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?”

            Loud, irritating, ear piercing, and yes, definitely from New York.   She ruined it!  She ruined my Italian moment!

            Bernie’s tone was no less bearable.

            “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 tightened my jaw.  That’s always a warning to my husband that I am about to take matters into my own hands.  He looked at me with that please-don’t-say-anything look.  I shoved a few gnocchi and a chunk of bread into my mouth, and guzzled two glasses of wine to keep from saying anything to them.  But Michael and I knew it was a lost cause.  There was no stopping me.  I wanted to say,

            “Bernie, Sylvia, shut up! You’re giving Americans a bad name.”

            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.”

            More shrills, more penetrating squeals.  It was all too typical.  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.

            Boy, was I sorry. We, as well as the waiter, the bartender, and the dishwasher in the back of the restaurant, all learned that they were from Queens.  Rose cautioned me about the store owner down the street who hates Americans, while Bernie and Stan told Michael about how the Italian taxi cabs 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?”

            Apparently he had to tell her and everyone in the restaurant.  And believe me he did not need another jolt of caffeine.

            I tried to duck out of the restaurant.  I hadn’t yet recovered from last night’s encounter.

            “Mornin’ honey.  Sylvia, look who’s here,” shrilled Rose.

            Sylvia ran over from her table with a terrified look on her face.

            “Martine, stay away from the bagels.  The Italians don’t know from bagels.”

            She gave the passing waiter a look that warned, don’t mess with New Yorkers, buddy.  The waiter gave me a disapproving look.  Just minutes before he smiled at me because I said, “Have a nice day” in Italian.  And now, oh God! How do you say, “They’re not my friends, I don’t really know them?”

            “And the eggs.  They’re orange,” added Rose. “What kind of mashuguna chickens lay orange eggs?”

            Rose plopped a huge slice of cantaloupe on my plate.

            “The cantaloupes are to die for, like buttah.  And have a nice piece of whole wheat.  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.  Through the kitchen door window, I saw the chef, staring at her,  holding a huge, very sharp butcher knife.

            “Sylvia, go get her some,” Rose offered.  “They know her here already.”

            “No s**t,” 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 was Sylvia, Bernie, Rose, and Stan admiring  Michelangelo’s masterpiece!

            They may have been quiet but oh, they still stood out.  Stan was wearing his “I heart NY” tee-shirt with orange, blue, and green plaid shorts, and Rose was wearing her flowered travel outfit, you know the one that breathes and never wrinkles.  Bernie had on his favorite Hawaiian shirt with the hula dancers and tropical drinks with tiny umbrellas, and 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.

            Out of the corner of my eye, I swore I saw a woman shove a gnocchi in her mouth.