~ The Stink Eye! ~

The day I was born, my brothers ran away from home.  

Bobby was ten and Dickie was six.  They wanted a puppy.  Instead they got me.  Armed with two salami sandwiches, miniature green army men and packs of baseball cards containing a stick of pink bubble gum tucked under their arms, my grandmother watched them move into the playhouse in the backyard. The boys were determined to live out the rest of their years with a lawnmower, ladder and clipping shears decorating their new camp.

If you think being the youngest and only girl was easy, guess again. I didn’t stand a chance.  I was a human pin cushion~ I was picked on, tickled to death, and the recipient of the dreaded Noogies and Indian burns that were inflicted upon me whenever my parents left me alone with the two holy terrors.

Blind faith and trust in my big brothers always got me into trouble.  You’d think I’d learn, but no matter what the boys did, I always believed their version of the truth. 

Like the time we went to Jones Beach. 

Back in those days, no one used sunscreen.  The product hadn’t been invented.  Coppertone was the covering of choice.  It was reckless not to come home with lobster skin that peeled for days. The moms would wear one piece bathing suits with built-in pointy bras and don a “schmattah-like” scarf on their over-bleached blonde hair.

The expedition in the car went something like this:

In the back seat, I was sandwiched between my big brothers, like  Bologna on white. Bobby was on my left and Dickie on my right. Bobby would glance at Dickie.  That knowing naughty look.  Of course I was only three and didn’t notice anything other than my Barbie.  Bobby would tap my right shoulder to get Dickie, who was sitting on my right, in trouble. 

I’d look at Dickie.  “Quit it!”

“I didn’t do it. Bobby did!”

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

Then Dickie would tap my left shoulder and blame poor Bobby for teasing me.

“Stop ittttttttt!” I whined.

“Boys, leave your sister alone,” my mother would say with the voice.

It worked for a nanosecond. 

Round two went something like this:

Bobby:   "Hey Doozie, how many ugly pills did you take today?"

Me:        "I didn’t take any," I insisted.

Bobby:    "Then, why are you soooooooooo ugly?"

My eyes would well with tears. Just as I was about to tattle and scream, “Mommyyyyy!”  Bobby would give me the Stink Eye.

I knew I better not tell or he’d give me a noogie I’d never forget.

This was too much fun for a thirteen year old.  Next, he enlisted the help of Dickie.

Basically Dickie was Mr.Goodie-two-shoes.  Primarily because he watched Bobby get into all kinds of trouble and he learned very quickly what not to do. I think he lived vicariously through our big brother but 

Dickie was smart enough to avoid getting caught. On the rare occasion that he did, the six-year old turned lawyer could reason, plead and explain himself silly to my parents who had to be amused by his charms and erudite explanations.

Bobby had no self-control.  He just couldn’t contain himself.  Teasing me was his mission.  One can’t change fate.  So, he continued tormenting me by spelling my first name slowly to catch my attention:  “H…e….i…d…i…”

I looked up.  He was talking, rather spelling, about me. This much I knew and I also knew this couldn’t be good.  The boys were planning and plotting against me, but I barely knew my alphabet.  How could I figure out what they were spelling?  I didn’t stand a chance.

Bobby saw how tormented I was and knew the flood gates were about to open.  There it was again:  The Stink Eye!

I bit my lip, trying so hard not to tattle.

Dickie continued spelling much to my dismay.  “H..e..i..d..i.. is  a… g…i…r…l."

That’s all I could take!  “Mommyyyyyy!  The boys are spelling about me!”

Bobby gave me a noogie to my upper arm before my mother turned around.

The teasing would continue until I burst into tears.  Then my dad would chime in, “If you don’t stop it, I’m going to pull the car over right now!”

If he was especially annoyed, or at least pretending to be, he’d pull off to the side of the road and add, “If you boys don’t stop teasing your sister this minute, I’m turning the car around.”

We were quiet for another ten minutes until we asked in unison, “Are we almost thereeeeeeeeee?”

My poor parents.  I don’t know how they survived parenthood. Or the thirty minute drive to Jones Beach most Sundays.

By the time we got there, we were starving.  There is something about being cooped up in a vehicle, teasing and tattling, that works up an appetite.

My mother would take out a spread to choke a pig.  Prepared food covered with wax paper, paper plates, cups and plastic forks were strategically placed on a big beach blanket protected by netted covers. Remember?  We always had all kinds of goodies, including ham sandwiches slathered with mayonnaise, a large can of Charles Chips (New Yorkers are smiling), super delicious homemade potato salad, mom’s doctored-up Lipton’s ice tea with cooked lemons and a truck-load of sugar that could easily rot the teeth of everyone in the US, and hardboiled eggs which somehow were always covered with beach sand.  Probably my brothers doing.

On one particular beach outing, Barbie and I were minding our business when suddenly Bobby called my name.  I was thrilled.  My big brother wanted to play with me.  How great was that!

The boys were digging all the way to China or at least that’s what they told me.  I didn’t really know where China was, but I figured it must be pretty far away because the hole was rather deep.

“Hey, Doozie,” Dickie called out.  “Can you help us?”

Me help my big brothers?  Didn’t I feel important.

“Stand in the hole so we can see how deep it is.  That way we know how much more digging we have to do.  Ya know, China’s pretty far away.”

The next thing I knew I was buried alive, sand up to my chin.  The boys were howling with laughter.

The funny thing about childhood memories is how the victim remembers all the details and perpetrators~nada!  To this day, both brothers swear they never buried me in the sand at Jones Beach. 

But I have proof.  There’s a picture of me up to my ears in sand.  My dad always took pictures at odd moments.  Like the time I had mono or had four impacted wisdom teeth pulled and my face was the size of a Buick.  So, of course, Dad took a picture of me buried. That’s okay, I got even when he was killing a spider in his underwear on his hands and knees and Click!  I got him backside up!

Here’s the problem:  I have been searching for the Jones Beach photo for years in my mother’s house. She has a box of pictures dating back to at least 500 BC.  The boys have visited her numerous times and on one particular visit I saw Bobby rummaging through the box.

Interesting how the proof is suddenly missing now that I want to blog about that adventure. Could the timing be better?  I know Bobby confiscated that photograph. If it takes a lifetime, I will hunt it down and post it at a later date and give Bobby the Stink Eye for pilfering the evidence.

But until then, all I can say is that living with my brothers was no day at the beach.

The Altercation

Only I could have an altercation with a grapefruit tree.

Okay, here’s the thing. I threw my back out for the umpteenth time and from the den window, I’m watching my ninety year old mother on her hands and knees sticking her hand in the pool’s filter.  She’s not really ninety.  

She’s eighty-nine, but for almost a year she has told everyone she’s ninety. Why? Well, for starters, ninety sounds so much better than eighty-nine.  But, the real reason is her crazy, but logical reasoning which goes something like this:  When we are born, we are nine months old, which means we are practically one.  So, we are all basically a year older than we state.

That being the case, I’m hunched over like the number seven, feeling more than a year older than I am, watching my ninety year old mother taking care of the pool, feeling like a horrible daughter whose mother is doing everything while I, the prima donna, do niente.  Of course, I wrenched my back, so how could I do anything anyway?  Not the point.  The point is I’m younger and I should be helping.

I grab my sunglasses and race out to the backyard ready to rescue her from all things responsible. 

“The Kreepy Krawly isn’t working,” she anguished.

Since my dad is gone (dead you know) I have assumed his role.  I hock and ka-nock with hammers, wrenches and screwdrivers.  Unfortunately, I inherited the one quality that I made fun of for years.  Poor dad, but now I get him:  I duct tape everything that I can’t fix. My shoe ripped?  Duct tape.  The handle on the sliding den door cracked off?  Duct tape. I also use WD-40 on anything that doesn’t move.  Maybe I should try it on my mother.  Better yet, my back.

I pull up my pant legs and slowly step into the pool up to my thighs, reach for the Kreepy, turn it upside down and discover the culprit that is agonizing my mother:  a tree branch-stuck inside.  I pull it out and raise it above my head like a proud Olympian.  Problem solved.

It was then that I noticed the pool was dirty.  Getting out of the pool, I pick up the brush with the long handle.  Now, when I say long, I mean longggggg.  The pole will not retract so it is now about 15 feet in length.  Even my macho gardeners couldn’t get that darn thing back.  It was stuck.  It was stucker than stuck.  So, I begin to gently sweep the pool being mindful of my wrenched back.  This isn’t too bad, I think.  I had been laid up for about 10 weeks and this was my first activity in two months. Moving around the pool like a graceful ballerina wasn’t in the cards, but I managed to get to the ladder on the other side where most of the schmootz had accumulated on the floor of the pool.

Unfortunately, when I moved the brush, the pole got stuck in the branches of my very mature, very stubborn grapefruit tree. 

We wrestled for minutes.  I turned around.  This was war.  I wanted to clean the pool, help my mother and retreat with a heating pad as quickly as possible.  But no, the tree had other things in mind.  This was fun-at my expense.  I turned this way and that, contorted my body like Houdini and ouchhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Back spasm back again.  Damn tree.

Shy of using an axe or buzz saw, I couldn’t help wonder:  What would dad do?  A smile formed on my face. That grapefruit tree was going down or I’d be in physical therapy forever.

I marched back to the house, rummaged through some cabinets and returned to the backyard with an armful of everything necessary.  

When the tree saw me returning, holding the tape~it duct!

The Italian Connection

When they say, “Put it out there in the cosmos and see what happens,” who would have known that the cosmos would send me what I was asking?  Like when did it finally begin to listen?

I’ve put lots of things “out there” like finding the perfect guy, finding the perfect agent for my novel with options for movie rights and of course~ winning the lottery…all I can say is the cosmos must be deaf, dumb and blind, had its hearing aid turned off and wasn’t paying attention. Until now.

Back in October, I began blogging about how much I love, love, love everything Italian and then one day a tall, dark and handsome Italian writes to me on FaceBook saying how much he enjoyed my blog.

Who knew I’d meet someone so sweet and charming simply because I put it out there in the cosmos for all the world to read?

Are you wondering why on earth would I take a chance and meet a total stranger who was following my blog? Could be risky.  Like what if he was Charlie Manson’s relative?  Or some other nut-job?

I may have been born at night…but it wasn’t last night.  Give a girl a little credit.

A gal-pal from the gym read my blog and told her friends about it on her FB wall.  Lo and behold, her best friend, an Italian and a handsome Italiano at that, read it and immediately called her asking what to do.

She advised him to write to me and thus began the beginning of something new.  And wonderful.  A romance?  Too soon to tell, but since I met Tall, Dark and Handsome in Venice, Tall, Fair and Handsome in Firenze, how perfectly fabulous and strange that I’d actually meet Tall, Italian and Handsome in the desert of all places.

At this point TIH (Tall Italian and Handsome) talked to me several times on the phone, sent e-mails and text messages to me.  He was quite attentive.  Having so much in common-both educators, musicians and of course lovers of all things Italian, he asked me out.

I wasn’t nervous because:

      1.  He was good friends with my friend, so not exactly a strange stranger.

2. I felt at ease with him on the phone. He was very polite, almost apologetically so:  I was thinking that maybe we’d meet for lunch?  But, if that isn’t good, we can do something else? I just want to make you happy.  So, maybe if you like we can meet for Italian food in the foothills, unless you like a different restaurant? Maybe you don’t even want Italian food.  It doesn’t really matter.  How is noon?  Or maybe you don’t like noon?  Maybe 12:30?  I’m sure you must think I must be too aggressive.  Who is this guy anyway making all these plans? His kindness and gentle way spoke volumes-even over the phone-sight unseen. I’ve never been asked out on a date with numerous apologies for what I still don’t know.

We agreed to meet at Tavolino's Italian restaurant.  He was waiting at the front door. He took my hand and lead me to our table, pulled out my chair and said all kinds of flattering things that girls love to hear. He was quite the gentleman.  We spoke for hours while we enjoyed a leisurely lunch. When lunch was over, he walked me to my car saying, but also asking, “I’m going to call and… ask you… out...?.. ?...”  He said that with question marks in his eyes.  Without missing a beat, I replied, “And I’m going to say yes, when you do.”  We both giggled. First dates are always so strangely wonderful when they are wonderful.

The second date was lovely.   Since TIH knew I taught music, he suggested having dinner at a piano bar in one of my favorite historic resorts. We talked and talked all night sharing stories.  Who knew I’d find someone who could out-story me!

Meanwhile, the following date was cancelled.  And the following three. He had a tooth infection and a swollen face the size of Texas.  Or so he said, but, that didn’t get in the way.  We spoke constantly on the phone, keeping in touch and then one afternoon he called saying that he was at a friend’s house, some Italian guy, telling him all about me and that this guy wanted to talk to me.

Since I’m absolutely crazy, head-over-heels in love with all things Italian, it shouldn’t surprise you to learn that I have been studying Italian.  I love the way the language rolls off my tongue. Talk about beautiful.

His friend gets on the phone and sounded so Italian.  Like you hear in the movies. But this was real.  Not an actor portraying some Italian guy with a-thickah  accentah-as-he talkah-Italiano-like-ah-this-ah.  This was not The Godfather.  This was the real deal.  His English was heavily laced with an Italian accent thicker than a Bolognese sauce, which made me weak in the knees.

For all I knew he could have been 80 years old, but he spoke a mile a minute with such enthusiasm and effervescence, I could only imagine the accompanying hand gestures and couldn’t wait to meet him.

I was so excited to finally have a chance to talk with someone Italian because I had  mastered  30 CD  lessons and now I was finally going to put some of my new phrases to the test.  One of my most favorites is this:  Ho comprato un bel cappello per mia moglie, which translates to: I bought a beautiful hat for my wife.  Naturally, there was no graceful way to incorporate that into a sentence.  First of all, I don’t have, want or need a wife.  I want a fabulous man to love and adore.  And secondly, I suppose there is no second.  Why would anyone say that?

So, my head was spinning as I tried to impress him beginning with, “Come va?” (How’s it going?)  Then he asked me and I impressed him saying “Non c’è male."  (Not too bad)  He asked my name.  That was easy.  Not the name part, but saying it in Italian:  Mi chiamo Heidi.  Pretty cool.  Then the guy went on and on in Italian thinking I really knew Italian or at least 50 more lessons. I began sounding more like Ralph Kramden from the Honeymooners : A-humina,humina humina…stalling, pausing, humming – I was so embarrassed.  Then, I stuttered a little Italian mixed with a little French and then Spanish words got mixed into the mix. Talk about all mixed up. I was a talking United Nations.  

It was a fun few minutes and I hope to impress both Italians with my other favorite sentence which sounds so cool: Che cosa vorrebbe mangiare? (What would you like to eat?)

Since Jews and Italians love to eat, that favorite phrase may lead to something delicious, but hopefully not too al dente!

~ Ole Migue! ~

Okay, this is nuts.  I admit it.  Nuts!  I just finished working a nine hour day, dashed home to make dinner, washed pots and pans, wiped homemade spaghetti sauce off my stove and lips and rushed to put on my make-up.  Going out?  Actually, no.

It is almost nine o’clock at night and I have a date…more or less.  Actually more less than more.  It all started thirty-one years ago.  Sounds like a long time ago, but for me, it was just like yesterday.

My parents and I took a road trip up the coast of California without a deadline, stopping whenever the mood struck.  Eventually we made it up to San Francisco.  As we walked around I found a Spanish restaurant with a sign in the window stating that the chef was from Segovia, Spain.  Well, how cool was that?  I lived in Segovia, Spain one summer, taking classes, learning Flamenco piano and getting locked in castles.  Anyway, I was so excited to see that someone from Segovia was in California that I burst into the restaurant, my parents following behind and asked to speak with the chef.

He came out of the kitchen and I introduced myself and my parents to him in Castellaño and had a long and wonderful conversation with him telling him all about my short time studying in his hometown.

Little did I know, there was literally a tall, dark and handsome Spaniard eavesdropping in the adjacent room.  By now you all know I have a thing for Mediterranean men and this one was movie-star gorgeous.

By the grace of God, we were seated next to him and within seconds he began speaking with me in Spanish.  I learned that this was his first visit to the United States and after a few more days, he was heading back to Spain. He didn’t speak a word of English and didn’t know anyone in the States.

My dad was a cross between John Wayne and Charles Bronson.  He looked like John Wayne, but had a Charlie Bronson personality-very protective of loved ones.  Anyway, Dad took a liking to Miguel and didn’t want him roaming around the city by himself.  My John Wayne-Charlie Bronsonesque dad was a total marshmallow inside, but very few people knew that. He invited Miguel to join us for sightseeing and meals, taking him under his wing for three days.

Eventually, it was time for us to continue the road trip up the coast to Mendecino where we would eventually visit my aunt, uncle and cousins who lived in a commune.  More on communal living later: High heel girl meets California hippies.

Although Miguel flew back to Spain, we remained friends all these thirty-one years.  In the beginning, we wrote letters which took almost nine days to receive.  Now with the internet, writing is simple and we get instant gratification immediately, receiving an email within seconds.

So, when Miguel wrote to me recently, suggesting that we video chat, I was so excited…until I realized that I, the technologically challenged-but determined-girl-, had no clue as to how to do it.  Being a problem solver by nature, I came up with a solution.  Ask a 12 year old.  Since I was teaching all day, I had students of all ages to ask.  They knew how to Skype, but no one could advise me about a Google video chat.  Go figure!  Being persistent, I pushed this button, clicked that and by George I did it!  Sometimes I even amaze myself!

So, at almost nine o’clock, I raced to the bathroom, fluffed up my hair and put on make-up…still not knowing with the time difference if we’d connect.  But, I couldn’t take a chance.  He hadn’t seen me in 31 years…I’m older, but didn’t want to scare the heck out of my Spaniard!

And you know, the thing with the video chat is the person can see you.  And your house.  So, it appears that I am going to be slathered with cosmetics from the time I wake up and vacuuming and dusting all day and all night like it’s my mission. I may have Howard Hughes beat with this compulsive behavior. 

I think talking on the phone was so much easier.  Who needs this pressure?  Make-up at all hours of the night, cleaning like I’m a whirling dervish.  I miss the days of phone calls, instant messaging and texting in my P.J.’s, no cosmetics, and fistfuls of chocolate in my hands which no one would know I was eating.

I look at my watch: eleven o’clock pm , and realize that we may not video chat tonight.  Too bad about the make-up.  I just hate putting it on as much as I hate taking it off.  Oh, well.  Such are the dilemmas of a girlie-girl. 

Guess what I’ll be doing tomorrow night?  Bring on the vacuum. Smear on the cosmetics.  I’ve got a video chat in my future!   ~ ¡Ole Migue! ~

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.