My Night With Giovanni

Here it is, folks, the long-awaited story of my Italian date night. Some of you are probably thinking, is this Emily Taylor? She would not go out on a date with an Italian guy while on vacation with her family! You are right. Well, you should have been right.

As I mentioned before, the date began with Giovanni, the hotel waiter, asking me out in front of my parents. Just in case you've forgotten, it went like this: Mom, Dad, and I are sitting out on the terrace, enjoying a drink after dinner. Giovanni serves us. A few minutes later he returns and says, "Can I ask question?" then he looks at my dad and says, "Not you, her." Mom and Dad immediately start laughing but play it pretty cool. "Would you like to have a drink with me across the street?"

As you know, in the end I accepted. He said, "Okayuh. In, um, fifteen minutes I come back and tell you. Then I go. Then in ten minutes I come back. And then we go. Where will I meet you?" I struggle through: "Here?" "Okayuh."

Sure enough, he came back the first time, telling me he was off. Then he left, and about ten minutes later he returned. Man, did he return. This guy was ready for date night. He was dressed in a sleeveless black tshirt that said "Nike" on the front. On top of that, a thick chain. He wore jeans and black and gold sneakers. Yes, I said gold--mostly gold. He had on three silver chain bracelets, which later served as a conversation piece: ("Which one do you like?" Trying not to laugh, "This one?" "Me too.")

We walked out of the hotel and directly across the street. There were lots of people about our age there. Of course he asked the guy if we could have the only open table right there on the porch. I suddenly felt very displayed. Oh boy, I thought, now I'm the hotel girl. He ordered a beer for himself, cappucino for me. This was a huge highlight of the date--I discovered I like cappucino, and have been drinking it ever since.

He knew everyone. It's a small town. He asked if he'd taken too long and told me he'd run down to shower. He was still sweating from the effort. He lives with his parents he tells me, which he says is common for boys in small towns to do until they are thirty. He's 24, how old am I? Twenty-six. "Is okay?" he asks. He tells me about first seeing me, and his requirements for asking a girl out: "First, beautiful. Second, I not have girlfriend. Third, not a beetch." "Oh boy," I said.

He points out people, telling me one guy is gay and asking if I see the girls at the other end of the little terrace. "They're...how you say, uh Rusca? From Rusca?"

"Russia?"

"Yes, uh...Russia. They're beetches. But not the other one, she's not with them. She only lives with them. She knows they're beetches."

Oh boy.

Some guys he knows come and start talking to him. It's all Italian, I have no idea, and they keep smiling these funny alright! smiles. "When you have to be home? When you like?" he asks. I shrug and say not too late. "When we, uh, finish, we can, if you like, go for a walk if you like."

"I guess."

I'm not sure, but I think he may have downed his beer at this point. We stand up and start walking down the street. At the first uphill left he tries to put his arm around me. "Nope," I say, "just friends. I'm not going to kiss you."

"Oh," he says, and takes my hand. "Friends is good. I not ask you so I can kiss. I'ma gonna show you this spot. I like this spot. Sometimes, if a girl likes, I come here. Is very romantic, thisa spot."

I'm thinking, alright, cool--I'm getting to see a cool spot that only the locals know about. We get to the spot, which I'm expecting to at least have a view. It is literally a little cement sidewalk cul-de-sac with about five benches, obscured by trees. Very romantic. As we get to the edge of the cul-de-sac he shows his true colors, and turns me toward him with gusto. I shrug away: "Oh boy... Friends."

We sat down on the bench and I kept my distance. It was on this special little bench that I then heard the play by play of Italy's last World Cup victory, including the winning streak prior, players names, and crowd reactions. "Then [so and so] is like," kicks, "and then it's like...whoosh," fist up, "hhhhaaaaaahhhhhh" (the crowd goes wild)! I kid you not the story lasted about 30 minutes. The Italians love their soccer.

At about that time another couple comes giggling down the steps toward his secret romantic spot. Giovanni greets them as they sit on another bench. Giovanni says something dirty about them; he apparently knew more English than I would have guessed. This puts another little romantic fire under him, so he grabs my shoulder and yanks me toward him. I'm like, "Friennnnds." He responds, "Just head on shoulder. Is okay, see head on shoulder is all." "Oh boy," I said.

For whatever reason I just let this go for a sec. Then tiny kisses starting grazing my forehead.

Yeah-stinkin-right. Don Juan Giovanni.

I shrugged him off and stood up. "Let's go. Time to go home. I'm tired."

We took a different path back to the hotel. I think he didn't want his friends to see him bringing me home early. On the way he asked if I would meet him again tomorrow night; I said probably not. What did I think of him, he wanted to know. I longed to be gracious: "I think you're nice."

"Nice," he repeated. "And?"

I thought about it. "And Italian," I said, and bid him goodnight.