.  Written above every arched opening was the name of a Spanish city, like: Malagueña, and old posters of bull fights decorated the interior.  Toreadors donned in embellished spandex attire held their heads high, knowing they could kill a bull with a jab to the aorta.  It seemed incongruous to see them in Tuscany.  But, here they were. Their images splashed all over the walls in an Italian restaurant; They were considered Spain’s Rock stars glorified, honored and revered.

How many people would risk their lives to gain popularity?  I’m a world-class sissy so for me to shop in the severe Tuscan heat was enough of a challenge.  That was my bull fight, sans the red cape.

When the menu was placed in front of us, all the entrées were Italian.  No paella, no tortilla española, no sangria, but plenty of pasta dishes to choke a pig. Go figure.

I don’t know why this surprised me.  When I was in Madrid, I ate everything from Greek food to Indian cuisine.  It tickled me that the décor was Spanish but the menu was Italian.  It seemed like an oxymoron to be eating pasta dishes in a Spanish restaurant heavily embellished with Spanish decorations.  These differences always surprise and delight me.

After lunch, TFH and I decided to head over to Santa Croce. 

Santa Croce

Santa Croce is magnificent like all the museums are in Italy.  Looking around quickly to get an overview, I couldn’t help but think that this museum was like the Westminster Abbey of Italy.  Some pretty hefty names decorated the interior. Tombs of Michelangelo, Galileo, Dante, Rossini, Marconi and Enrico Firme lined the walls. 

Funeral Monument to Galileo

Michelangelo's Funeral Monument

  

Funeral Monument to Galileo



Dante's Funeral Monument

Not a bad place to be buried.  And look at the company you keep.  Imagine all your friends coming to visit.  They could name-drop and impress all the relatives.  My thoughts were turning a little macabre and TFH decided another shopping expedition was in our future.  Bring on the MasterCard and sweltering heat. 

There’s a reason why so many Italians leave Venice, Rome and Florence in August.  They’re no fools.  Besides the brutal heat and humidity in their otherwise splendid country, their cities are over-run by zealous tourists, occupying every square inch in every city.  It’s even difficult being a tourist and finding a little breathing room away from the dreadful camera-laden, finger pointing, loud-mouthed visitors who criticize all things that are different from where they live. They push and shove through bustling squares and museums, cursing, complaining and making the residents miserable with their bad attitude. 

Of course, I don’t consider myself a tourist.  I spend months learning the language so I can chit-chat with the locals.  To make my trip more memorable, I research all of my destinations as though I’m giving a dissertation for a PhD in world history. And besides, I don’t wear white sneakers and sweat pants.  Although I did sweat in my pants. 

So, it’s a little hot, you may think.  Get over it!  Really? You can only walk around for so many hours before feeling washed out.  Drained.  Exhausted. Ka-put.  Naturally, you want to dine al fresco.  After all, you’re in Italy.  But to add insult to injury, by the time you sight-see during the day, break for lunch, eating outdoors in an easy bake oven, you then take your weary,  perspired body to a museum…which is not air conditioned.  Even the men had hot flashes.

Good thing David is a man of marble.  He didn’t break into a sweat at the sight of his admirers gazing at him adoringly.  He just stood cool and collected in the Galleria dell’Accademia in all his glory.  I wish I was that uninhibited.  And that cool.

Okay, so maybe I complain about the heat.  But come on!  Get real!  I’m in Florence, Italy, the land of well-made leather goods and other treasures. I may be girlie, but I’m competitive.  I was not going to let Italy kick this American around.  I was up for the challenge and took shopping in triple digit weather as a declaration of war.  This time Heidi would be up a million and Italy niente!  Actually it was a win-win…their economy would improve as would my wardrobe.  So much for en garde!  On to shopping.

I bought cashmere scarves, two darling leather purses with florets embellishing the front of the minuscule circular leather bag, large enough for a key and lipstick. 

But, for all the men reading this blog:  Never, Never, Never question a woman’s reason for buying gorgeous, uncomfortable shoes or purses with no functionality.  It’s our thing.  Get over it.

Even though I was in Florence, there were many Murano knickknacks calling out my name;  I bought six bottle stoppers – each had swirls of delightful colors all one-of-a-kind gifts for my one-of-a-kind friends. And yes, I finally succumbed to buying fur-lined leather gloves. 

I may not wear them in Tucson, but I have a feeling a European winter trip may be in my future someday soon.  Just throwing my bucket list out to the cosmos.

Shopping was successful.  I was ‘schvitzing” ~ more like melting like the witch in The Wizard of Oz, except I was the good witch, sparkles, tiara and all.  And besides, green is not my color.  I looked at TFH who was withering in a somewhat manly way and we found ourselves heading back to the hotel without so much as a peep.

Little did I know, his mood was turning south.  And not from of the heat…

Sizzling in Firenze

Who knew I could suffer while shopping?  Seriously.  How could that even be a possibility?  Those who know me, know I shop till I drop.  Actually I do everything until I drop and believe me, I take European shopping to the next level…especially if it’s Italian clothing and accessories.

So after lunch, TFH suggested shopping for a few hours. At first I thought, My kinda guy!  Until I began shopping in the outdoor markets. The heat was brutal.  If this shopping expedition was a Gladiator vs. Heidi Event sponsored by Caesar, Italy would be up by one million.  Me: Zip, Zilch, Nada, Nyet. Zero. A total loser with my hand formed in an “L” stuck to my sweaty forehead. Forget Man vs. Man; Man vs. Animal; this gladiatorial combat was between none other than our favorite heroine: Heidi vs. Italy’s heat.

I’ve always said that I don’t sweat.  It’s not girlie.  I glisten. Truth be told, I didn’t glisten.  I didn’t glisten at all.  I sweat like a warrior minus the suit of armor and Roman sandals.  Even my clothes wilted.  If it were possible, they would have been waving a white cotton hanky as a sign of retreat.  I was no competitor for this sweltering heat even though I did have a bit of an advantage having lived in the desert where triple digits last a good six months out of the year.

Although I live in Arizona, I can only say it isn’t true that eventually you get used to the heat.  After all, it’s a dry heat.  With all due respect, who ever came up with that philosophy is a moron.  Did you ever put your head in a 400 degree oven to check on a roast?  Sure it’s a dry heat…but let’s face it:  Hot is Hot! 

I’ve been to Florida in the summer.  Humidity is nothing to sneeze at either.

So, when people talk about Tuscany, I think about art, leather goods, haute couture, food~of course, Michelangelo’s David, but never do I think about the Tuscan sun.  And now just thinking about the movie, Under the Tuscan Sun, makes me break-out into an intolerable shirt clinging, forehead dripping, hair mopping, pinky promise-to-never-visit-Italy-in-the-summer-again sweat.

And sweating in front of TFH left me mortified.  I hoped my deodorant wasn’t as much of a wuss as me and could stand up to even the most intolerable weather conditions.

“Why don’t we head back to the hotel to shower and rest before dinner,” he asked, watching droplets of sweat roll down my nose.  “Unless you have another blind date with David?”

“It’s a good thing you’re so darn handsome!” I tweaked his nose; he deserved that and then some.

On the way to the Hotel Baglioni, he lead me astray to Ponte Vecchio’s Vasari’s Corridor where I knew I could get into some deep trouble looking at beautiful jewelry in the shops that lined the bridge.  Before the 16^th century, many of the stores were butcher shops.  I can only imagine the stench of meat sizzling in the scorching sun during the summer months.  Thank goodness they had the common sense to bring in a little razzle dazzle with all things that glitter in the sun, rather than roast.

TFH watched me eye-ing every window, pointing to all the gorgeous jewels: gold, diamonds, cameos,  jade of all colors and designs, semi precious stones adorned in elaborate settings. You need it-they got it.  Don’t need it? What are you crazy? It’s not even a question of need.  It’s a question of want.  They’ve got it and more.  Each opulent store front window kept beckoning me to ring the little doorbell and enter the tiny store that was electronically locked.  With one buzz, I could have maxed out my Mastercard tenfold. Who say’s money can’t buy happiness?  Frankly, if you have to be miserable, better to be miserable with money than without…But, that’s just my way of thinking, wishing I had won the lottery before the trip began.

Finally, TFH pulled me away from all things beautiful and we hurried as fast as our tired hot bodies would let us walk to the hotel, agreeing to meet for dinner in the lobby at 7pm.

At the bewitching hour, I found Tall, Fair and Handsome pacing in the lobby, waiting for me. When  he saw me, he sauntered over quickly and taking me into his arms, he gave me a warm embrace and an even warmer kiss hello.  The heat was rising in the air conditioned hotel. Ciao bello!

We took some side streets and unexpected detours looking for some place to dine. The evenings in Firenze cool down and the stroll through the city was lovely.  Especially with TFH by my side.  We found a cute little restaurant and peeked in the window.  Charming ambiance.  White table cloths.  Ding. Ding. Ding.  Another winner.

We were seated in front of a window which is always great for people watching.  But, little did we know the watching would take place in the restaurant in front of us.

Two older waiters were completely smitten with two young ladies dining at a corner table.  So much so, that we were ignored for a half hour.  I didn’t mind.  It was like having front row seats at the theater.  And these Italian men didn’t disappoint.  The hand gestures were flying with exuberant enthusiasm as each man tried to out-do the other.  Each showed off his “skill” speaking English, trying to impress each of the women.  They oozed charm; told jokes; engaged their delightful customers with small talk.

The taller waiter asked the women, who were also trying to impress them with their knowledge of Italian, what their nationalities were. One twenty-something said she was half Italian and half Portuguese.  I couldn’t help wonder which half.  Her friend was Japanese.

At this point my stomach was growling.  The waiters were drooling.  TFH was smirking at the waiters knowing instinctively what the men were thinking.  Definitely a guy-thing.  Actually a deaf, dumb, blind mute would have seen through flirting and guessed the outcome.

Finally, the short, fat, balding waiter came over, took our order without his eyes leaving both women and his waiter friend who was now getting the advantage of having him out of the way.



Half hour later, the waiter threw our salads in front of us and ditched us for what he hoped would be his dessert.

The two men were like magnets to a refrigerator. 

We were ignored and hungry for our entrées which would also be delayed by our amorous Italian waiters- who may have been old…but they sure weren’t dead.

Boys will be boys.  Men will be men.  And my wonderful Italians never fail to be just that.  Sizzling in their own heat.

Naked in Firenze!

Bright light washed over Michelangelo’s David in the Galleria Dall’Accademia.  I was overwhelmed with the vision in front of my eyes. 

He’s the perfect man, I thought.  Handsome. Muscular…love his wavy hair and piercing eyes.   I continued scrutinizing his physique from head to toe and then back again. The detail on every part of his body was so life-like. Actually better than life-like.  I never dated anyone who looked like that.   He was more perfect than perfection.  

“Have I got competition?”  asked Tall, Fair and Handsome softly.

What can I tell you? I simply felt star-struck.  Having studied art for years, it’s an extraordinary experience to be so close to the works of the masters.  The size of paintings and sculptures make art come alive compared to viewing diminutive one dimentional photographs in an art history book. 

Sometimes my eyes tear up when I see a favorite painting or sculpture in an art museum.  I’m transcended back in time and imagine myself in that particular era, fantasizing what it would be like to know these brilliant artisans.  I suppose that’s why I love Woody Allen’s movie, Midnight in Paris.  I have often wondered what it would be like to have a glass of wine with Michelangelo or one of the Impressionist artists that I adore, getting to know them as men as well as artists.  Of course in my imagination none of them have personality flaws.  If only life could imitate art and my imagination. Talk about a win-win.

Eventually TFH was able to gently nudge me away from my beloved David and we walked around the museum pointing, ooh-ing and aah-ing at Michelangelo’s unfinished works: Prisons and Prison, St. Matthew, and the Palestrina Piet`a. 



Michelangelo's 'Prisons'

Michelangelo's 'Pieta'

I find these sculptures to be haunting.  Unsettling.  They touch my soul.  TFH put his arm around me and wiped away a few tears.

Another sculpture I admire solely for its emotional impact, is The Rape of the Sabines by Giambologna. 

Rape of the Sabines by Giambologna

It’s harsh.  Violent.  Ruthless.  But, it makes you feel something dramatic.  This particular sculpture is like a train-wreck waiting to happen.  You know you shouldn’t look, but you can’t take your eyes off of it none-the-less.

Seeing the look of horror in my eyes at first glance of this work of art, TFH whispered in my ear, “Let’s get something to eat.”

And with that, he whisked me away from the ugliness of the subject matter and once we were in broad daylight, my mood shifted dramatically.

We found a lovely restaurant, Trattoria Cammillo, on the Borgo S. Jacopo.  When I see white linen tablecloths in a European restaurant, I know it’s a good sign.

The décor was lovely.  The brick ceiling was charming as were the attractive lampshades with different scenes of ancient Florence decorating the walls.  What’s not to love about dining in beautiful surroundings, especially in Italy? A little ambiance goes a long way.

The waiter took our order and when he returned to fill our glasses with water, he told me he was a ski instructor and teaches in Cortona.  He gave me his business card and phone number and said to call if I wanted lessons.  I smiled inwardly because I didn’t think this girlie-girl looked all that athletic.  TFH had other opinions about him and the skiing invitation. None of them had anything to do with skiing.  What do I know?

By the time he brought us vegetable soup in a light broth and white fish with tomatoes and olives, my mouth was watering. 

I didn’t realize one could work up quite an appetite in a museum.  TFH ordered a delicious white wine to accompany the meal.  A little buzz in the afternoon along with a good meal and good company is always a winning combination.

After lunch, TFH didn’t want to take a chance taking me to a museum again, so he made me suffer and shop for cashmere scarves, fur lined gloves, leather jackets and jewelry for the remainder of the afternoon.

Ohhhhhh, the things I have to endure for romance.

Let The Good Times Roll

Dinner was fabulous.  The company divine. And it didn’t hurt that we polished off two bottles of champagne before the dessert menu arrived.

The waiter came over to the table.  “Can I tempt you with something sweet?”  He handed the award-winning menu to us.  Looking at all the yummilicious choices on the dessert menu, I mentally said, “Yeeeees!” to all.

After we finished our gastronomical delights, we walked back to the hotel hand-in-hand like a couple of school kids.  I was much more relaxed knowing the truth and TFH seemed more comfortable having told me the truth.  A secret can weigh down even the most anorexic of anorexics, so it was wonderful to see him lighthearted and playful.

By the time we reached the hotel, I had to use the ladies room…but not to freshen up this time.  Consuming two bottles of alcohol nearly did me in.  I’m an easy drunk.  I get giddy and laugh at everything.

"I don’t suppose I need to follow you in?” asked TFH, with an impish grin as we stood outside the restroom in the lobby.

“Noooooooooo!” I said, simultaneously hiccupping.

We both got hysterical.  Easy drunk, I thought about myself.  What a hoot.

I wasn’t planning to write about this part of the evening because frankly I didn’t think anyone would believe that I actually got locked in the bathroom.  First the elevator and now this.  What must you think?  Well, they say…And who is they anyway, having so many opinions about everything and nothing…that truth is stranger than fiction.  I hate to generalize.  I hate to repeat clichés…but, it’s true, isn’t it?

Picture this.  I’m in the stall doing my, well, <<ahem>>  business…and minding my own if you know what I mean. When I finished, I couldn’t open the door. The deadbolt, like why is there a deadbolt in the stall anyway? I’ve always wanted to know that…but I digress…would not budge.  So, I turned it the opposite way only to jam it tighter.  I couldn’t stop laughing.  It was ludicrous.  I was drunk.  The lock was stuck. Now what?  I didn’t really know what to do, so I kept repeating the same ritual, probably making the lock only more difficult to budge.

I yelled, but TFH didn’t hear.  I kept calling out for help, but no one came.  The lobby is heavily carpeted, the bathroom large. Acoustically speaking, I was in a sound proof room, which was beginning to feel like a tomb… I figured I might be in there for awhile.

My choices were limited.  So, in my girlie, feminine dress and stilettos, I somehow contorted my body, which is now close to six feet in heels, to squirm, wiggle and slide my body under the bathroom door.  It reminded me of the Limbo when you have to shimmy under the pole.  Do I slide out head first?  Legs first?  The commode was in the way and I had to make an immediate decision.

With a bit of champagne under my proverbial belt, I was laughing hysterically.  So much so that if I were a cartoon character I would have literally laughed my head off. There it would be, spinning across the floor like a dreydl during a Chanukah festival.

With one more force of determination, I abandoned the stall and as luck would have it~ my luck that is,~ the bathroom door itself was locked, too.  Maybe they lock it after hours.  I didn’t know.  Through tears of laughter, I kept calling out for help.  Finally, I heard TFH’s voice and another man.

“Oh! Don’t tell me. You’re locked in the bathroom?  Really?  How do these things always happen to you?”

I shrugged my shoulders, completely speechless.

In broken English, the Italian janitor asked what the problem was as he opened the door effortlessly.  I’m sure I must have loosened it for him somehow, I rationalized.

The janitor looked at me like I was a pathetic American wearing a slightly disheveled, slightly dirty dress-which irritated me since his job was to keep the floors clean.  My pretty white dress was not supposed to be repurposed into a chiffon mop. My job was to leave the facility like a proper lady and sashay into the arms of my hero once again.

I don’t know what to say.  Blame it on Rio?  Blame it on champagne?  Somehow these things just happen to me.  Or I happen to be at the right place at the wrong time…or is it being at the wrong place at the right time?  None the less, it doesn’t really matter.  All I know is that TFH and I ended the date with peals of laughter, affection and a night to remember.

TFH walked me back to my room.

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Oh,  I, uh...” stammered.

“What?”

“Well, I kind of have a date.”

“You what?”

I looked down as though I was inspecting my shoes.  “Well, yes.  It’s more like a blind date, really.  I haven’t met him yet.”

“Oh.” 

TFH was silent.  I suppose I should have been used to that but after our evening of romance topped with a cherry of sheer silly delight from the bathroom escapade, the spell was broken.

“His name is David.”

“I don’t care if his name is Goliath.”

I smiled like the Cheshire Cat.  He was easy.

He cocked his head and looked at me.

“Yes, Michelangelo’s David.  He’s tall, fair and well, down right cold actually.  No need to be jealous.”

“Right.  Marble.  I’m going to accompany you to the Galleria Accademia.”

“Really?  That would be wonderful.”

“I can’t trust you to be out of my sight for a minute.”

“Oh, come on.  I’ll be alright.”

“If it weren’t for the bad luck you have…you wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

He cupped my face in his large, soft hands and gently placed a kiss on my lips.

All I know is that heaven and earth moved, and I’m sure somewhere fireworks were lighting the sky as our bodies intertwined.