New Yorkers in Florence, Italy 2007

The restaurant was perfect...small, romantic, and in Italy. The bread was warm, the third bottle of Chianti was as good as the first, and the occasional clinking of the dishes in the kitchen with the hushed sounds of Italian lulled Michael, my husband, and me into a dream like state. Then, like a cement truck screeching to a halt, came a loud shrill two tables away from us.

“Bernie, how much was dinnah in American dollahs?”

Yes, definitely New Yorkers.

“Jesus, Sylvia. Why can’t you ever remember? A buck and a half for each Euro.”

I looked up from my plate, bulged my eyes and stared at my husband. He looked at me with that please-don’t-say-anything look but we both knew it was a lost cause. I wanted to tell them to quiet down. Before I could confront them however, their friends Stan and Rose, who were seated next to them, chimed in.

“Bernie, don’t tip extra. Did you see the size of the coffee cup? Couldn’t even wet my lips.”

New Yorkers. But I was in Italy, on vacation, and yes, perhaps a little inebriated, so I chose to be pleasant.

“Hey Sylvia, what’s good for dessert,” I asked.

We learned that they, like us, were from Queens. Rose cautioned me about the unfriendly store owner down the street, while Bernie and Stan told Michael about how a cab driver ripped them off. Michael and I just stared at each other. We left New York in 1992 and found it, in Italy, in 2007.

The next morning we decided to have the breakfast buffet at the hotel. I was pouring myself a cup of orange juice when......no, it couldn’t be.

“Stan, that’s your third cup of cauffee.”

“Eah, leave me the hell alone, Roe. I’m on vacation. How many times I gotta tell ‘ya?”

Rose spotted me.

“Mornin’, honey. Sylvia, look who’s here. Sylvia ran over from her table.

“Martine, stay away from the bagels. The Italians don’t know from bagels.” The waiter gave us a disapproving look. Just minutes before he smiled at me because I said, “Have a nice day” in Italian.

“And the eggs. They’re orange,” added Sylvia. “What kind of mashuguna chickens lay orange eggs?” Rose plopped a huge slice of cantaloupe on my plate.

“But the cantaloupes are to die for, like buttah. By the way, they have some nice cottage cheese but it’s in the back. You have to ask for it.” She pointed to the kitchen, “Sylvia, go get her some,” Rose offered. “They know her here already.”

“No shit,” I thought.

“Come on, girls. Our driva’s here." Bernie to the rescue.

“Bye, honey. We gotta go.” I poured out my orange juice and had a cup of Chamomile tea, the calming blend.

The next day Michael and I went to see David by Michelangelo. What a sight! Something no one would ever expect. I couldn’t believe my eyes. No, not the statue. Quietly standing in the corner were Sylvia, Bernie, Rose, and Stan admiring Michelangelo’s masterpiece! Stan was wearing his “I heart NY” tee-shirt with orange, blue, and green plaid shorts. Rose wore her flowered travel outfit, you know the one that breathes and never wrinkles. Bernie had on his favorite Hawaiian shirt, the subtle one with hula dancers and tropical drinks with tiny umbrellas. Sylvia was showing off the fuchsia polyester pant suit that she bought just for this occasion. They could be quiet but they would not be missed.

While everyone else was staring at David, I was staring at them. Sylvia leaned in to Bernie and whispered into his ear. Bernie nodded and smiled. Stan reached over and held Rose’s hand. A couple moved right in front of Rose and blocked her view. She said nothing and waited for them to have their fill of the statue from that angle. They stood in awe of the sculpture and I stood in awe of them. In silence, they left and as they passed, they smiled at me and nodded their heads.

The next day, after touring the Duomo, the cathedral in Florence, Michael and I found a little restaurant. It was a dark, quiet one, tucked away down a side street. We walked in and there they were. “Sylvia, Roe! Hi! Did you see the Duomo?” I squealed loudly.

Yup, I was also that New Yorker.